Held a grudge, did he?
“Oh, yes. We Highsmythes are known for it.” He said it lightly, or attempted to. She wondered who had been fool enough to cross Memphis in the past.
“The doctor kept Isabella alive long enough to give birth. She carried twins, two boys. It’s said she traced an O in blood on the forehead of the first one, who was named Oliver, after her lover, the child’s dead uncle. She died before naming the second, so the family took it upon themselves to call him Colin. As you can imagine, theirs was a contentious life.”
Memphis was staring into the fire now. “Young Oliver ended up with the title, oddly enough. Through battles and changes of allegiance and illnesses, the elder Colin’s sons from his first marriage died soon after their father. Isabella’s son, Oliver, firstborn of the twins, truly in the prime of his life, was legally heir.
“He banished his brother from the area, sent him to England, to Bristol, to the Highsmythe properties there. Where he would be well out of the way. Young Colin worked as a cleric, then rose in the Church’s esteem until eventually becoming a very powerful bishop. He made quite a name for himself.
“So the family was permanently split, half propagating in Southern England, the rest of us in the North. I’m directly descended from Isabella and Oliver the younger, by the way. And as such, the legend says that the first son, the Dulsie heir, is the only one who can see Isabella. She appears in the night to impart great wisdom, so we’re told.”
Taylor knew she was staring at him. What a creepy, odd story.
Do you see her?
“Do I see Isabella?” Memphis flexed his hand a few times, balling the strong fingers into a fist, then stared into the fire. He took his arm from around her shoulders. His tone changed, no longer imparting a delicious ghost story, now more subdued.
“Well, I can’t rightly say. May have done a few times, especially when I was a boy. She’s supposed to be much more partial to young boys. Once they pass the age of twenty, which was Oliver’s age when he died, she loses interest. But I’ve definitely seen something that could be her, many times. More of a feeling, really, that chill in the air, the sense that someone’s watching, an awareness of the color red. Almost like having a bout of synesthesia. I’ve gotten used to it now.”
He was holding back, she could tell.
What is it? What’s the matter?
He met her eyes then. “I can’t help but wonder, if Evan had carried to term, whether my son would have seen Isabella.”
Oh, God. Taylor felt terrible, she’d forgotten. It was easy to; Memphis rarely spoke of Evan, and even more rarely mentioned the child she’d been carrying when she died.
“Another dead Highsmythe bride.”
He played with Taylor’s engagement ring. After a second, she instinctively pulled her hand away. It felt profane to have Memphis touching the physical expression of Baldwin’s love. He didn’t seem to notice.
“I never got to see her, you know. After the accident. Father wouldn’t let me. He said it would be a very bad idea indeed. She’d gone through the windscreen, was cut to ribbons. He thought I would carry the image with me forever. Though honestly, I can’t comprehend it could have been any worse than what my imagination conjures up, late at night.”
That she understood.
You’re right. I tell victims’ families the same thing, but I’d want to know. I’d want to see. The mind can play terrible tricks.
“That it can.”
He was lost to her, there in the room physically, but mentally in another world, another time. Grief did that to a person, snuck up on cat’s feet when you were most unawares. He must have realized, because he cleared his throat and looked at her.
“We buried them on the estate, you know. Together, of course. In the graveyard up by the kirk. It broke my heart. I don’t know which was worse, losing her, or never having a chance to see him grow up.”
Oh, Memphis. I’m so sorry. It’s just not fair.
They sat quietly for a few minutes, companionable in their silence. Taylor couldn’t help but think of Sam, and the child she’d lost. Of her face when Taylor found her, bloodied and tied, the sheer agony of what had happened etched in eloquence across her features. She sighed. Baldwin had lost a child as well, though she was having a hard time equating his loss with Sam’s, or Memphis’s. His child was most likely still alive. Regardless, they were all surrounded by too much sadness.
Memphis finally roused himself. “I’m sorry. I’ve gone and properly cocked up our lovely evening.”
She sought to distract him, and herself.
No, it’s fine. Tell me more. Why is Isabella called the Lady in Red?
He met her eyes then. “Oh, that’s simple. She appears drenched in blood.”
They’d stayed in his office a bit longer, on safe topics—her plans for the next day, which included the early-morning visit with Dr. James and a little side trip he’d like to take her on, how the weather was expected to behave, what time she’d like to take breakfast—then drank the rest of the port and called it a night. She wasn’t tired, but she knew she needed to get some sort of rest.
He left her at the door to her room with a chaste kiss on the top of her hand, in classic French style, and departed without a backward glance. After that moment in his office, she’d expected to have to fight him off, to set the ground rules, but the conversation’s turn had put a damper on his mood. It had the same effect on hers.
Upon returning, the rooms seemed slightly changed, which alarmed her for half a second until she realized it must have been one of the maids turning things down for the evening. Straightening up after her like she was an untidy child. No wonder everything in the castle looked so lovely. Unseen hands followed behind the family members, restoring order in their wakes. In defiance, she went and pulled a book at random from the shelves and dropped it on the chair, where it spilled open. There. It looked like someone was staying here now.
A bath sounded heavenly. She started the tub to fill, and took another Percocet. It had worked wonders tonight; the headache had been at a dull simmer in the back of her head for the past few hours. She could continue to keep it at bay if she took the meds now instead of waiting the prescribed six hours. Deciding she felt like reading, she went back in the sitting room to gather the book.
The hardcover she’d so carelessly plucked from the shelves and tossed on the chair was now closed, sitting squarely in the middle of the cushion. Good grief. She went to the door to make sure it was locked. She didn’t like the idea of the maids being able to come in and out as they pleased. Memphis had probably told them to tend to her every need, but this was ridiculous.
But the door was locked. And the interior latch bolt had been thrown as well. Which meant no one could come into the room without her knowledge.
She glanced back at the book, sitting so pristinely front and center on the chair, and a little frisson of fear went down her spine.
Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Taylor. There is no such thing as ghosts.
She scooped up the book from the chair and headed back to the bath, stripping off her clothes as she went, dropping them willy-nilly on the floor. When she got into the tub, she opened the novel, and nearly laughed out loud. She’d chosen Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca from the shelves.
She allowed herself to get lost in the nameless second Mrs. de Winter’s world for thirty minutes, until her eyes started to ache and her heart throbbed in her temples, then climbed from the tub. Her room was as she left it. Despite herself, she sighed in relief.
She got dressed for bed, snuggled under the covers, found the bed was equipped with an electric blanket, turned it on and texted Baldwin.
He wrote back immediately. His presence chased away all the ghosts.
How are you?
Fine. Full as a tick, warm from my bath. Going to sleep, just wanted to touch base. How are you? How’s the case?
Just fine. I might have to be out of touch for a few days. Immersion. So don’t
worry if you don’t hear from me.
Ah. She was being punished. She had a feeling this might happen. She clung to the hope that when she saw him next, she’d have her voice back, her head on straight, and could give herself to him again. Either that or she’d be handing back the ring. The thought filled her with sadness.
Don’t react, Taylor. Be nice. Be sweet.
Atlantic is sending you somewhere warm, I hope. Maybe you can get a break.
That would be nice. How’s the voice?
She tried to ignore the fact that he’d just held back from telling her the truth. Again. Why he didn’t feel he could confide in her, she didn’t know. But it set her teeth on edge. She didn’t feel like a fight now, though.
Scattered and unreliable. It’s easier to just write things down.
You have to practice. Keep doing your exercises.
I will.
Okay, sweetheart. You get a good night’s sleep then.
Good luck.
Thanks. I love you. Please, text me when you finish your session with the new doctor. I’d like to hear how it goes.
I thought you were going to be out of touch.
Maybe. But not until tomorrow night. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Sweet dreams.
When she put the phone away, she felt strangely empty. Everything was changing. And she didn’t like change.
She turned off the light and tried to sleep. After two hours, she finally drifted off, the lost children of strangers heavy on her mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Baldwin hated not being able to share everything that was happening with Taylor. It was better that way, safer for her. She didn’t need the details. After the debacle last year, when one of Atlantic’s premier assassins had decided to come after Baldwin through Taylor, he’d become adamant about keeping his personal life out of his professional life. He didn’t make a lot of friends when he worked with Atlantic. He was fairly certain that would be the case tonight.
One of those nonfriends was the next call he made.
He put the phone to his ear, let it ring once, twice, three times, before a heavy voice answered. Baldwin could tell the man had been drinking. He didn’t know if that would work in his favor, or against.
“She’s safe in bed. Unmolested, I might add. Surely you don’t think I’m that much of a heel,” the cultured, lackadaisical voice of Memphis Highsmythe said.
“That’s not what I was calling about. I need your help.”
“Oh. Quite. Whatever can I do for you, Baldwin?”
“Who do you know at MI-6?”
“Goodness. Planning on giving up all the state secrets? A fresh Wikileak from the FBI?”
“Seriously, Memphis. I need a favor.”
Memphis’s voice lost its jocular sarcasm. “What level of favor are we talking about?”
“One from the very top.”
Memphis sighed. “That would be Nigel then.”
Sir Nigel Ainsley was just the man he wanted to speak with. Knighted in his forties, subsequently involved in the arms-to-Iraq deal, Ainsley had been outed as an agent, then retired, so to speak, to MI-6, where he ran the men and women he’d previously been a peer of. He was an exemplary spy, well known for his genial manner and first-rate discretion.
Discretion Sir Nigel applied when arranging to use members of Atlantic’s Angelmakers. He’d been the last to engage the now-errant Julius’s services. Memphis didn’t need to know that.
“Good. That’s who I was hoping for. Can you ask if he’d be willing to speak with me?”
“I can. But why? What sort of scheming is the FBI up to? Speaking of which, I’m a bit chafed at you. Getting me pulled back to New Scotland Yard last month wasn’t necessary.”
“Wasn’t me. I swear it.” He was telling the truth, too, he hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger. There had been concern about Memphis from other quarters. Granted, Baldwin had cheered silently when Memphis had been pulled off the Quantico counterterrorism detail, but it had come from within his own service, not from Baldwin’s end.
“Ah. Interesting. Why, exactly, can’t you call him yourself?”
“Classified.”
“Right.”
“I’m available by phone for the next hour if he can spare me five minutes.”
“Fine. I’ll call him. But I’m going to need a favor in return, then.”
“Anything within reason.”
“My case. I’m probably dealing with a religious zealot who is schizophrenic. I make this call, you give me some guidance on how to approach him. Deal?”
Hardly a big price to pay. “Deal.”
“Thank you. Have a pleasant evening, Baldwin.”
“Memphis, wait.”
“Yes?”
“How is she?”
There was a pause. “You were right. She’s exceptionally fragile. But stubborn. The essential spark of her is still there. She has a pure heart. She will get through this.”
Baldwin breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m glad to hear you say that. Please, let me know if anything changes.”
“I will. Good night.”
“You as well, Memphis.”
Keep your grubby paws off my woman, he added silently.
Memphis hung up the phone and stared at it a few minutes. John Baldwin, profiler extraordinaire, in need of a private chat with Sir Nigel Ainsley. The call was a ruse; Baldwin could get through to Ainsley anytime he wanted. He just wanted to check on Taylor.
He couldn’t say that he blamed him.
He placed the call, had Nigel’s assistant cum bodyguard roust the man from his nightly game of dominoes. It was late, but Nigel would be up, in his library, an untouched Macallan 18 at his elbow, engrossed in his game. He sounded slightly annoyed when he answered, though years of interruptions tempered his aggravation. Especially since the disruption came from the son of one of his oldest friends.
“Sir Nigel. A pleasure.”
“Ah, Lord Dulsie. It’s been too long. How is your father?”
“Just headed to South Africa as we speak. We celebrated his birthday yesterday.”
“I hope he received the Benelli 20-bore. I had that stock hand engraved by a company called A&A, in South Dakota. The real Wild West.”
“He did. He loved it. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him soon.”
“Ah, good, good. At our age, any birthday is preferable to none, and we all need our toys.”
“I’m sure it is. Sir, I have a request. A friend has asked to speak with you. Can you make a call?”
“I’m all tucked in for the night. Tell him to call me at the office tomorrow.”
“He’s an American. FBI. I trust him. If he needs you, it’s important. I’m assuming that he must speak to you outside of your official capacity.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Memphis decided to sweeten the pill. “Fancy a bit of sport? I’ll let you have the run of the estate, whenever you’re next north of the border.” Sir Nigel was as rabid about hunting as he was terrorists and other threats to Queen and country.
Sir Nigel chuckled. “Not above a bribe, are you?”
“Now that’s not a nice term.”
“All right, James. For you. Tell your father hullo and I intend to help him break that Benelli in. I’d best be going if I have any hope of finishing my game.”
Memphis imparted Baldwin’s information and hung up, pleased. A shoot on the estate was a small price to pay for a favor from Ainsley. He wondered if Ainsley suspected something was up already, and that’s why he agreed to talk with the strange American so easily. Ah, well. He’d find out about that in the morning.
He had a lovely outing planned for Taylor tomorrow. He forced away the waves of sorrow that had enveloped him since their postprandial chat. Told Evan’s ghost to leave.
Thought about Taylor’s glossy blond hair, and her eyes, the two mismatched grays competing for his attention. He didn’t know if he could win her or not, but he’d da
mn well enjoy trying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
She walked the corridor, the familiar length of the hall leading to Memphis’s office, the warm, crackly fire beckoning her in. She was barefoot, dressed in a long, silk nightgown with a richly embroidered robe atop it, her hair pulled into a braid that spilled down her back. Her stomach was distended, full of the child they’d created.
She was worried. Would he be there? The note said to meet him before dawn, before the house awoke. But the house never truly slept. Watchers were everywhere. She knew what foolishness this was, but couldn’t help herself. Just the thought of him, his eyes, deeper blue than any loch, the sharpness of his jaw, the gentleness of his hands. She needed him.
Her hand was on the door now. He was inside. She could smell him. The scent made her careless, and her heart pulsed between her thighs. She pushed open the door.
Blood. Blood everywhere. The room was drenched. The walls dripped with the scent of sex, of lust dampened by the coppery tinge. She tasted it on her tongue, turned to vomit. Once she finished retching, she forced herself inside the room, shut the door behind her. She knew what had caused this. She was to blame. She’d pushed and cajoled.
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