by M C Beaton
Hamish sat down beside her. “Only a fool would cry for someone who didn’t really want them.”
“Go away,” said Alice, turning red-rimmed eyes to his.
“No, I will not go away. You are coming with me. You have caused enough worry and trouble this day. And all over some pipsqueak you didn’t even love.”
“I love him,” wailed Alice.
“No, you don’t. Went to bed with him, didn’t you? Aye, I thought as much. So now you’ve got to pretend you love him. Och, lassie, it’s your pride that’s hurt, not your heart. There’s one silly woman charged with murder and all because of damned snobbery and here you are planning to jump in the nearest loch as soon as you get up the courage so as to make a rat like Blythe sorry.”
“I…I didn’t…I wouldn’t.”
“Look, I tried to tell you he was a snob. As soon as he decided Daphne was rich enough, he decided to settle for her. She’ll marry him. That kind always get what they want and they’ll have a dead-alive sort of marriage. You only wanted the dream, Alice. Be honest and admit it’s over.”
“What if I’m pregnant?”
“Face that when it comes. When’s your next period?” asked Hamish.
“Next week, I think.”
“Well, you’ll maybe just be all right. Come along with me and I’ll get us a drink. You’re a pretty girl and you’re young.”
“Do…do you think I’m pretty?”
“Very,” lied Hamish gallantly. “Smashing little ming, that’s what I thought when I first saw you.”
He helped her to her feet and put an arm about her shoulders and together they walked towards the road.
“It’s a grand evening to be alive,” said Hamish. “Just think about that.”
Down below them, the lights of the village twinkled in the half dark. The twilight was scented with thyme and pine and heather. A rocketing pheasant whirred up from a clump of heather at the other side of the road. Out in the loch, the fishing boats were chugging out to sea.
Hamish pulled Alice to the side of the road as he heard a car approaching. A Rolls, black and sleek, slowed. Inside sat Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. She was wearing a white evening dress and a diamond necklace sparkled against her breast. Beside her at the wheel was John Harrington. Priscilla looked at Hamish, at Hamish’s arm about Alice’s shoulders, shrugged, and said something to John, who looked across her at Hamish and Alice and laughed. Then the car sped away.
Alice took a deep breath of clean-scented air. She was feeling better already. Hamish’s arm was comforting. She glanced up at him. He really wasn’t bad-looking. His eyelashes were very long for a man and his hair was a fascinating colour of red. “You’re right,” said Alice. “Only a fool would cry for someone who didn’t really want them.”
Hamish watched the tail lights of the disappearing Rolls-Royce. “Did I say that?” he asked, and then added in so low a voice that Alice could not hear what he was saying, “If I said that then I am a very great fool indeed.”
He helped Alice into his car but he sat for a few moments, staring straight ahead.
“I’ve always wondered, Mr Macbeth,” said Alice timidly. “What’s a FEB?”
Hamish let in the clutch. “Fucking English Bastard,” he said. And with an angry screech of tyres he swung the car around and they plunged down into the heathery darkness of the road leading to Lochdubh.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 981d4055-87d8-4cd8-a414-1489befd5054
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 31.5.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.53, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
M.C. Beaton
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