Roses in Moonlight

by Lynn Kurland

  He’d subsequently worked for Cameron for eight years as something more than an employee and something not quite as trusted as family—though perhaps the last wasn’t true. Cameron had trusted him with all kinds of things, but there had definitely been a line drawn at the divulging of too many personal details. Of course Derrick had had questions about Cameron’s past. He had pretended not to think anything of it when he’d gone to various cousins and paid them to forget any even slightly imagined aspirations to the chieftainship of their little clan. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that not only Cameron’s Gaelic but his excellent French had an accent to it that Derrick hadn’t been quite able to place.

  But after Sunshine Phillips had arrived on the scene and all kinds of things had happened, Derrick had finally confronted Cameron about things he’d been mulling over for several years.

  Such as the fact that Robert Francis Cameron mac Cameron had been born in the year 1346 and apparently somehow traveled through time to take up his place again as laird of the clan Cameron in the present day.

  Of course, knowing that had led to knowing things about other Scots in the area, most notably James MacLeod, Jamie’s brother Patrick, and their cousin Ian. Derrick wasn’t sure he wanted to think about how many times and places he’d traveled with Jamie. No one would have believed him. He wasn’t sure sometimes that he believed it himself, not when he was safely in the present day, knocking back a Lilt or watching football on the telly.

  He wondered how the others in the room would react. Samantha wouldn’t be surprised, of course, because she had already seen more than was polite of the past. Oliver had come face-to-face with things that he didn’t seem to care to talk about. Peter had heard stories but never experienced anything for himself. Derrick looked over to see the true loose cannon in the room. Ewan was only leaning against a wall, watching him with a smile that held absolutely no hint of a smirk. Whatever that one knew, Derrick hardly dared speculate on. The truth that connected them all was that they knew Robert Cameron.

  And that made all kinds of thinking possible.

  “Are you going to pace whilst you lecture us,” Oliver said solemnly, “or have a seat?”

  Derrick had already seen Samantha seated comfortably by the fire. He supposed there was no reason not to be comfortable himself. He sat, sighed, then looked at the others in the room. He started to speak, then decided that perhaps a visual might be more useful. He put all the exhibits on the coffee table. Two bags of stones, linen tube with one end slit open, and the handkerchief made from bobbin lace.

  Oliver looked at him. “And?”

  “And it makes me ill to look at those gems,” Peter said, looking away.

  Derrick took the second set, the ones that had been sewn into Samantha’s bag, and put them into her purse. He left the others on the table, then looked at his partners, for that was what they would be in this.

  “These are, I think, the gems that Richard Drummond is accused of stealing.”

  Ewan came to sit down. He didn’t look terribly surprised, but since his usual expression was one of deliberate and usually inappropriate levity, Derrick supposed lack of surprise was an improvement.

  “Then how is it you have them?” Ewan asked politely. “Twice, as it happens.”

  Derrick supposed there was no point in not being honest. “One set was sewn into Samantha’s bag. We’re assuming that was done by Lydia Cooke.” He paused. “The others, those loose stones there, were wrapped in that cloth, then planted on Samantha in a crowd near the Globe. When we’d gone back to Elizabethan England to fetch Epworth’s lace.”

  Oliver only blinked. Peter looked as if he thought he should smile, but he seemingly couldn’t manage it.

  “Interesting,” Ewan said. “Why Samantha?”

  “Good question.”

  Peter looked up from his contemplation of the floor. “Ollie said there was some dark doings with that Drummond bloke. Just hearsay, no trial. Killed him anyway.”

  “He died from exposure,” Oliver corrected.

  “Aye, exposure to an axe on the green,” Peter said with a snort. He shot Samantha a look. “Sorry, miss.”

  Samantha waved away his apology. Derrick thought she looked remarkably well for someone who thought her existence was going to end at any moment. She rubbed her arms, as if she were suddenly rather cold.

  “If Richard Drummond didn’t take the gems,” she asked, “then who did?”

  “Probably the same one who saw him put in the Tower for the crime,” Ewan offered.

  “Then who put those gems in my purse?”

  Derrick rubbed his hands together because he was apparently feeling the same chill Samantha was. “That’s a mystery we are going to have to solve. But I think the solving of it is going to require a little heart-to-heart with Sir Richard Drummond.”

  “Oy,” Oliver said. He didn’t look surprised, but he rarely looked surprised by anything. “How do you propose to do that?”

  Derrick swept them all with a look. “We’re going to break him out of the sixteenth-century version of the Tower of London and ask him.”

  There was silence for the space of approximately five seconds.

  And then, instead of those men he trusted with his very life—even Ewan, it had to be said—looking at him as if he’d lost his mind and was destined for a Bedlam that didn’t exist any longer, they simply looked at each other briefly, then got down to business.

  “I’ll print out the Tower schematic,” Oliver said.

  “I’ll make a list of possible gear,” Peter said.

  “Will I have to wear tights?”

  Derrick shot Ewan a look for the last one. “You aren’t coming.”

  “Are you daft?” Ewan asked, looking genuinely astonished. “I’m the only one who can act. Well, unless—”

  “Shut up, Ewan,” Derrick warned.

  “Then just what in the hell is it you want me to do?” he demanded.

  “Create believable personas for us to get us in and out of the city without getting us thrown in jail. And find us a safe place to land in 1602 for twenty-four hours.”

  Ewan looked as if he was preparing to throw a monumental tantrum. He seemed to reconsider, though, then merely nodded briskly.

  Derrick watched his lads—well, and Ewan—doing the third thing they did best, which was to prepare a site for an . . . well, assault probably wasn’t a good word. Visit was probably a better term for it. Whatever anyone wanted to call it, Peter and Oliver were masters at it. Ewan was more suited to charming people out of their priceless treasures, but he could also be quite useful when it came to planning exit strategies. Derrick couldn’t say he would be particularly interested in having Ewan along for the ride, but he wouldn’t be unhappy to have his advice beforehand.

  He looked at Samantha, who was simply watching him, silent and grave. He smiled.

  “What is it?”

  She shook her head. “Just watching. They’re impressive.”

  He nodded. “They are.”

  “And your cousin has interesting toys.” She nodded toward the architectural printer in the corner. “Good for plans, I suppose.”

  “And large games of naughts and crosses.”

  She smiled. “I imagine so.” Her smile faded a bit. “What can I do?”

  He knew what he needed but almost hesitated to ask. He rubbed his hands together. “I’m not an expert in Elizabethan textiles, but . . .”

  She sighed. “I can put off my leap into artistic endeavors for another few days and play historian if you like.”

  “Then let’s invade Cameron’s sanctuary. He has all kinds of books up there on all kinds of obscure things. I’m sure he has a book on costumery.”

  “I don’t suppose he has any costumes lying around.”

  “I think I might manage to find a few in London.” That was badly understating what his apartment was full of, but there was no point in telling her things that didn’t make any difference at the moment. He wasn’t even quite
sure what he had that would have served a woman, so obviously things would have to be acquired on short notice. The sooner he knew what they needed, the better.

  He left the lads to their work and walked with Samantha up the stairs to Cameron’s private study.

  • • •

  Three hours and a lovely supper later, he was sitting on the couch with his bare feet on Cameron’s coffee table, trying to stay awake. He honestly wasn’t sure he’d managed it entirely. He rubbed the grit out of his eyes and looked to his right. Samantha was sitting in a chair facing at right angles to his. She had lost her shoes somewhere as well, but she apparently didn’t feel comfortable enough to put her feet on the furniture.

  The sea had done what he’d wanted to but never dared, namely pulled several strands of hair out of her braid. She kept tucking those strands behind her ears. He would have asked her to stop, but then she would have looked at him as if he’d been daft.

  He wondered what she would have done if he’d simply leaned over and kissed her.

  Likely punched him in the nose.

  So to avoid having to explain that, he simply sat lounging on Cameron’s sofa and watched her read. She was engrossed, that was obvious. She was also making notes, which he supposed shouldn’t have surprised him.

  She glanced at him, then did a double take and smiled. “Nice nap?”

  “I couldn’t help it,” he said with a yawn. “Too many nights chasing after a very pretty textile thief.”

  She blinked. “Me?”

  He smiled, deciding that if she had to ask, perhaps it was best not to wax rhapsodic about her charms lest he indeed give into his first impulse, which was to pull her over to sit next to him and show her just how pretty he thought she was. He sat up and attempted to change the subject.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “It depends on the date. What did you guess, 1602?”

  “I’m thinking so,” he said. “Someone was talking about Hamlet when we were last there. The first quarto was registered in late July of that year, if memory serves, so I think we can almost guarantee it was being performed.”

  Her mouth fell open. “How do you know that?”

  He put his feet on the floor and leaned forward to rub his face with his hands. He shook off the aftereffects of what had indeed been a very nice nap, then looked as casual as possible.

  “I was a bit of a theater buff growing up.”

  She closed her book. “Did you grow up here at the castle?”

  He started to tell her that those were details she probably didn’t need, but realized hard on the heels of that that he actually did want to tell her a few things. Perhaps it went with the absolute madness of taking her to the shore. To his house that he’d bought with his own money.

  “Never mind,” she said with a smile. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

  He looked at her in surprise, then winced. “Sorry. I don’t have a very good poker face.”

  “No, actually, you don’t. How you talk anyone out of their antiques is a mystery to me.”

  He smiled. “I’m actually very good at that sort of thing. Just not about discussing what bothers me.”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything, really. Not if it bothers you.”

  He studied her for a moment or two. “Do you want to know?”

  “I find, actually, that I do.” She looked at him seriously. “How weird is that?”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly.

  She smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry.” She hesitated, tapping her pencil against her notebook for a moment or two, then looked at him. “I don’t date much.”

  “So you don’t know the usual dance, is that it?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  He considered. “Would you like to come sit here next to me?”

  She considered as well, then nodded. “I think I would.”

  “Then please do.”

  She left her books on the table, then walked around it to sit down next to him. She looked up at him. “What now?”

  “We could hold hands.”

  “Will you divulge details if we do?”

  “I would anyway, but it might make me feel better whilst I’m about it.”

  She smiled. “You aren’t serious.”

  He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I think it would, but I don’t want to force you to do something you don’t want to do.”

  “Hmmm,” she said. “Holding hands with a very handsome man in a castle that I think is mostly original, in front of a fire big enough to roast a good part of an entire cow, while I listen to him tell me his secrets? I think I like it.”

  He smiled in spite of himself. “You didn’t mention the Vanquish.”

  She shrugged. “It’s what you drive, not who you are.”

  He closed his eyes, because it was either that or get himself in all kinds of trouble. He held out his hand, was rather too relieved for his peace of mind when she put hers into it, then propped his feet back up on Cameron’s table. He held Samantha’s hand in both his, suppressed the urge to flee—the woman was going to drive him crazy long before he managed to get a handle on what, if anything, he felt for her—then took a deep breath.

  “I didn’t grow up here precisely,” he said. “My parents had a house on the estate, because my father was the second cousin twice removed of the laird, Alistair. My mother wasn’t fond of being here but my father never would have moved away. He loathed Scotland, as it happened, but I think he always assumed that one day he would take the title for himself.”

  “Really?” she asked, sounding surprised.

  “Well, Alistair had no children, so I suppose it was a logical assumption.”

  “Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully. “But you said Lord Robert was Alistair’s heir.”

  So he had, he supposed. “It’s complicated.”

  “Hmmm,” was all she said. “So, if your father disliked Scotland so much, why did he want the title?”

  Derrick shrugged. “The power of it, I suppose, or the prestige. The Cameron fortune was fairly substantial at the time. I wouldn’t begin to speculate what the current laird has done with it. He has a gift for making money and finding old things.”

  She laughed a little. “You know, I keep thinking he’s on the verge of drawing a sword—” She shut her mouth with a snap, stared into the fire, then looked up at him. “But that’s impossible. I mean, he was born in this century, right?”

  He looked at her then, but he just simply couldn’t bring himself to answer.

  Her mouth fell open. She gaped at him for a minute or two, then shut her mouth with a snap. “I’ll think about that later. I have seen some pretty crazy things over here, but . . . well, back to you and yours. Your father wanted to stay and your mother didn’t. What happened?”

  “They stayed, my mother complained endlessly, and my father repaid her with disdain.” He listened to the words come out of his mouth and wondered how he could be so nonchalant about details that had grieved him for so much of his youth. “They were killed in a car accident when I was twelve.”

  Her hand in his flinched. “Oh, Derrick, I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head. “It was a blessing in disguise, actually. We came to the keep to be watched over by my grandfather—”

  “We?”

  He looked at her. “I have an older brother, older by a year. I suppose we were a bit more like twins, though I’ll always maintain he’s much uglier than I am.”

  She smiled. “You’re funny. Go on. What then?”

  “Nothing much that was interesting. I raised all manner of hell, Connor was the angel that received all the accolades, and we each moved on with our lives.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Derrick shrugged. “A few years ago he was acting somewhere. Likely in some local church converted into a leisure center, plying his dastardly trade on those with no taste.” Actually, his brother was in Stratford, making a rather large name for himself, but Derrick didn’t like to
think about that too often.

  She was stroking his thumb with hers. He honestly doubted she realized she was doing it.

  “And you?”

  He looked at her, then. “This will cost you.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Nay, woman, this will cost you.”

  “You know, you’re too bossy.”

  He had to admit that was true, but she was getting better at telling him to shove off, as it were, with each of his attempts at ordering her about. He smiled faintly. “I left home early, raised hell other places, then decided that I preferred life north of the border. So, I live in London only because my business is there, but I come home as often as possible.” He shifted to look at her. “Your turn.”

  “Oh,” she demurred, “my life is very boring.”

  “Spill the details.”

  “Stop bossing me.”

  “I’m not sure I can,” he said solemnly. “I’m very good at it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sick of it.”

  “We could take turns.” He looked around him for paper and pen to use in scratching out a schedule, but the sad fact was, he was too reliant on screens. Heaven help him if the power grid ever went down. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, then smiled at her. “I’ll take mine now.”

  “It’ll cost you later,” she muttered.

  “I’ll consider paying, if it’s my day to be bossed.”

  She took a deep breath and stopped stroking his hand. He supposed that was his cue to take over. He stroked the back of her hand with his fingers, wondering if she had any idea how cold her hands were. He almost told her she didn’t need to tell him anything, but she was already saying as much.

  “I don’t have to do this.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t.”

  She sighed. “It really is a very boring story. Gavin, you know. I also have a sister, Sophronia, which you probably already know, too.”