Roses in Moonlight

  “I might.”

  She looked at him narrowly. “What else do you know?”

  “Nothing interesting. You tell me the interesting parts.”

  “There’s nothing much to tell, but I’ll humor you anyway. Gavin left home as soon as he could manage it. He’s actually smarter than he looks, though his ACTs were abysmal. Sophronia is an actress, which my father didn’t approve of.”

  “Typical.”

  She smiled. “His ego is enormous, I will admit, though he’s very good. I think he saw Sophie as a threat, so he was never eager to have her home again. All that was left was just me and somehow I turned into the last best hope for a child they could mold.”

  “And you let them?”

  “What else was I going to do?” she asked. “My parents . . . well, my father’s a self-absorbed egomaniac and my mother’s manic. Even talking to them is like talking to a hurricane. By the time I realized what I was dealing with, I couldn’t get out of it. I know it sounds crazy to live under the thumb of someone—two someones, actually—but I couldn’t tell them to, well, you know.”

  “You seem to have no problem with me,” he observed.

  She looked at her hand in his for so long in silence, he wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. She finally looked at him. Her eyes were full of tears.

  “I don’t think you’ll hold it against me if I do.”

  He almost teared up himself, hard-hearted sod that he was. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  “Haven’t so far,” he admitted as gruffly as he could manage.

  “Will that change?”

  He closed his eyes briefly, squeezed her hand, and got to his feet. “Don’t think it will,” he managed. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “Isn’t it dark?”

  “Sunny’s garden has lights if we want to use them, but I think the moon’s full. Now, where are my bloody shoes?”

  “By the door.”

  He looked down at her, then pulled her up with him. “Let’s go before we both get too maudlin.”

  He found his shoes, found hers for her, then took her by the hand and led her down the stairs. He caught sight of Ewan crossing the great hall toward him and held up his hand with an expression on his face that had Ewan shutting his mouth before he could spew out anything stupid.

  “Later,” Ewan suggested.

  “Excellent plan,” Derrick agreed.

  He fetched two jackets—he realized as he put one on Samantha that both were his—considered turning the lights on but realized it wasn’t necessary, then walked with Samantha out into the back garden. The roses were only just beginning to bud, which was the only thing he regretted. He would have been happy with something beautiful for her to concentrate on.

  They walked in silence for a bit, then wound up on a bench set against the stone of the castle. He held her hand in his, because he was growing far too accustomed to it for his own good, then looked at her.

  “I don’t think you have to go back,” he said slowly. “Not if you don’t want to.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure how I would manage to stay here.”

  “I might be able to help you find a job.”

  “Textile research?”

  Something more personal was almost out of his mouth before his brain slipped into gear. He shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps something else.”

  “I could sell the drawing I made of your view while you were sleeping.”

  He blinked. “You drew?”

  “I told my inner critic to go to hell before I started.”

  He laughed a little. “Let’s go have a look then. I know a gallery owner in London.”

  “So do I. He’s a jerk.”

  “Aye, but he owes me a favor or two. It won’t induce him to buy anything, but it would at least get you in the door.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t get there myself.”

  He looked at her seriously. “Samantha, my brother wouldn’t take my call, even if I could unbend far enough to make it. This might be difficult to believe, but Gavin has mentioned you in passing and he was complimentary.”

  “What did he say?” she asked.

  “He said he had a baby sister who was brilliant and gifted and there were times he almost felt bad for leaving her behind to deal with his parents.”

  “You’re right,” she said quietly. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, it was after I’d reduced him to tears over salt cellars,” Derrick admitted, “so perhaps his defenses were down.”

  She stood up, pulled him to his feet, then put her arms around his neck and hugged him quickly. She kissed his cheek, then pulled away and backed up. “Let’s go back inside.”

  “Do that again.”

  She shot him a look. “I don’t think it’s your day to be bossy.”

  “I’m absolutely convinced it’s my day to be bossy. Come back here.”

  She walked back toward him, then stopped when she was scarce a handsbreadth away. She looked up at him seriously. “I’m not good at games.”

  He jammed his hands in his jeans pockets because that seemed the safest course of action. “I don’t play games.”

  “Don’t hurt me.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  She studied his face, then reached up and put her hand against his cheek. “Less than a week ago you were ready to toss me in jail and now you want me to hug you?”

  “I’d actually prefer that you kiss me, but I’m willing to settle for what I can get.”

  “Why?” she asked seriously.

  “Because I like you,” he said, suppressing the urge to shift.

  She looked at him for several more excruciatingly long minutes, then she leaned up on her toes, put her arms around his neck and hugged him. He cast caution to the wind and put his arms around her as well, holding her less tightly than he would have liked to. No point in terrifying the lass unnecessarily. He closed his eyes at the feel of her lips against his cheek.

  Damn it, out of all the things he’d expected, this was the last.

  But he released her when she pulled back, smiled pleasantly, then reached for her hand, because pulling her back into his arms and discussing feelings he shouldn’t have been having for her was an extraordinarily bad idea.

  “Let’s go, Miss da Vinci,” he said politely. “I’d like to see what you did.”

  Chapter 23

  Samantha stood in a minuscule apartment in the heart of London and felt as if she were trapped in a dream. So many things she hadn’t expected in a country that seemed a world away from what she was used to.

  The morning had started off with a lovely breakfast at Cameron Hall provided by Madame Gies who was every bit as good at cooking as Emily was at apparently everything she touched. Samantha had been grateful for that and a good night’s sleep, as well as another very lovely ride in a screaming sports car to Inverness.

  She stood just inside the front door of Derrick’s two-story flat and wondered if it had been the ride in the car that had started the surreality, or it if had been getting to the airport to find a private plane waiting to take them back to London that had done it. It was hard to say.

  Peter had indeed gotten rid of their rental car, Ewan had been tasked with getting Derrick’s car back to London—which she supposed served the dual purpose of Derrick not having to drive it himself and Ewan staying out of Derrick’s hair—and she had traveled in yet more luxury south. She loved to fly almost as much as she loved to drive very fast, so the only thing about the trip she hadn’t enjoyed had been the length of it. Far too short.

  Peter and Oliver had bid them farewell after they’d landed and gone to headquarters to investigate the supply of necessary toys and she had gone with Derrick to his flat to see what sort of costumes could be drummed up. They were intending to meet later in the day to finalize arrangements, then be on their way.

  She hadn’t been entirely surprised to find all kinds of research waiting for them under Derrick??
?s fax machine when they’d walked into his flat, most of it having to do with Sir Richard Drummond and his activities in 1602. That was apparently courtesy of the laird of the clan MacLeod, James. Derrick had left the sheets of paper where they were, told her to make herself at home, then put in an earphone and begun a spirited discussion with someone—perhaps either Oliver or Peter, or both—about technical details for the upcoming trip. She had decided that she would take him at his word and make herself at home.

  Because I like you.

  She shook her head at the words and started along the hallway that was just big enough for the stairs on the left and a little corridor on the right. She’d already been in the sitting room, which was crammed full of books on everything from history to fiction. She wasn’t surprised to find that Derrick’s interests ranged from mystery to classic science fiction and fantasy, but then again, he’d collected his fair share of esoteric nonfiction and literary things her mother would have approved of. A man of varied tastes, obviously.

  The furnishings in that room were simple, comfortable, and not cheap, though the only antique in the room was a Victorian console table that was suffering the indignity of bearing stacks of papers and paperbacks. Maybe Derrick had enough of the past just associating with his cousin whose birthdate was not a topic for discussion.

  She reached the end of the hallway and found she was in the kitchen. It was lovely, actually, and obviously either new or newly remodeled. There were a few green things in the fridge, but nothing substantial. The food in the cupboards stopped just short of survival rations. Obviously, Derrick didn’t eat at home all that often.

  The only thing left on the ground floor was a bathroom and a closet under the stairs that was loaded with black bags no doubt containing things she wouldn’t want to investigate in case she broke them. She walked back down the hallway thoughtfully, then went back into the front room to see if there might be anything useful in any of his bookcases. She picked out a book on Elizabethan dance patterns and wandered out into the hallway with it. She made it up half a flight of stairs before she simply sat down and started to read.

  “And how do you propose we carry those?” Derrick asked, coming down the stairs.

  Samantha listened to him talk, but there was no mocking in his tone, no that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in the way he asked his question. He was apparently very good at getting what he needed to know without being insulting. It was so different from what she was used to with her parents, she could only listen in awe.

  He put his hand on her head on his way by, a light touch that made her look up and smile. He smiled in return, then trotted down the rest of the stairs.

  “Nay, it’s genius, but where do we stash it?”

  She had considered posing as a noblewoman, but the thought made her uneasy. Who knew what Derrick and his partners in crime would want to strap to the underside of her skirts? Then again, if she were a servant, they would probably make her carry lots of things, so she was half tempted to just go as a boy.

  She listened to Derrick pace to the kitchen, in and out of the salon, then stop at the bottom of the stairs. He listened for several minutes, frowning periodically, then he shook his head.

  “I’m not sure, even after all the alternatives we’ve come up with, that we can pass as Tower guards,” he said slowly. “Nay, I’ve no better idea, short of scaling the walls.” He paused. “I suppose we could try that, if we had something to collect the used darts in—what? Samantha’s purse? Are you mad?”

  Samantha was happy to suggest that perhaps whoever was on the other end was absolutely nuts, but she didn’t have a chance. Derrick looked at her and lifted his eyebrows. She made a writing motion, he nodded, then took the stairs three a time. He came back down, handed her a notebook and a pen, then disappeared into his salon again. Samantha made a note or two, then lost interest. She got up and trudged up the stairs.

  Upstairs there was a bedroom with a bathroom in it, a small sitting area that looked out over a garden, then another bedroom. She walked in, then actually heard herself gasp.

  It wasn’t so much a bedroom as it was a prop room. She wondered what a thief would have thought if he’d broken into Derrick’s house. That he’d set himself up to rob a theater, no doubt. She stood just inside the door until she heard Derrick come back up the stairs. He paused and put his hand over his ear.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Can I go in?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. As if at home, remember?”

  Well, if that’s how he felt, she wasn’t going to argue. She walked in, then perched on the edge of a very comfortable couch. In fact, it looked less like a prop room and more like a very fancy green room with dozens of costumes stuffed inside it. There was a table with a lighted mirror pushed up against one wall, racks of costumes, rows of hats, and a stand with an impressive collection of wigs. She left her book and half-started notes on the couch, then wandered around to see what was there. It was interesting to just look for the sake of looking, but she wondered if she might stumble on something they might need for their trip.

  To Elizabethan England. During the summer of 1602.

  She took a deep breath, shoved aside the improbability of that thought, and started rummaging.

  It didn’t take long to find the mother lode.

  She had been looking through boxes full of organized things, makeup and prosthetic noses, facial hair and adhesives. Interesting, but not particularly useful. She had set things aside and continued to dig until she’d worked her way around to the stack behind the table. It was the bottom box that when she opened it left her frozen.

  She didn’t dare take anything out, because she had a box just like it at her house. It was something she’d packed up the night before she’d come to England, a box that held her old life, the life she had never wanted to have anything to do with again.

  Derrick obviously had the same sort of instinct.

  “Sam—”

  She looked up to find him standing in the doorway. He obviously saw what she had found. His stillness quickly became her stillness as well. She understood that, really. Sometimes there were things about one’s past that one would prefer to box up and not face again.

  Derrick didn’t look away from her, but he spoke to whomever was on the other end of the line.

  “Ring you back.” He clicked his phone off, then simply stared at her, mute.

  She cleared her throat. “May I?”

  “No.”

  She paused. “Please?”

  He didn’t move. “Can I stop you?”

  “Yes.”

  He dithered. She watched him do it and had to work very hard not to smile. It was so out of character for the very decisive man standing there, she could hardly reconcile it with his usual method of carrying out his life.

  He swore suddenly, then turned and stomped down the stairs. Answer enough, she supposed. She was perfectly still until she heard him banging around in the kitchen downstairs. Lunch was apparently on its way, though she had no idea what he was going to find to fix. He claimed to be a terrible cook. She supposed she would find out just how bad very soon.

  She spent an hour looking through his past, then carefully placing it all back the way she’d found it.

  “Sam, lunch!”

  She didn’t want to smile, but she couldn’t help herself. No one ever called her that except her great-aunt Mary, who loved her, and Gavin when he was annoyed with her. Somehow, coming from a man she had just come to like a great deal more than was good for her, it was very lovely.

  She walked downstairs and into his minuscule kitchen. He had pasta, salad, and a fierce frown waiting for her. She sat down when he held out her chair for her, then waited until he sat, said grace with a particularly thick Scottish accent, and picked up his fork as if he was seriously considering using it—on her. She tasted, complimented, then pretended nothing had happened.

  Derrick cursed, then plowed through
his meal with his usual single-mindedness.

  “Well?” he demanded after she’d given him half her dinner and there was nothing left for him to eat.

  “LAMDA?” she said casually. “As in the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art?”

  He grunted.

  “Your reviews were good.”

  He looked at her in surprise, then scowled at bit more. “Good?” he echoed.

  “Amazing.”

  “If we’re going to be honest,” he said, “then, yes.”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help it. No wonder the man was so good at changing who he was. He’d obviously had years of practice and gotten, yes, rave reviews while doing it.

  She got up and started to clear the table. She was happy to have company to rinse while she washed.

  “I’m unclear,” she said at one point, “as to why you don’t act any longer.”

  He leaned back against the counter and looked at her. “It’s complicated.”

  “Life is.”

  He looked heavenward briefly, then back off at something in the kitchen, not where she was. “I’d done one season with the Royal Shakespeare Company, as you know. I was set to do Hamlet that next year in a different production when—” He stopped, then took a deep breath. “That’s the part that’s complicated.” He looked at her. “I was blacklisted.”

  She frowned. “Just because you were good?”

  “Because my costar wanted someone else for the part and she got him, even though he wasn’t better than I was. In fact, he’d spent quite a few years being not better than I was, which made my getting that particular part all the more painful for him.”

  “Who was that?”

  He looked at her silently.

  She considered, then felt her mouth fall open. “Your brother?”

  “Aye, damn him to hell.”

  She shook her head, because she was fairly sure she hadn’t just heard what she’d just heard. “Did he study acting as well?”

  “We were in the same class.”

  “How did you pay for it?”

  “We had a small inheritance. I didn’t need to use mine.”