Barefoot in the Dark

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Dude, I used to climb the outside of buildings for a living,” she drawled. “The attic’s still allowed, right?”

  “Right.” If this was Sam conceding to his wishes, he wasn’t about to make a big deal out of it and spoil the moment, even if he did mean to pin her to the bed for the next twenty minutes as a way of showing his gratitude. Slowly he slid his hands up her leg until he pressed his fingers into the crotch of her jeans.

  She drew in a quick breath. “That isn’t my ankle, Brit.”

  “No, it isn’t. What of it?”

  “Did you lock the door? I don’t want your aunt and uncle barging in with tea while we’re doin’ it.”

  Richard snorted. “That is quite possibly the least romantic thing you’ve ever said. You do, however, make a valid point.” With a last kiss he stood, shirking his boots as he walked to the door.

  Halfway there, someone started knocking. “M’laird?”

  Damnation. Perhaps they should all have stayed at a hotel, after all. There were several nice ones just down the road. He yanked open the door. “What is it?”

  The butler took a surprised step backward. “I apologize for intruding,” Yule said, wisely not trying to look over Richard’s shoulder at Samantha relaxing on the bed. “I thought ye might wish to know that Mr. Reginald and Miss Nyland are back in the west wing. I offered to send Malcolm with them, but yer cousin refused.”

  He definitely should have opted for a hotel. Next time he wouldn’t be so idiotic. Or naïve. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll go drag him out in a minute.”

  When he closed the door and turned around, Samantha had already rolled off the bed and was tying on her shoes. “I’ll go distract them,” she said. “With the attic, maybe. If that’s acceptable, since it’s your stuff in there, too.”

  “Firstly, you can’t go distract them, because you just feigned a foot injury. Secondly, no. I’ll get them. Thirdly, I don’t particularly want them in my attic, either.”

  Samantha tilted her head. “You know, I could probably be more helpful if you’d stop being such a hard ass and tell me what’s bothering you.”

  Having spent a good number of years working closely with men and women who followed orders and yet had their own best interests in mind, Richard knew he should have had a better idea how to manage Samantha. However she’d begun, she put him first now in her life. That fact alone both charmed and worried the hell out of him. Because the one thing she didn’t do – ever – was follow orders. The other thing she didn’t do – ever – was turn her back on a mystery.

  “I thought you enjoyed my hard arse,” he said aloud. “I’ll have someone find you a crutch, and then feel free to limp about the house. Just don’t go into the west wing after you went to the trouble of establishing that it was dangerous.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “If the floor had been sound I wouldn’t have been able to punch a hole through it, so be careful. It is dangerous, and you like to stomp.”

  “I’m too subtle for stomping,” Richard retorted, and closed the door on whatever retort she was likely making.

  The butler and two footmen stood at the half-open double doors that closed off the west wing. None of them looked happy, which didn’t surprise him. “M’laird,” Yule said, “I reminded Mr. Reginald that it’s dangerous in there, but he said he reckoned he could look after himself and the lass.”

  Richard sighed. “Find some lumber and nails. I’ll drag him out, and we’ll nail the damned door shut.” He caught sight of Yule’s lifted eyebrows. “I know what century the door is. I can’t think of another way to keep him out of here short of throwing him out a window.”

  “As ye say, m’laird. I’ll send Malcolm in with ye.”

  With a nod, Richard settled a hardhat onto his head. That was the other difference between Samantha and himself; she liked – what did she call it? – lone wolf situations. Liked to handle things on her own because she knew what she was doing. He did, as well, but he employed a great many people, owned a great many businesses, and didn’t mean to muck things up by being stupid. “Stay close to the walls, Malcolm. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

  “Same to ye, m’laird,” the young man returned, settling another hardhat over a shock of red hair worthy of Jamie Fraser himself. Dammit, he was going to stop watching “Outlander” with Sam if he couldn’t keep himself from thinking things like that.

  He had a good idea where Reg would be, and Richard headed directly to what had once been the house’s main library. The floor creaked beneath his feet, and he made himself be cautious. If Samantha at fifty-four kilos could stomp a hole through it, his eighty-one kilos could send him down to the cellar the hard way.

  “Reg,” he said, stepping into the old room and stopping just inside the doorway.

  Miss Nyland, looking through the papers by the window, gasped. His cousin scrambled to his feet, a floorboard in his hands. For a minute he looked like a guilty schoolboy caught with a Playboy, which wasn’t all that endearing. “You know me, Ricky. Rick. I can’t resist a puzzle.”

  “You can’t resist a treasure, you mean,” Richard amended. “That’s what you’re here about, isn’t it? That ridiculous highwayman treasure? Because the room where you hid the lead soldiers would be across the hallway from here.”

  “You didn’t think the treasure was ridiculous when we looked for it the last time.”

  Richard blew out his breath. This was one of those rare times he wouldn’t have minded being wrong. Wrong would have been much less disappointing. “Do I really need to point out that we were fourteen and fifteen? And do I really need to ask you to stop ripping up my floors?”

  “This is the perfect time to rip them up, Ricky. The entire castle’s a disaster, and you as much as said you’re pulling this wing down, anyway.” He started to wipe his hands off on his expensive-looking jeans, then changed his mind and clapped them together.

  “Yes, it’s falling apart. Which means it’s dangerous. Which means you’re risking injury for what – some old marbles? A torn edition of Ulysses?”

  Reggie wagged a finger at him. “Why say ‘most likely’? You dug through here, too, so you’re just as likely as I am to know what’s under the floorboards.”

  In the hunt for political correctness, punching had somewhere become a bad thing, a barbaric response where words were supposed to be sufficient. Sometimes, though, people deserved a punch square in the face. Richard clenched his fists. “I say ‘most likely’, because it was eighteen years, one marriage, eight properties, a thousand antiquities, and a million miles ago, Reggie. I don’t remember what I hid under the damned floor. Nor do I recall who or what inhabited the room for the previous seven hundred years. But I am fairly certain that you aren’t going to find whatever the fuck it is you’re after by tearing up a random room in a place you haven’t been for nearly two decades.”

  “Ooh, profanity. That American bit’s rubbing off on you.” Reggie looked toward the doorway. “You. Get out.”

  “I… Sir?” Malcolm stammered.

  “Go back, Malcolm,” Richard said. “Be careful.” He glanced over at the slender blonde woman. “Take Miss Nyland with you.”

  She sniffed. “Reginald.”

  “Go, Eerika. I need a word with my cousin.”

  Reg folded his arms over his chest as the other two left the room. “I like the clever way you brought up the amount of property you own and the large amount of money you have to sling around, you poor thing, you, all in the guise of pretending you don’t remember precisely what we both know you do remember.”

  “What is it I remember, then, you ponce?”

  “That map. I know you had it once, and I think you know where it is now.”

  So he’d been right again, damn it all. “Will Dawkin’s treasure map? That’s what this is about?”

  “Of course it is.”

  Pacing carefully to the window and back, Richard took a moment to look out at the view tha
t had decorated so many of his young summers. Back then the world had been much larger and much friendlier, and conversely much fuller of mystery and magic. Back then he’d had a partner in crime, willing to believe whatever he did. Now he had a very different partner in crime, willing to jump in with both feet just for the fun of it.

  He turned around again. “The map was a hoax, Reg. Even if it had been real, any highwayman’s treasure was either found two hundred years ago, or it’s buried beneath so much rock and dirt and overgrowth it will never be found. I think the lads in the pub thought it would be hilarious to put one over on the laird’s kid and his cousin, so they tossed a few coins into an old bear’s den. We found all the treasure there was.”

  With a contemptuous look, Reg kicked one of the loose floorboards aside. “So the rich stay rich, and the rest of us sell cars.”

  They’d had this conversation before. “Yes, Reg. You guessed it. I’m keeping a secret highwayman’s map from you because eventually I want the money for myself and, more importantly, I don’t want you to get it.” Shaking his head, he turned his back and walked for the door. “I’m not having this conversation. I came to get you because someone’s already fallen through the floor, there’s nothing here for you, and it’s dangerous. Go through the floor. Maybe you’ll find an old pic of mum and me that fell through a crack, and you can sell it to TMZ for enough to impress Miss Nyland.”

  “Bastard.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Samantha shifted back from the edge of the roof, then carefully climbed to her feet and picked her way back to the rooftop attic entrance, dropping down inside the house. “Really?” she muttered. “Treasure maps?”

  Yes, eavesdropping was bad manners, but hell, at least she got points for doing it literally. Pulling off the heavy wool cap she’d put on, she shook out her hair. Her dirty and damp black clothes went into a pillow case, and after she cleaned off most of the dirt and wet leaves she donned the much more social outfit she’d been wearing earlier, slipped into the main part of the house, then to her shared room.

  She could understand why Rick didn’t want Reggie pawing through his old stuff, especially if his suspicions about those break-up photos were right, but he hadn’t told her anything about treasure maps and hidden highwayman gold. That just sucked. And it was mean. And it had to be intentional, which sucked even more.

  So, she was allowed to look through his sanctioned, previously-displayed past in the attic, but something about the map business was more touchy. Scowling, she tossed the pillowcase into the old, unused dressing room and moved across the hallway, through two connected rooms, and collected the cane she’d found. Resuming her limp for anybody who might be wandering by, she made for the large second floor morning room. Rick could come stomping by any minute, and she was not going to be caught sneaking. Not even if he was being sneaky, the jerk.

  “Jerk,” she muttered aloud, pushing the door open with the butt of the cane.

  “Beg pardon, my dear?” Lady Mercia said, looking up from a book she held in both hands.

  Crap. “Oh, just my foot,” she improvised, limping in to sit in the chair across the hearth from Rick’s aunt. For a weird flash she’d expected the woman to be crocheting or embroidering, an old-timey matron’s cap over her slightly-too-golden hair. “I told Rick I’m fine, but I’m exiled from the west wing.”

  “You need to be careful,” Mercia returned. “I know you find stolen artwork and all sorts of dangerous things, but this house is dreadfully unsound in places.”

  Samantha grinned. “I’m discovering that.” Since Rick hadn’t tromped into earshot yet, she leaned forward a little. “Do you have any idea why?”

  “Why Canniebrae is in disrepair?” Mercia gave a small frown. “The west wing has been closed since I can remember. As to why Richard never saw to it, I don’t know.”

  Hmm. More secrets. This one, though, she figured she could sort out without too much trouble. “Rick hasn’t been back here since his mom died, has he? Not till now.”

  His aunt sighed. “You’ve guessed it, then. This property actually came from her side of the family rather than from the Addison line. She was half-Scottish, you know. It always felt like faerie tales here, as silly as it sounds to say it aloud, and that went away after Rachel passed.”

  Rachel. Samantha had read the name before, in various articles about Rick in Forbes and Business Week, but she’d never heard it spoken. Not even by him. Of course she’d never said her mother’s name in front of him either, but he knew why. He knew that her mom had kicked her dad out of the house and hadn’t objected when Martin had taken their daughter along with his shirts and B and E tools.

  This was different. It meant that even after a year together, there was stuff she didn’t know about Rick. Significant stuff. Assumptions she’d made when she shouldn’t have, because she’d based them on her own life. The two of them couldn’t have grown up more differently if she’d hailed from Tatooine and him from Vulcan.

  Now that she thought about it, Canniebrae looked like a place the magic had gone out of. After eighteen years away, though, why had he wanted to come back now? Did he expect her to wave a wand and make the colors here brighter? Or was she the ultimate symbol that the fairy tale was over? That idea kind of made her want to cry. The question, then, became what she was supposed to do about it. “Do you know of anywhere I could find out more about the folklore around here?” she asked. “Old highwayman tales and such?”

  “I know they used to have storytelling nights at The Bonny Lass pub in the village. I’m afraid I never attended, though.”

  Oh, heavens no. There might have been cursing or drinking. Samantha shook herself. No, she hadn’t grown up genteel. She damned well knew how to act like one of the upper crust, and on top of that, she had no reason to dislike Rick’s aunt and uncle. They were his only family. “Thank you,” she said aloud. “I may go have a chat with the owner.”

  Right on cue, Rick thudded into the room. “There you are,” he said, then sent a nod in his aunt’s direction. “Aunt Mercia.”

  “Richard. You look like thunderclouds.”

  “Yes, well, your son won’t leave the west wing alone, and I’d prefer that he not kill himself falling through the floor.”

  “Oh, heavens. Surely it’s not that dangerous?”

  “It is precisely that dangerous.” He turned back to Samantha. “Care to go down to the village for lunch? I have a fond memory of mutton sandwiches at The Bonny Lass.”

  Aunt Mercia opened her mouth, no doubt to comment about what a coincidence that was, since Sam had just been asking about local folklore. “Sounds good,” Samantha said quickly, standing and then pretending to fumble with her cane so she could stagger sideways.

  “Oh, my dear!” Mercia exclaimed. “Do be careful!”

  “I keep forgetting,” she returned, smacking Rick in the shin with the cane as she turned around. There. That was for keeping secrets about treasures.

  He grabbed her elbow, then swung her up into his arms so quickly it took her breath away. “I’ve got you,” he intoned. “We’ll be back by sunset, Aunt Mercia.”

  As Rick carried her into the hallway, the lights flickered and went out. “Power’s oot!” echoed through the house.

  “Dammit.”

  “What do you care?” Samantha asked, trying to decide if she wanted to comment about his bad mood or not. “We’re going out.”

  “It’s just another damned thing to take care of. There’s a five-star hotel on the far side of Balmoral. What say I reserve a block of rooms there?”

  “Nope.”

  He looked her in the eye. “Why not? Mice, rot, and no power. Why should we stay?”

  “Why did you want to come here in the first place?” she countered, hoping he wasn’t about to drop her on her butt.

  “That is a very good question. I’ll answer it later.”

  They descended the main staircase, her still in his arms. Ticked off as she was, she couldn’t miss
the fact that he was likely even angrier. She might not know much about how to be in a relationship, but she knew she didn’t like it when Rick wasn’t happy. “Cool,” she noted aloud, flinging an arm out grandly. “This is like reverse Gone with the Wind.”

  Rick snorted. “Such a romantic, you are.”

  “Gone with the Wind is not a romance.”

  “Really.”

  “Really. If the man and woman don’t end up together at the end, it’s not a romance.”

  He slowed, his arms around her shoulders and knees tightening a little. “Are we a romance, then?”

  Could he really be worried about that? Samantha put her hands on his cheeks and kissed him. “We’re the best kind of romance,” she returned.

  “What’s the best kind of romance?”

  “The kind where you don’t know what the hell’s going to happen next, but you know the hero and the heroine will be together. Even if asteroids or giant monsters attack the planet.”

  Rick nodded, planting a kiss on her temple. “Figures you’d work Godzilla in there somewhere.”

  “You know it.”

  8

  Thursday, 1:15 p.m.

  The jeep in what had obviously once been the old stable looked like it was held together with duct tape and paperclips, so Samantha decided its name should be MacGyver. Scotland and duct tape – what else could it be? She settled into the wrong-sided passenger seat as Rick shoved it into gear and sent them toward the village.

  “I thought for a minute you were going to carry me all the way to the pub.”

  He glanced at her. “I’m not running away.”

  “Never said you were.” She thrummed her fingers against the plastic window. “Did you and Reggie drift apart, or was it the photo thing that made you start avoiding him?”