Roses in Moonlight

by Lynn Kurland

  He would have argued with her, but she was right. He sat back and sighed, hoping he wouldn’t bleed on the upholstered chair. Samantha frowned, then reached for a plate.

  “What do you want?”

  What he wanted was a very long night’s rest followed by a day where he didn’t wake with a headache and didn’t know that the bulk of his work was still in front of him, not behind him. But she was talking about food. He sighed.

  “I don’t care, really. You choose.”

  She filled his plate, set it down in front of him, then helped herself. Derrick ate, because there was nothing in the world that would stop him from filling his belly. He realized, though, that Samantha was spending more time watching him than she was doing the same.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Those were real swords.”

  He considered, then nodded. No sense in not telling her the truth. She’d seen ghosts. Maybe the rest wouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

  “In a street fair?”

  “I don’t think that was a street fair.”

  She put her fork down. That was probably wise, given that her hands were shaking. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Remember that Elizabethan ghost?”

  She nodded uneasily.

  “Strange happenings here in England,” he said. And Scotland, he added silently. He added it silently because he didn’t think there was any point in burdening her unduly.

  “What kinds of strange happenings?”

  “This part might be hard to believe.”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “How hard to believe?”

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “What sorts of things do you consider to be unbelievable?”

  She considered. “Well, I managed to get myself to a country where my parents don’t live, which seemed pretty unbelievable at the start. Then I took a little job and wound up with a priceless piece of Elizabethan lace in my purse, which also seems pretty unbelievable. Is it worse than that?”

  He nodded.

  “Worse than ghosts?”

  “Maybe on the same level.”

  She had a sip of water, but it didn’t go all that well for her. He imagined the tablecloth would survive and her jeans would dry.

  “Go ahead,” she said, her voice breaking. “Lay it on me.”

  He decided there was no sense in not being honest. She would have to find out eventually.

  “You left the lace in Elizabethan England.”

  Chapter 11

  Samantha heard the words, but was just sure she’d heard them wrong. Or maybe she’d heard them perfectly well, which led her to a conclusion she didn’t want to think about but couldn’t avoid any longer.

  Her host was bonkers.

  It was a pity, really. He was extremely handsome and when he wasn’t paying attention he had a bit of a very attractive Scottish burr. Then again, she’d heard him speak with half a dozen accents so far, so who knew which one was the real deal? He was a Cameron, which could have made him Scottish, but then again his family could have migrated south, which could have made him English. Perhaps he’d spent his life trying to temper a Birmingham brogue. Perhaps things had slipped out that he hadn’t intended. Perhaps he’d just escaped from the local loony bin and was trying to suck her into his delusions.

  Unfortunately, he looked less crazy than she would have liked.

  “So,” she said slowly, “what you mean to say is I left the lace in an Elizabethan England sort of area.”

  “No.”

  Well, he was obviously very attached to his alternate reality. “What you mean is yes,” she said, nodding encouragingly.

  “No,” he said, drawing the word out carefully, “what I mean is that the place where we were, where I had that little dance with the sword that did more damage than I intended it to—” He paused. “That was a different place.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “it was. A very authentic street fair.”

  He rubbed his fingers over his mouth briefly. “You know, I’ve never had to try to make this sound believable before—”

  “Don’t strain yourself on my account.”

  He smiled, very faintly. “I’ll try not to.” He watched her for a moment or two, then shook his head slightly. “I’m actually not sure where to begin.”

  She supposed that was standard fare for most kooks, but the problem was, he didn’t look crazy. Then again, sometimes that was hard to judge from looks alone. She had a couple of cousins who were completely unhinged, but that was her father’s side of the family. Maybe it had to do with absorbing too much grease-paint over the years. Who knew? She had enough crazy in her own life at the moment without speculating on the level of it in someone else’s.

  Derrick reached for his water, but stiffened slightly as he did so, which told her he was very good at ignoring things that hurt. He was also going to have to have his arm seen to before long or he was going to be in trouble.

  “Why don’t you relax,” he said with what he probably thought looked like a harmless smile, “and I’ll tell you a story or two.”

  “Will those stories be the truth?”

  “The absolute truth.” He had another sip of water, then set his glass down and looked at her. “Rumor has it that, near where I was born, there was once a medieval laird who loved his lady so greatly that he escaped death and followed her to a time far different from his own.”

  “Sounds like a cheesy romance novel.”

  “I imagine it does,” he agreed, “but the thing is, the story is true.”

  “What part of it?”

  “All of it.”

  She snorted before she could help herself. “Time travel? Is that what you’re talking about?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “You are crazy. I was worried about it before, but I’m convinced now.”

  The look he gave her was, unfortunately, all too lucid. “I used to think the same myself.”

  “When?”

  He toyed with his water glass, as if he wasn’t altogether comfortable telling her anything. She couldn’t blame him, actually. She had known him all of about an hour and she wasn’t at all sure she either liked him or trusted him.

  He did have the most amazing pair of green eyes, though. She wasn’t sure if they were dark or light. She imagined it depended some on the light and what he was wearing. Hers were a very boring sort of blue that was just blue. No shades of anything else, just blue.

  She pulled herself away from those nonproductive ruminations and held up her hands. “You don’t have to give me those details if you don’t want to. I probably wouldn’t believe them anyway.”

  “Again, I wouldn’t blame you,” he said. “Suffice it to say that I have seen a few things over the past year that have convinced me that things I never would have believed ten years ago are indeed quite possible.”

  “Like Elizabethan ghosts tormenting annoying prep-school dropouts?”

  “Is he a dropout?”

  “His father has deep pockets and lots of contacts, which is the only way he got into college.”

  Derrick didn’t look terribly surprised. “Money talks. And yes, things like Elizabethan ghosts.” He studied his water for a moment or two, then looked at her. “Did you see that circle of mushrooms you stepped into?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, and I don’t like mushrooms, so it gave me the creeps.”

  “Dislike might not be the only reason for that reaction.”

  She would have scoffed, but the expression on Derrick’s face stopped her. He was absolutely serious. She set her fork down, because that seemed like the most prudent thing to do. She wasn’t managing to eat anything anyway.

  “What are you saying? That there was some kind of portal there? To the sixteenth century?”

  His expression didn’t change. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  She pushed back against her chair. “You are certifiable.”

  “Am I?”

  “Well, of cou
rse you are,” she said, because that sounded reasonable. “Maybe some of your buddies are trying to pull a fast one on you.” She paused and looked at him. “Are you on drugs?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t like the loss of control.”

  “Booze?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  She suppressed the urge to sigh. “There you are, an uncomfortable head of an antique shop, and you look so normal. How can you be so nuts?”

  He had a sip of water, which made him wince again. She frowned thoughtfully. It was curious, that wound. Wasn’t it?

  “I’ll be blunt,” he said. “When you ran into that street fair, you ran through a patch of grass that took you back in time to Elizabeth the First’s day. You left that lace, quite understandably, under a planter. Unfortunately, that planter is rather out of reach at the moment.”

  “How out of reach?”

  “I’d put the date somewhere around 1600.”

  She didn’t even dignify that with a response. She wondered if she could get herself, her bag, and her backpack out the door and down the hallway before he caught her and tortured her with any more of his nonsense.

  “Elizabeth was still queen and the Globe was still standing,” he continued. “And they were rehearsing Hamlet.”

  “Lots of people rehearse Hamlet.”

  “Not in the original Globe.”

  She shook her head, but that didn’t clarify anything. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “What I’m saying is, that lovely piece of Elizabethan lace is now languishing under a planter in Renaissance England,” he said slowly, “and you and I are going to have to go back and get it.”

  She pushed away from the table and got up. She walked over to the window and pulled the curtain back. She was slightly surprised to realize that she was overlooking a garden she hadn’t noticed before, but maybe she shouldn’t have expected anything else. She’d been distracted. It also occurred to her that the room had to have been staggeringly expensive. She wondered how in the world Derrick could possibly afford it.

  Unless he was a very exclusive antiques dealer, or knew the mysterious Countess of Assynt and she was spotting him a few thousand to keep up appearances.

  She turned and leaned back against the wall. Derrick was sitting where she’d left him, watching her, silent and grave. He didn’t look crazy. In fact, when he wasn’t being a jerk, he was extremely handsome. If she had met him under different circumstances, she might have been tempted to give him another look. But he had just professed a belief in time travel, which put him firmly in the nutcase category as far as she was concerned.

  “That’s crazy,” she said finally.

  “What is?”

  She gestured vaguely. “This whole thing. Time travel. The Cookes being textile thieves.”

  “Life is strange.”

  She frowned at him. “And just what am I supposed to do now? Help you?”

  He looked at her carefully. “I don’t think I can get the lace without you.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “Whilst you were having a meltdown in the shower.”

  “I wasn’t having a meltdown,” she said archly. “I was indulging in a few deep breaths.” Then what he’d said registered with her. “You tried this Somewhere in Time thing already tonight?”

  He nodded. “It didn’t work.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “Not enough faith in your mushrooms?”

  “Actually, I think you need to be there with me.” He paused, then shrugged. “Maybe it would have worked if I’d had more time, but there were a few unsavory types more interested than they should have been in what I was doing.”

  She clasped her hands behind her because she didn’t want to watch them shake. She didn’t want the man sitting at the table to watch them, either. “Why would unsavory types be looking for you?”

  He met her gaze steadily. “I don’t know, Miss Drummond. Why do you think?”

  “Because of me,” she managed. “And it’s Samantha.”

  He inclined his head. “Samantha, then. And yes, they were following you and saw you make a run for it with me. I think you are entangled with some very dangerous people.”

  She wondered if it would frighten him if she had another meltdown, this time right there in front of him. “I had no idea.”

  “I believe you.”

  “What am I going to do?” she managed. “There’s not a soul in this country I can trust.”

  He considered, then pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Did you ring anyone when you got to London?”

  “Don’t you know already, Sherlock?”

  He didn’t smile. He simply looked at her. “I would imagine you already called Gavin and asked for aid. We’ll text him first and tell him you had a change of plans but you’re all right.”

  “Why would you assume I called my brother in the first place?”

  “It’s an educated guess,” he said. “You were unnerved; he’s here. Why wouldn’t you ring him? Apart from the fact that he’s an utter ass.”

  She laughed a little, because it was either that or start shivering. “He wanted me to come wait in his back room until he was finished with a megadeal.”

  “He was probably selling fake spoons,” Derrick said with a snort. He put his phone near her plate. “There you are.”

  She sat back down, because it seemed a handy way to ignore how badly her knees were shaking.

  “Just start typing,” he said. “It’s untraceable, so you’d best identify yourself.”

  “What should I tell him?”

  “What did you tell him before?”

  She took a deep breath. “That I was being followed.”

  “Then tell him you were imagining things.”

  “He already thinks I’m crazy,” she said, “so this won’t worsen my reputation with him.”

  She started to type, really she did, but after the third time she dropped the phone, Derrick took it away and finished. He held it toward her.

  “Sufficient?”

  “You make me sound so composed.”

  “I’ll put more smileys in, if you like.”

  “More exclamation points. He’ll expect that.”

  Derrick smiled, edited, then sent it. He looked at her and his smile faded. “Now your contact here.”

  She returned his look. “Don’t you know that, too?”

  “I can try to guess.”

  “Go ahead.”

  He considered for a minute or two, then typed in a number and showed it to her. She was unsettled, that was the only reason she had to go get her notebook and double-check. She looked at him and felt herself go cold.

  “That’s the guy.”

  “It’s what he does for a living.”

  “Nice living.”

  “Very,” he agreed. “When were you supposed to contact him?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “Let’s do this. Why don’t you tell him you were delayed on the journey south and you won’t be able to meet him for another couple of days. Then we’ll text Lydia Cooke and tell her that you’ve lost your phone and you’re borrowing one from a very nice man who said he’s a detective inspector for Scotland Yard. I think I can safely guarantee she won’t push the issue.”

  “That’s devious.”

  “Too much time with the criminal element,” he said with a sigh. “I fear it’s rubbed off. Now, what shall we say to the broker?”

  “You make it up. I’ll be thinking about Lydia.”

  And the things she was thinking weren’t at all nice. She could hardly believe that the Cookes could be crooks, but what else was she to believe? She supposed Derrick Cameron could have been the master thief who was just trying to convince her of things that couldn’t possibly be true so he could get his hands on that lace himself. That would have explained his rather elaborate actions at present.

  But that didn’t explain the sword wound in his shoulder.

  He
finally set his phone aside and looked at her. He blinked in surprise when he apparently realized she’d been watching him.

  “What?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Who are you?”

  “No one of importance,” he said.

  She didn’t believe that, but she wasn’t sure how to say as much.

  He looked at her seriously. “Your brother found the job for you?”

  She nodded. “I was supposed to come over last summer, but I couldn’t get away.” She paused, because it was too ridiculous to tell him how locked down she’d been. “I came this year instead.”

  “Did he know what he was getting you into when he sent you to the Cookes, do you think?”

  She looked at him in shock, then she laughed. “Gavin? Are you kidding? He couldn’t even get himself into Harvard. There is absolutely no conceivable way he could think up something like this.”

  Derrick smiled, a very small smile that was rather charming, all things considered. She had no reason to like him—in fact, she didn’t like him at all—but she had to admit he was just too handsome for his own good. Or for her peace of mind. But that was okay, because she had no intentions of having anything to do with him longer than it took to bid him a swift good night after supper, bar her door, then hopefully check out early in the morning before she got stuck with the bill.

  Derrick considered. “It is always surprising how the criminal mind works.”

  “Gavin’s mind is too vapid for criminal activity. His ACT scores were abysmal.”

  “And yours weren’t.”

  She started to say that no, they absolutely weren’t, but she realized he was looking at her with not quite a smirk but definitely the faintest of lights in his eye that said he knew more about her than she would be comfortable with.

  “Do you have my grades memorized as well?”

  “Haven’t had time,” he said easily, “and actually I hadn’t had time to dig up your test scores, either, if that eases you any. I’m just guessing. And despite your brother’s thick head, it is entirely possible that he could be involved in things he shouldn’t be. But let’s hope not.”

  She wasn’t overly fond of her brother, but she hoped not as well. “What now?”

  “We get the lace first, then we figure out whom the Cookes were selling it to, then we put them all in jail.”