Roses in Moonlight

  And then she realized that the road was ending.

  And at the end of that road was a cottage.

  It was something out of a period movie, two-story, whitewashed, weathered, sitting on a bluff that overlooked a cove. The sand was fine by the water, then the beach became progressively rockier the farther up the bluff it went.

  She slowed to a stop, then turned the car off. It was beyond her to do anything but put her hands on the wheel and gape.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think,” she managed, “that I’ve gone back in time hundreds of years.” She stared a bit longer, then realized what should have probably bothered her from the start. “We must be trespassing. Should we go?”

  He shook his head. “We’re fine.”

  “Who owns this?”

  He looked out at the sea for a moment or two, then at her. “I do.”

  She sat back and sighed. “I shouldn’t hate you for this, but I’m almost beside myself with envy.”

  He smiled. “Let’s go look inside. You might feel differently then.”

  “I don’t know how that’s possible,” she said, reaching for the door.

  “Wait.”

  She stopped. “Why?”

  “Because I’ll get the door.”

  Well, if he was going to put it that way, she supposed she would let him have his way. She handed him his keys, then watched him get out of the car and walk around behind it. She wished, with a wishing that left her slightly more unhappy than it should have, that she had met him in a different spot, or under different circumstances, or in a different location—

  No, not a different location. She had known the moment she looked out the window as the plane had approached Heathrow that she was going to love England. Her journeys through the countryside had left her with a longing to wander over hill and dale. But being in Scotland had taken that longing to an entirely new level. She wasn’t sure she’d caught her breath since the moment she’d first seen Cameron Hall. She had exaggerated her antipathy for Derrick’s owning of the cottage in front of her, but she hadn’t exaggerated the envy. How fortunate he was to have such a place to come to.

  Obviously he would want the right sort of girl to share that with. He probably had some lovely, native Scottish girl in mind.

  She couldn’t help but wish that was different as well.

  The door opened and a hand appeared. She took it, then realized she was still buckled. Derrick leaned in, unbuckled her seat belt, then helped her out of the car.

  And into his arms.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, pulling away.

  “Hmmm,” was all he said. He shut the door, pocketed his keys, then offered her his arm. “I’ll give you the tour, if you want.”

  “I want.” What she wanted was a bonk on the head to get rid of her ridiculously and completely unreasonable thoughts, but maybe she could trip on a rock or something and take care of that.

  She put her hand under his elbow, then felt him draw her hand into a comfortable place and tuck his arm against his side. He walked with her down a well-maintained path and stopped in front of the front door. He unlocked it, pushed it open, then flicked on the lights. He glanced around for a minute or two, then stepped back and waved her on.

  “After you.”

  She fully expected to see the place done in vintage English Country House, complete with overstuffed chairs upholstered in tartans, threadbare carpets on the floors, and a farmhouse table.

  But the house was empty.

  She looked at Derrick in surprise. “No furniture?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m always interested in a long story.”

  He stepped in behind her and shut the door. “Let’s take the tour, then I’ll tell you. If you’re still interested.”

  She nodded, then spent a happy half hour following him from room to room. At least the switch-plate covers had been left behind. Everything else, including the toilets and sinks, had been stripped. She stood finally in the kitchen and looked at a place on the wall where something had been in times past.

  “Your stove is gone.”

  “It is.”

  “Along with everything else.”

  “Aye.”

  She turned and looked at him. “All right, I’m biting. What happened?”

  He leaned back against the wall. “We may wish we had chairs sooner rather than later. The tale is tedious.”

  “Long and tedious; just my kind of story. And you’re stalling.”

  He smiled briefly, then shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “I was out driving one day and I ended up in the village.”

  “In the Vanquish?”

  He shook his head. “Range Rover.”

  “Yours is the beat-up one on the end of the garage, I take it?” she asked.

  “Less conspicuous,” he agreed, then seemed to find forming words a bit more trouble than he was willing to take.

  She waited for a moment or two, then decided to rescue him. “You were out driving one day, you wound up in this village, and . . . ?”

  He shrugged. “I was having a pint with the lads at the pub and heard that there was a house on the edge of the sea that was rumored to be rather old and rather lovely. Being the compulsive looker at old things that I am, I decided I would have a wee look at it.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I waited for it to fall available and—” He shrugged again. “You know. Things happened.”

  She leaned against the wall next to him. “What sorts of things?”

  He sighed and looked at her. “Do you really want the entire tale?”

  “Am I really going to want a chair?”

  He smiled. “We’ll go sit on a rock. There are a couple out in front that won’t leave us limping for the rest of the day.”

  And then he took her hand, as easily as if he’d been doing it forever and had stopped thinking about it. She tried not to read anything into it. After all, he was who he was and she was who she was and she had a fascinating . . . well, she had a something waiting for her somewhere where he wasn’t going to be. She was sure of it.

  She followed him through the front garden, then down the path a bit until he stopped by two rocks that were indeed rather flat and didn’t look terribly uncomfortable. She sat down on one, waited for him to sit on the other, then turned and looked at him. “All right, spill it.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to give the impression that I took advantage of anyone having financial difficulties—”

  “Oh, a Scrooge,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Tell me more.”

  He sighed. “Very well, then. I heard—”

  “Down at the pub?”

  “Aye, on about the third round which I wasn’t drinking, that this reputedly lovely old house was owned by a widow. Given that I make a living convincing people who don’t want to sell things that it was actually their idea to beg me to take their treasures off their hands, I thought I would ply my dastardly trade on this poor unsuspecting woman.”

  She watched him closely, because she couldn’t quite believe that he would use those skills in such a nefarious way. Priceless treasures were one thing. An old woman’s house was quite another.

  “And?” she prodded, when he looked as though he might clam up again.

  “She sold,” he said simply.

  “And?”

  He shifted again. “And I allowed her to live here for the rest of her life.”

  “Allowed?” she asked. “Or insisted?”

  “Bloody hell, woman, are you going to tell the story for me?”

  She looked at him, then smiled. “How long did she live?”

  “Another five years.”

  “How much rent did you charge her?”

  He pursed his lips, but said nothing.

  “None, of course,” she supplied for him. “Did you pay her utilities?”

  He scowled at her.

  “Opened an account for h
er at the local Tesco?”

  “There is no local Tesco.”

  “You’re avoiding the subject.”

  “I suddenly don’t think I want to discuss this subject anymore.”

  She laughed a little, because there was something about the thought of his having done nice things for someone he didn’t know just out of the goodness of his heart that made her think well of him. “I imagine you don’t, but that’s okay because I think I can guess all the answers already. Did you go to the funeral?”

  “Yes.”

  “Find anything left in the house after it was all over or did the kids clean you out?”

  He dragged his hand through his hair. “You, Miss Drummond, are a cynic.”

  “Gavin’s my brother.”

  “He’s an estate vulture.”

  “He learned it at his mother’s knee, though he’d never admit it. He vowed when he left home that he would never again in his life put on another pair of curator’s gloves. Now look at him.”

  “I try not to.” He shot her a look. “Sorry.”

  “I have no illusions.”

  He nodded, then turned his head to look out over the sea. She looked at him for a moment or two, then looked out over the ocean as well. So he had rescued an old granny living on the edge of the sea. She didn’t imagine the woman’s expenses had been much, but that really wasn’t the point.

  “That was kind of you,” she said, finally.

  “I wanted her house.”

  She closed her eyes against the breeze. “How much did you pay the kids off after the fact?”

  His brief laugh was pained. “I hate to think of what you learned at your mother’s knee. And it was just enough to placate them. My lawyer did the rest. Those fancy London solicitors can be fairly intimidating.”

  “Did you visit her?”

  “Occasionally.”

  She imagined he had and more than occasionally. And she imagined that he had paid off her relatives a fairly substantial sum, just for the good karma. He was, she was coming to find, just that sort of man.

  “It’s cold,” she said finally.

  “It’s Scotland.”

  “It’s summer.”

  He smiled, but he didn’t look at her. “So it is.” He moved over on his rock, then held open his arm. “It’s warmer over here.”

  “I think it’s warmer over here.”

  He looked at her in faint surprise, then smiled just as faintly. “Are you telling me to go to hell?”

  “Now that you’ve commandeered the keys, sure.”

  He shooed her over a bit, then joined her on her rock. He put his arm around her shoulders. “I grossly misjudged you, Samantha. I apologize.”

  “How were you to know?”

  “Because I always know,” he said seriously. “But in this case, I was lazy and didn’t bother to check anything about you. I would have proceeded differently otherwise.”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t particularly nice to you, either.”

  “You slandered my German ruthlessly.”

  “Your German sucks, buddy.”

  He laughed and squeezed her shoulders. “I’m afraid it does. I’ll choose French next time I’m trying out a pickup line on you in a moldy old castle.” He looked at her. “What do you think of this?”

  “It’s glorious.”

  “It’s remote.”

  “That’s part of its charm. Is there shopping nearby?”

  He looked at her carefully. “Not much.”

  “Then it sounds perfect. Why don’t you have any furniture?”

  He sighed. “No time and I hate to look for that sort of rubbish.”

  She was going to suggest he unbend far enough for at least a stove and a couple of chairs, but his phone chirped at him. He looked at the text, then frowned.

  “Excuse me a minute,” he said absently. He dialed, listened, then frowned. “Say that again, sorry?”

  Samantha could hear only snatches of the other end of the conversation and Derrick didn’t really have all that much to say. She shifted a little so she could watch him, though she couldn’t help but notice that while he didn’t have his arm around her, he still had his hand on her back.

  Honestly, she really needed to date more. The man was going to make her absolutely crazy and she had no experience to counteract it.

  “That’s interesting,” Derrick said. “Hold on.” He looked at Samantha. “Richard Drummond is your father’s great-grandfather however many—how many, Oliver?—aye, thirteen generations removed.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “He died in the Tower.”

  “Terrible.”

  “Before he managed to marry and have children.”

  Fascinating was almost out of her mouth before she realized what he’d said. She looked at him in surprise. “Then how can he be my ancestor?”

  “That’s a very good question.”

  She jumped up, then started to pat herself. “Am I fading?”

  “That only happens in movies.”

  She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t sit there and look so calm. This is my ancestor we’re talking about! How did he get in the Tower in the first place?”

  He looked up at her seriously. “He was accused of stealing jewels. Unset gems. Four dozen of them.”

  She swayed. She realized she wasn’t feeling all that great when the world stopped spinning and she found herself sitting on Derrick’s lap. He was still talking around her into his phone, which she found slightly annoying, though at least she could hear the other end of the conversation. That might have been because Derrick was holding on to her and talking on speaker.

  “Interesting that we have four dozens gems right here, isn’t it?” Oliver was saying.

  “I think it’s worse than that,” Derrick said with a sigh. “I think it’s time for an employee meeting.”

  “Oooh, did I win something?”

  “Aye, Annoying Git of the Month,” Derrick said sourly. “How’s Peter?”

  “Snoring.”

  “Rufus?”

  “Safely in London. Cameron did us the very great favor of sending a couple of his boys off to tail our Ambleside lads. We’ll see what that turns up. Ewan says you’re all clear where you are. Coming home?”

  “I need to buy a round down at the pub, but we’ll be there shortly afterward.” He paused. “Based on what you’ve told me, we may have a new twist here to the case.”

  “I can hardly wait to hear it.”

  “I imagine you won’t be surprised.”

  “Should I start looking for alternatives to modern communications?”

  Derrick sighed. “Definitely.”

  “Finally,” Oliver said, sounding pleased. “Been waiting to try out some new gear.”

  “One could hope. We’ll be home soon.”

  Samantha felt him put his phone into his jacket pocket. She considered moving from where she was sitting with her head on his shoulder, then reconsidered. It was cold, but the sunshine was lovely and the sound of the sea soothing.

  “Do you think,” she said finally, “that those are the same stones only in two different time periods?”

  “I’m not sure there’s another answer,” he said.

  “They make me queasy to look at them.” She lifted her head then to look at him. “The second set.”

  “Me, too,” he agreed. “You have to wonder, though, why someone would find you in a crowd and plant them on you. Don’t you?”

  “Dumb luck?”

  He sighed.

  “All right, not dumb luck. What are we going to do about it?”

  He seemed to consider his words carefully. “I’m not sure we are going to do anything—”

  She sat up and looked at him in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

  He looked up at her seriously. “What I’m talking about is your staying safely behind in the twenty-first century whilst I—”

  “Go to hell,” she said crisply.

  H
e blinked. “You mean to Elizabethan England?”

  “No, hell.” She stood up and glared down at him. “As in, you. You go to hell.”

  He continued to stare at her for a moment or two, then he smiled. He rose, hugged her briefly, then took her hand and towed her toward his car. “Let’s go back to the castle and plan.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Nay, you’re not.”

  She dug in her heels. “Don’t make me go without you.”

  He stopped short and looked at her in surprise. “Would you?”

  “I might.” She lifted an eyebrow and waited.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I don’t want to drive back to the castle, though. I have thinking to do.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “If you’re buying a round, you shouldn’t drink.”

  “I never do.”

  “Well, now that we’ve gotten that all straight, I suppose you can carry on.”

  He looked at her, laughed, then led her over to his car. He opened the door for her, then leaned over and buckled her in. She wasn’t altogether certain he hadn’t planned to do something else, like kiss her, but he seemed to think that imprudent. He only smiled again, then shut her in.

  She stared out over the sea and shook her head. Her father had claimed he came from a long line of exceptionally gifted actors, but she’d never been interested enough in tracing her roots to find out who those actors might have been.

  A jewel thief?

  Her father would be appalled.

  And if she survived getting that jewel thief back into circulation, she supposed she would just keep it all to herself. Because any father who would overlook the fact that she’d poached his pride and joy more than once, deserved perhaps, despite his flaws, to have his illusions of illustrious ancestral thespians preserved.

  Chapter 22

  Derrick looked at the collection of souls in Cameron’s office and wasn’t altogether sure where to begin.

  The truth was, the truth was very hard to swallow. His first brush with anything of a paranormalish nature had come when he’d first seen Robert Cameron nine years ago in hospital, lying in a bed with tubes sticking out of almost every orifice. It had taken Cameron quite a bit of time to recover from the knife wound in his back and the way his head had been half bashed in by something no one seemed to care to name. Derrick had wondered what that something had been and how a man could acquire those sorts of wounds in the present day without someone having alerted the police, but as with the wounds themselves, the manner of their earning had been something no one had seemed particularly interested in discussing.