Demon on a Distant Shore

by Linda Welch

  His lips pecked my cheek. “See you over there.”

  I closed the door behind him. Taking my used clothes from my case, I laid each piece atop another on the bed and stacked my panties and bras on top, then rolled the lot up. I went downstairs with the roll under one arm.

  Sally was not at the desk so I smacked the bell with my palm. The resulting ding brought her from the kitchen. “How can I help you?” she began, then noticed my clothes. “Laundry? Give it over, dear, and I will have it back to you tomorrow morning. Is that soon enough?”

  I passed the bundle to her. “That’ll be great, Mrs. Short.”

  She took the roll. “It is Miss Short, dear.”

  “Oh. Okay. Miss Short, I had a little accident upstairs. I took the vase of lavender to the bathroom for fresh water and tripped on the edge of the rug. I’m sorry, it went all over the bed.” I could not tell her what really happened.

  “Oh dear, that was unfortunate. I will have Greg look at the rug. We cannot have our guests falling and hurting themselves. And I will put fresh linens in your room.”

  I felt like a heel. “Um, thank you.”

  She smiled again and watched me leave the inn.

  “Going to The Ugly Duck?” Carrie asked. “You’ll like it. Mind if I join you?”

  As if I had a choice.

  With the sky cloudy again, the lamps inside The Ugly Duck shone out gold as I crossed the square. I stopped to look through the tiny diamond-pattern panes of a small window. Royal stood at the bar amid a gathering of new admirers.

  The pub hunched below the level of the road. I took a step down inside a small thatched porch and pushed open the heavy oak door. Inside, the feeling of age and history, which some inner sense recognizes, wrapped me and seeped through my pores. I felt it in the weight of the heavy oak ceiling beams and slightly bulging whitewashed walls, the inglenook fireplace big enough for three men to stand in shoulder to shoulder, the bar counter and tables almost black with age. The flagstone floor dipped and rose where countless feet had worn paths. How many feet had trod between the tables to make those shallow grooves? The mullioned windows with their tiny panes of green-tinted bottle glass had seen a lot over the centuries.

  The ceiling was a shade higher than six-six. I had to duck my head where black beams dropped six inches. I imagined tall, boozy patrons trying to leave the Ugly Duck on Saturday nights and knocking themselves silly. Better than having them drink and drive, I supposed.

  Jugs and mugs made of wood or stiff leather hung from the horizontal beams across the ceiling. Ancient, battered pewter tankards were pegged in a line above the mirror, obviously for decoration, because I don’t think anyone would want to drink from them. Four upright beams wearing polished horse brasses marched down the middle of the main bar. Warm golden light made copper and brass glow and glass sparkle. The place had a mellow, comfortable feel.

  With a host surrounding him, Royal had his spine to the bar. Other customers sat at the bar or tables, and they also watched and listened as he spoke, a smile in their eyes and on their faces. He had worked his magic again.

  Warmth crept through my veins and smoothed over my skin as I looked at my beautiful Gelpha. I call it magic, but it is not, it’s just Royal being Royal.

  I went to the bar and stood behind a couple of his new pals, smiling, waiting for him to spot me. My smile faltered. His hand rested on the shoulder of a woman who was not me. He grinned into her eyes, his hand squeezed. She sat on a stool beside him, and with several people between us, I’d not seen her from where I stood at the door.

  “Who’s that?” Carrie asked.

  “No idea. Have you seen her before?” I murmured from the side of my mouth.

  She shook her head. “She’s not local.”

  I pushed between two guys. Royal’s face lit up as he exclaimed, “Look who I found!”

  I looked all right. Wavy, shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair, porcelain skin, she had big brown eyes with long dark-brown lashes made to bat madly, wide Julia Roberts lips painted rose and a slightly Roman nose. A tight, tan leather waistcoat over a midriff-baring cream T-shirt with little capped sleeves and low scoop neck matched an equally tight leather mini-skirt which rode low on her hips. A diamond stud sparked in her navel. She smiled brightly at me and crossed long legs wearing thigh-high, tan leather boots with four-inch heels. She was shorter than me, but those heels brought her up to my height.

  “I’m looking,” I told Royal, my tone flat. I did not take kindly to seeing my man’s hands on another woman.

  “Someone is getting hot and bothered,” Carrie sing-songed. “And it’s not her.”

  The blonde had a low, breathy voice. “I’m Lorraine.” She presented her hand.

  “Aren’t we hoity-toity,” from Carrie.

  Royal took his hand from Lorraine’s shoulder, but frowned at me over her head and I guess my expression verged on ferocious. I managed to dredge up the semblance of a smile, but didn’t take her hand. “You live here?”

  “Lorraine lives in London. We met last time I was there.”

  She tossed her head, flipping her hair back like in those old don’t hate me because I’m beautiful commercials. “Imagine my surprise when I saw Royal heading for The Ugly Duck. What a coincidence.”

  Yeah, fancy that. I gave her a blank look. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “Then it was fate,” she said cheerfully.

  Not what I meant.

  “You’re a big strong girl - a fast right jab to the stomach would do her the world of good,” Carrie suggested.

  How I wished I could.

  “My mother lives in Pewsey. I come down every other weekend to be with her.”

  So she didn’t hear Royal came to town and wanted to reacquaint, and hared down from London to find him. I can’t be right all the time. “I guess The Ugly Duck is your favorite pub?”

  Her expression went wary at my slightly hostile tone. I think it was slight. “My brother Ralph lives in Little Barrow. Speaking of which, I should get back to him.”

  She slid off the bar stool. “Perhaps I’ll see you later?” she said to Royal.

  He smiled at her. “You never know.”

  “Smack him one!” from Carrie. “Give him a knee in the Alberts!”

  I was too piqued to wonder what Carrie meant. Lorraine sashayed to the door and out. I eased on the stool she had vacated, picked up a small beer mat, turned it in my hands and ran my finger over the edges. I watched Royal’s reflection in the mirror until he returned my gaze, then concentrated on the mat. Interesting little mat, and what’s this on it? Guinness is Good for You. What is Guinness? Maybe I should try some, if it’s so darned good.

  “It was a long time ago, Tiff.”

  “What was a long time ago?” I snapped back, way too fast to sound convincingly blasé. I slapped the little mat on the bar.

  “Lorraine and I. We - ”

  “Oh, Lorraine. Did I so much as mention her name?” Lorraine and I?

  “No, but - ”

  “You brought it up, not me.”

  “So you are not interested?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Okay.”

  I drummed the fingertips of one hand on the bar. “So, how long ago?”

  His mouth quirked. “We met when I vacationed in London. We were together three days.”

  My throat tightened, but I made myself relax. What was it to me, that he had a brief relationship five years ago? He surely had many before we met.

  “And how long have you known her family live here?”

  He watched my face in profile. “I did not.”

  Fair enough. I changed the subject. “Do I get a drink or sit here thirsty all evening.”

  “Derek!” Royal called above the clamor of voices.

  The bartender worked his way to us as he swept a cloth over the bar’s surface.

  My personal definition of a handsome man underwent a change when I met Royal, but still, this guy w
as easy on the eyes. I couldn’t estimate his height from the way he leaned on the bar, but he gave the impression of size. Big hands, thick neck, bulging biceps, slab-like pecs and washboard abs clearly visibly under a clinging white T-shirt. Bodies like his don’t come naturally, he had to work out. Thick, wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, a generous mouth.

  He stuck out his hand. “Derek Jones. I’m the publican.”

  My hand disappeared inside his. “Publican?”

  “Keeper of a public house. Pub keeper.”

  “Oh. Right. Nice to meet you, Derek.”

  “Likewise.” His eyes flicked to Royal. “You’re with Royal?”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but Royal said, “Yes,” before I could.

  Derek’s lids drooped; he gave me a lazy look. “Shame,” he said, followed by an audible sigh.

  What a performer. A smile tried to widen my mouth. I fought it. The guy was hitting on me. I gave in and beamed at him. I wanted to tell him I liked his style, just for the heck of it.

  “Did you know this was originally three cottages?” He swept one hand. “A village freeman opened an ale house in his home in 1485. His grandson bought the other two cottages and knocked the lot together. Apart from plumbing, electricity and modern conveniences, The Ugly Duck has little changed since those days.”

  “Interesting.” I put my elbows on the bar and cupped my chin in my hands as I gazed at him. I caught Royal’s reflection. His eyes twinkled.

  My ogling Derek entertained him? What, he didn’t take my interest in another man seriously? I tried to work myself into a huff, but instead dropped my chin to hide a smile. I reached for his hand as he reached for mine. We didn’t let go as Derek regaled us with tales of The Ugly Duck and Little Barrow.

  Carrie stood on the other side of the bar, looking up at Derek, so close her spectral hip merged with his thigh.

  We crossed the road to The Hart and Garter. Royal nudged my side with his elbow. “Idiot.”

  Yeah, idiot. To think Lorraine somehow heard Royal was in London, tracked him to Little Barrow and shot down here did seem ridiculous, as did my feigned interest in Derek.

  I squeezed his hand. “Did you learn anything new?”

  “They are sympathetic, excited, but they know next to nothing. I think we should concentrate on the reason we are here, head to Oban and find the Nortons.”

  I stopped walking. “But someone tried to kill us.”

  He grabbed my hand, tugged, and we started off again. “Or failing that, frighten us into leaving Little Barrow. So we do what they want. Leave here, check out Oban, then we come back.”

  “Oi! What about me then?” a voice whispered from The Ugly Duck’s door.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I said, we missed breakfast again.”

  I smothered a yawn, then linked my hands behind my head. “We can’t have. It’s still the middle of the night.”

  “It’s nine-thirty.”

  I opened my eyes to slits. “It’s still dark.”

  “That is the fog.”

  I managed to get one eye open all the way. The room was dim, not dark. I turned my head so I could see the window. Moisture wept down the outside of the panes and a gray bank pressed against them.

  Royal shifted, making the mattress vibrate. His arm slid off my waist as he moved away. Drowsing, I lay still as he left the bed and went to the bathroom.

  Definitely a day to stay inside, read a book, watch reruns of Oprah. Did they have Oprah in England? Jack adores Oprah. What were he and Mel doing? What could they do, but wander the house when Maryanne wasn’t there? Nothing.

  “Oh crap!” Now I felt guilty all over again. I pushed down the covers and slid from the bed.

  I went to the east window. Man, talk about thick. Looking down, I could barely see the cobblestones in front of The Hart and Garter and the edges of a couple of cars parked outside. Exterior lights on The Ugly Duck and a cottage were diffused gold halos in the distance, the streetlights pale, fuzzy white orbs. The fog hid everything else.

  “Is this a pea soup?”

  “A pea-souper.”

  I shrugged. Soup, souper, stupid name anyway. Pea soup is green. This stuff looked more a murky gray.

  My stomach rumbled. “I’m hungry.”

  “Give me a minute. I’ll have a quiet word with Sally.”

  I pressed nearer the window. I wanted to go outside, in the fog, experience it, feel it. A real English pea-souper. “Tell you what, why don’t I get us breakfast?”

  “If you like.”

  When Royal finished in there, I went in the bathroom and showered, deciding to wash my hair when I got back. I put on jeans and a T-shirt and grabbed my jacket.

  Royal’s arms came around my waist from behind. I leaned back on him and sighed as he nuzzled my neck. “I’m getting back in bed. If you like, you can join me when you get back.”

  “Oh, I like. Definitely.”

  Then I left while I still could.

  Moisture condensed on my hair and clothes. I slowly and carefully walked the short distance to the shop. With fog this thick, I could miss the curb or run into one of the granite bollards in front of the inn. I barely made out the faded sign on the shop’s wall: Bellow’s. A bell tinkled as I opened the door and stepped in

  A variety of goods you find in a grocery, pharmacy and newsstand crammed Little Barrow’s tiny L-shaped village shop, like the smallest imaginable Wal-Mart. Except the produce outclassed Wal-Mart. Bellow’s carried British fare plus imports from all over the world: India, Greece, Italy, Switzerland and France, to name a few. Each section of the L had an aisle barely wide enough for one shopper to navigate.

  I wandered down the left aisle, magnetically attracted to a display of cold foods, especially the fresh cream confections. Oh, drool. Why did I carry a shopping basket and how did that box of cream-stuffed pastries get in there? I read the labels of foodstuffs I’d never seen and had to stop myself from depositing a number of them in my basket.

  I walked through the right L section. A low, breathy voice said, “Hello.”

  Lorraine appeared around the side of a display of potato chips - crisps - with a basket in her hand. Damn!

  “It’s … I’m sorry, I forgot your name. Liv, is it?”

  “Tiff.”

  “I knew it was something odd. I mean, unusual.”

  Keep it casual, Tiff. Be nice. “It’s easy to forget a name when you only met someone once.”

  “You know how it is, some names stick in your mind, some don’t.”

  I bristled inside but kept my tone even. “You do your shopping here, when your mother lives in Pewsey?”

  She lifted her basket to show me the contents. “Mum loves these crisps, but they don’t sell them in Pewsey so I get a few packets when I visit Ralph. I was coming here yesterday when I saw Royal going in The Ugly Duck and had to say hello. I got so involved, chatting with Royal, I forgot the time. The shop had closed by the time I left the pub. I promised Mum, so I came back this morning.”

  Hm. Plausible. But I didn’t like her secretive, dreamy little smile when she said Royal’s name.

  “Royal told you about us?”

  What did that mean? “Yes.”

  She smiled, a thin stretch of the lips. “I hope it doesn’t bother you.”

  “Why would it?” Oh boy, my voice sounded more like a snarl.

  “Oh, I… . How long have you been together?”

  “Long enough.” That didn’t sound friendly either. But I didn’t feel friendly.

  She didn’t appear daunted by my animosity. In fact, her little smile became full-blown. “Do you mind me asking what Royal said about us?”

  Really getting on my nerves now. “You were together, briefly, five years ago.”

  “Briefly?” She sputtered out a laugh. “We met five years ago, that much is true.”

  I’d had enough. I stepped in close. My voice came out leaden. “Why don’t you go ahead and spit out what you want to say, because you’re
dying to tell me, aren’t you.”

  The pink blanched from her cheeks. She took a quick step back, her free hand going to her neck. She swallowed. “I suggest you ask Royal.”

  The basket’s handle cut in my arm; I took hold of it with my other hand and she flinched back as if she thought I meant to swing at her.

  The shop bell dinged. I glanced over my shoulder to see a young couple and two small kids enter.

  “I have to be going now,” Lorraine announced loudly, probably for the benefit of the lady at the till to remind her Lorraine was here at the mercy of an unhinged American. She scuttled behind the display racks and to the checkout.

  I imagined going after her, grabbing her by the arm, spinning her to face me, asking what the hell she meant. But the shopkeeper might not welcome me mauling a customer.

  Seething, I walked the aisle, indiscriminately tossing stuff in my basket. It took all I had to summon a cheerful smile for the shopkeeper as I paid, but I wanted to sock her when she teased me about my confusion over British coin.

  I walked back to The Hart and Garter, not in a good mood.

  Royal opened one eye, closed it and smiled sleepily. I crept to the armchair. Probably a good thing he dozed, giving me time to cool down. Should I tell him what Lorraine said? Should I ask what she meant when she said that much is true? Did I want to know?

  Royal said the same thing: they met five years ago. Had they seen each other since then? Why would he keep it to himself? Did he leave a whole lot out when he spoke of Lorraine?

  Yep, I sure did cool down some. I went from boiling to seething in two minutes flat.

  Royal grunted, rolled on his back and opened his eyes. “What are you eating?”

  I licked cream off the corner of my mouth. “Not sure. Think it’s a cream donut.”

  “For breakfast?”

  I nodded at the bedside alarm. “Brunch.”

  He sat up. “Is it good?”

  “Yummy. You want something? I got chocolate cakes, cream cakes, something called Jaffa Cakes. And potato chips. And some other stuff.”

  He made a face. “Do you have anything not coated in sugar?”

  I widened my eyes. “Potato chips don’t have sugar. Anyway, you love sugar.”