Secrets Dispelled Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgment

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  Secrets Dispelled

  ISBN # 978-1-78651-025-9

  ©Copyright Raven McAllan 2016

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright April 2016

  Edited by Jennifer Douglas

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2016 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Sizzling and a Sexometer of 1.

  Diomhair

  SECRETS DISPELLED

  Raven McAllan

  Book six in the Diomhair Series

  Diomhair—Secret. What happens there stays there. Whether you want to learn or teach, be in control or controlled, Diomhair could be the place for you.

  Nothing in life is easy.

  Finn was a gamekeeper, not a sub…

  Or so she thought.

  Not only that, she had enough on her plate coping with a play-away boss and his sex life, missing sheep, and someone out to harm her.

  As for a growing attraction for a man she hadn’t got time for?

  There was no way she was going to examine, let alone act on, those feelings. She didn’t want a Dom, not even him. It was time to harden her heart.

  Coll was a Dom, and he knew it. He also knew that given the chance, Finn would fly for him. Mind you, as she seemed to either threaten him with a shotgun or disappear whenever they met, he despaired that he would never get that chance.

  However, when circumstances throw them together, it’s up to Coll to show Finn she’s a perfect sub, and he’s the Dom for her.

  All the while keeping her safe from her enemies.

  Not too much to ask, is it?

  Dedication

  To Jenny Douglas, a superb editor whom I will greatly miss.

  All the best Jenny, in whatever you do.

  Thank you for everything.

  Trademarks Acknowledgment

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Kindle: Amazon Inc.

  Aga: AGA Rangemaster Limited

  Google: Google Inc.

  “Curiouser and curiouser”: Lewis Carroll

  BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werk AG

  Chapter One

  Finula Baine sneezed and swore. Whoever said Scotland would be a better place to live and work than her homeland of Eire was wrong. Oh so very wrong.

  Oh, the scenery was startlingly beautiful, lush and green. The loch waters deep and mysterious, the mountains high and majestic, and the glens tree-lined and full of secrets from the past. She often thought it was just as well she was pragmatic and not susceptible to flights of fancy, or she’d spend most of the time looking over her shoulder for kelpies and things that went bump in the night.

  Not that she’d had a lot of time to assimilate the scenery or wonder about spirits of any kind. She’d arrived, worked around five weeks, then been called home to help her mum through her last months. Luckily her employers—her real employers not the waste of space who was her immediate boss—had held her job open for her, and here she was, almost a year down the line and one week into gainful employment once more.

  And still cursing the waste of space, whom she’d deemed lacking before she left and had no reason to change her opinion about now she was back. The man who, no doubt, was at that precise moment in his warm bed with his girlfriend. While his wife was away with their children, and his sidekick—i.e. her—was standing in the sleet and rain and thinking dire thoughts.

  Finn sneezed and flicked sleet off the end of her nose. What the hell were they doing with sleet and hail in August anyway? It was ridiculous. Oh, she knew the locals said one season’s frost didn’t finish until after the next seasons had begun, which was crazy, but sleet and hail? What next, a full-blown snowstorm? An earthquake or a volcano springing up in Loch Lomond?

  She stamped her feet, amused at her fanciful thoughts, but not at her situation as she watched the icy droplets bounce up and dance around like dervishes whilst she cursed bosses, weather and sheep alike. What on earth was she doing looking for a dozen or so bloody sheep out of hundreds? Why didn’t she just wait out the storm in her cozy cottage with a cup of coffee and a good book?

  Because I have a conscience. And because she knew something was wrong, even if she had no tangible facts. Sheep might be stupid and get through so-called impregnable fences, but not to the extent they had been lately. As the quote went, something was rotten in the state of Denmark, or in this case, on the estate of Diomhair.

  Last year pheasant poults had mysteriously disappeared and this year, just as she came back to work, it was sheep. Luckily for her, though not for the estate, the missing sheep had started to disappear before she returned. Finn was damned sure she wasn’t taking the blame for dirty goings-on. Hence she was standing in a sleet storm, sneezing and swearing about her boss, sheep and waterproof boots that weren’t, and unable to see more than three feet in front of her.

  Finn sneezed again, cursed like a navvy and decided enough was enough. If someone were around and up to no good, she wouldn’t be able to see them anyway. She’d head home, have a warm bath and some soup, and if the weather cleared up, come out again before it got dark. If not? As it wasn’t something she’d ever mention to Donny her shit-faced boss, Finn couldn’t see why it would matter. Except to Finn and her conscience.

  She swung onto the quad bike and after a few coughs and splutters, it roared into life. It seemed it liked sleet as little as she did. Of course there was a nice, shiny new bike in the shed at the farm, but according to the man himself, that was for Donny to use—if he ever decided to get off his butt, out of his bed and behave as a responsible adult should.

  And that’s as likely as me winning the lotto. She didn’t do the lotto.

  Of course she could complain to Lachy, the head gamekeeper, about Donny, but really if she couldn’t pull up her big girl panties and sort it out herself, she shouldn’t be doing the job. Yes, Donny was an arsehole, but she’d dealt with them before, and would do again. I
f the sod ever reappeared.

  The track was little more than a bog and even on her chosen form of transport, it was a difficult drive. The mud grabbed at the wheels as if they were its lifesaver and the bike slowed, slid and battled its way along slowly. By the time she reached the corner where the track met and crossed a slightly wider one, Finn was sweating under her waterproofs. She might be strong and fit, but the bike fought her every inch of the way. She shook her head and pursed her lips to blow yet another sleet droplet off the end of her nose. It was decision time.

  The narrow track she had taken was a short cut to her cottage. However at the rate she was going, she could easily be bogged down. If she turned onto the wider track, it would take her past the castle where she could access the back drive of the estate, which was tarmac and easier to navigate. She could eventually reach her cottage that way. Longer, yes, but she was more likely to arrive in one piece.

  It was a no brainer. She turned in the direction of the castle.

  This track was a lot firmer. It was still slippery, true, but the muddy patches were only a few inches deep and she didn’t feel they were going to gobble her up and drag her down to be buried, never to be found until the spring.

  Fanciful. I’m going to have to stop reading horror stories at night and remember I don’t believe in spooky stuff.

  The castle loomed up out of the mist in front of her.

  The Castle.

  Diomhair, which was Gaelic for secret.

  When she’d first started work on the estate, the name had intrigued her, so she’d Googled it. However apart from a few cryptic comments, any information was singularly lacking. Donny had mentioned it was used by weirdoes and told her if she clyped on him to Lachy or the high heid-yin—their overall boss, she assumed—he’d make sure she got her arse whipped there and they’d enjoy it. When she’d asked him what he meant and what she had to clype—inform—about, he’d gone red. Then muttered something along the lines of, ‘you’ll find out if you ever go there, the perverts,’ added, ‘bugger all to stitch me up with anyway’, and told her she was on pheasant watching duty during the nights.

  The perverts and whipping caught her interest, but no one seemed to want to explain. Even Alexina, Lachy’s wife, had patted her shoulder, and told her she was a wee bitty young for thon goings-on. When Finn had asked her to clarify her statement, Alexina had blushed, said the castle was a private club and she was sure it wouldn’t suit Finn. And said again she was a wee bity too young for extremities.

  That made Finn think of toes and fingers and she’d bitten back a giggle. A tiny article in the local paper, which she’d read on line when she was back in Ireland, had mentioned Diomhair and that the local forum for reform and rejuvenation or some such thing voted in favor of no action being taken over Diomhair. A private members club. Then with the help of her cousin Roisin, who was a lot more techno savvy than Finn, they’d found a tiny bit of information on the net which made her think the private members club just might have something to do with BDSM. That was enough for her to reach for her rabbit. She loved BDSM books and her Kindle was top-heavy with them.

  Roisin had borrowed her Kindle one day, and when she’d returned it, had added several hot and exciting books and asked her if she’d ever scened or played.

  When Finn said no, had she?, Roisin had blushed, pointed to the elaborate necklet she wore and rolled her eyes. Then she’d added those bloody awful words, “You’re a bit young yet, but if you’re interested when you’re older…”

  She was twenty, for goodness sake. An upstanding citizen, who held both a shotgun licence and a firearms certificate, loved her parents and ate her peas. And worked hard in all weathers. Even to the point it seemed she carried Donny and did all his work as well as her own. What he’d done when she went back to Ireland for all those months, she had no idea, but now she was back, he was once more conspicuous in his absence.

  Finn was certain that Lachy, their boss, and Alexina, his wife, had noticed Donny’s horrendous work ethics and were biding their time to do something about it. Probably—hopefully—giving him enough rope to hang himself.

  But until then, she was the one out in shit weather, wet to the skin and on a quad bike whose engine had started misfiring.

  Come on, sod you, play nice.

  As she turned the last bend in the track and joined the drive to the castle a few hundred yards away from the building, the bike stuttered, did a jump and jerk to a stop, the mist rolled in and the hail increased in intensity. And it stung.

  Finn turned the ignition switch to hear a geriatric groan and wheeze from the bike before it spluttered into life, coughed a bit more and stopped. Smoke, or was it steam—in the rain it was hard to tell—rose from the engine. Nothing else. If she were back at home and with a nice, dry shed to work in, she’d be able to discover the fault—maybe—and either fix it or call the local machinery outlet, who had a roving mechanic. As it was she kicked the bike, swore as even through her work boots it hurt her toes and pulled the bike’s ignition key out.

  Then she shoved the key back into the ignition and pushed—with some difficulty—the dead-as-a-dodo machine off the track and under a tree. It was as safe there as anywhere and wasn’t in anybody’s way. Plus, she thought semi-hysterically as she remembered a sketch about parrots from an old, well-loved by millions, comedy series, it was a dead quad bike. Not resting, not temperamental. Dead. If anyone wanted to pinch it, good luck to them. It would get it out of her orbit and to be honest, even feet on ground and best foot forward was more reliable than the bike.

  If it wouldn’t negate the insurance, for two pins she’d leave the bloody key in it and make up a sign with an arrow saying ‘good luck, take it’. She’d even add, ‘pretty please’.

  Now, evidently it was shank’s pony and a brisk walk…run…swim…

  Except, even if she used the muddy, narrow tracks that criss-crossed the estate, her cottage was over two miles away, the weather was atrocious, and she needed a pee. Being a woman meant she’d have to take off a lot of her layers to go behind a tree then try to struggle back into them.

  But the castle was only a few hundred yards’ walk, and surely she’d be able to use the loo? Even if the door did have a big notice on it saying Members Only.

  When she visited with Lachy, they’d used a side door, which although it also said private, she rather thought either led to accommodation or an area of the club where you weren’t actually part of what went on. Whatever the ‘what went on’ happened to be.

  If, as she hoped, someone was around, surely they’d let her use the loo? She’d promise to wipe her boots and to do her best not to drip Scotland’s finest summer sleet over the parquet floor. Nor to peer through doors she shouldn’t and even sign a non-disclosure form if it meant she could go for a wee.

  That made her snigger. After all that it was probably a club for retired coal miners or lepidopterists. Whatever, she was going to throw herself on their mercy.

  Mind made up, she shoved the key in her pocket, lifted her shotgun out of the gun rack, broke it down for safety, tied her hood on tighter and began to walk.

  She’d only been into the castle once or twice, with Lachy when the problems of poaching—and worse—had arisen, just after she’d arrived. Even then she’d seen very little and if she was honest, her curiosity had been piqued.

  The drive here was gravel and sleet and hail stuck between the stones like tiny diamonds.

  I wish. Finn squelched on and pondered her day so far.

  She was certain she’d had a glimpse of a white van parked near one of the hillside fields but by the time she’d encouraged the quad bike up the ride that led to it, it had disappeared. All that was left was a churned up sea of mud with deep-ridged tire tracks in it. Plus a couple of good boot prints, but as she was no tracker and didn’t carry plaster of Paris around in her pocket, all she could do to preserve them was shove a plastic bag over the area and hold it down with two large stones.

  She’
d almost reached the circular tarmac, which split the driveway into two in front of the imposing castle when a scuffling noise made her stop.

  She swiveled—or tried to. A large leather gloved hand grabbed her elbow and something hit her head. Finn swore as stars danced in front of her eyes. She tried to lift her shotgun, but her arms were like lead.

  “Fuck it, hit her again.” The voice was male and rough.

  Finn pulled against her captor, and he—or someone else—backhanded her and tears gathered in her eyes. It was bloody sore.

  The last thing Finn remembered was someone swearing in a thick Glaswegian accent. “Ach, if she’d deid, I’m na gonnie be cov’rin for you. And dinnae even think o’ touchin that bluidy gun.” Or that’s what she thought they said.

  And she still needed a pee.

  Chapter Two

  Coll Cummins swore and coughed, as a vicious draft blew down the chimney and acrid gray smoke swirled around and filled his sitting room. He’d hung on before lighting the fire, mainly because it went against the grain to have a blaze in summer. But the walls were thick, and although the rooms were warm and kept the heat in once the central heating or a fire were working, the opposite was also true, and needs must.

  “Sod it.” He opened the window and took a deep breath. Okay the chimney was damp and cold, but so was the weather. At this rate so would he be. Hailstones hit him like pebbles and stung like crazy. Within seconds his hair and face were drenched and he could see moisture collecting on his eyelashes.

  Great. He shut the window again. Kippered or drowned? Not much of a choice.

  “So much for flaming June.” Or July and August. Welcome to another stunning summer in Scotland. Oh, he knew he was being unfair, but during this summer, sun and warmth had been conspicuous by their absence. He chuckled. Shit, he was talking to himself. If he answered out loud, he’d be in big trouble.