Shadows in Scarlet

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  He was gone. “Rest in peace,” Amanda whispered.

  From the corner Norah said, “Amen.”

  The lights shone out so brightly she winced. The song stopped. After a pause another began, a soft instrumental piece filled with the sounds of dusk and rain.

  The sword was heavy. Her knees were trembling. The room was spinning. Amanda sat down hard, fabric billowing. The sword thumped onto the floor beside her. She mopped at her sooty eyes but they got even wetter, until the tears spilled over and ran in cool rivulets down her scorched cheeks.

  “He’s gone now,” Norah said, kneeling at Amanda’s side. “He can rest.”

  I sure hope so, her mind hiccuped.

  Malcolm’s arms closed around her and drew her into his chest, safe. “My heroine,” he said into her ear.

  She got hold of herself with a gulp. “Sorry.”

  “Dinna worry yoursel’. We’ve had the blood and the sweat, we’re needin’ a few tears as well.”

  Norah pressed a handkerchief into her hand and stood. “That was good acting, Wayne. Thank you.”

  “I wasn’t acting. I was scared.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you for throwing that mug. Great arm. You ought to try out for the Orioles.”

  “I captained a cricket side at school, but it’s been donkey’s years since I bowled a game. Nothing like sheer terror to concentrate one’s faculties.”

  “Oh aye,” said Malcolm.

  Tell me about it, Amanda thought.

  Wayne picked up the sword and balanced it in his hand. “It worked. I don’t believe it. But I guess the man had to be tired after two hundred years of holding a grudge.”

  “Yes, I should expect so,” Norah said.

  It’s over… . No it’s not. James is over is all. Amanda leaned against Malcolm’s chest and mopped her face. The rest of her brain was logging back on. Coherent thought, what a concept. Feeling, ditto.

  Two nights in a row she’d sat there hanging out of her bodice right in front of Malcolm’s face—not that his face was exactly turned away in disgust or apathy or anything, but it wasn’t the way these things were supposed to go.

  So how were you supposed to fall in love? she asked herself, and answered, by any means that worked. And this whole—comedy, tragedy, historical pageant—had definitely worked.

  Wayne brandished the sword, thrust his fist into the air, and shouted, “Yes!” Then he looked around, startled, like it was someone else who’d shouted. He tiptoed to the sideboard and laid the sword down.

  Far, far away a telephone started ringing. It was, after all, the twenty-first century. It was a Monday night at the end of July. So maybe Irene and Calum were calling to see if it was safe to come home. Or Lindley Duncan, making his rounds. Or Denny Gibson, checking in with people who mattered to him. Each of them would have his or her own take on James’s story. Fine. The important part was that each of them would believe it.

  Smiling, Norah went off to answer the phone. A black and white face peered quizzically through the doorway. Wayne called the dog and bent over him, scratching his ears. “Scared you, huh? Well that makes two of us.”

  Malcolm settled himself more comfortably on the floor, keeping firm hold of Amanda. “So you’ll be goin’ back to Virginia the Thursday?”

  She blew her nose. “Yeah. I have my job, and my thesis, and the book about—about James—and maybe I should call or e-mail or something and let Carrie know I’m still alive.”

  “She’ll no be wonderin’ one way or the other, will she?”

  “No.”

  “But you could be askin’ her for course information and internships and the lot. You’ll no be here long enough for a proper lesson in—ah, historic property management—I suppose I’ll just have to be goin’ to Virginia masel’, doin’ a bit o’ hands-on research, eh?”

  “You’d better,” she said into the slightly smoky odor of his throat. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “Don’t ever call me ‘sweet.’”

  Malcolm laughed.

  Amanda felt a similar laugh welling up. The whole thing had been so stupid, and so ridiculous, and so right. She gave in to the laugh, and drifted easily away with the flow.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Amanda snugged her robe around her naked body and peered out the window. Beyond Melrose’s lawns a shimmering curtain of mist hung over the river. A few remaining yellow and orange leaves looked like confetti pasted to the black limbs of the trees. Pumpkins and Indian corn decorated the walkways.

  The tile of the bathroom floor was icy beneath her feet. Funny—when she’d moved in last June she hadn’t checked out Melrose’s heating system, an old-fashioned furnace that gave up the ghost on a cold morning.

  The word “ghost” wasn’t ever going to sound the same again. And yet if she’d never met James she’d never have met Malcolm. Fate, she guessed. Or whatever it was she’d said to Wayne that time, about Mr. Right sneaking up on you when you weren’t looking.

  A gleam of sun sliced through the mist, laying a bright path across the lawn and into the window. Amanda raised her left hand to it. The diamond in her ring flashed and sparked. Wow, she thought with something between a grimace and a grin.

  The ring was an antique, appropriately enough, its Celtic interlace design worn smooth, its tiny stone scratched. Malcolm had sent her a photo of it a month ago—maybe she didn’t want his grandmother’s ring, maybe she’d rather have a new one—maybe she’d rather not have one at all. But Amanda had no problem with the traditional public announcement: Hey, we’re serious about this!

  The evening before she left Dundreggan, in the middle of yet another clinch, Malcolm had whispered in her ear, “You’re expectin’ me to come to your room the night?”

  Oh yeah, she thought. They needed to lose the clothes, no doubt about it… . Oh. Wayne. Getting it on right across the hall from his room just didn’t cut it. And she wasn’t sure she’d worked it all out about James yet. More than the clothes, what they needed to lose were the issues.

  “It’s too soon, is it?” Malcolm asked with a smile.

  “Wayne’s been so cool with everything, it just wouldn’t be fair to get into his face. And James only—left—a couple of days ago. So yeah, it’s too soon.” She moved her hands from the back pockets of his jeans to the front pockets of his shirt, neutral territory. “But I’ll be expecting you in my bedroom at Melrose. Soon.”

  “I’ll be there,” he’d told her, actually taking not yet for an answer.

  She’d wondered every now and then as summer segued into fall if she’d been stupid to pass up the chance. But no, her eyes were wide open this time around. This guy was there for the backstretch.

  And the wait had been worth it. So what if her thighs were so sore this morning she could hardly walk?

  Dumping her robe, Amanda tiptoed out of the bathroom into the shadowed bedroom. On the nightstand sat two glasses and a bottle of Glenmoriston single malt. She hadn’t needed Malcolm’s joking quote about drink provoking the desire but taking away the performance to keep her from downing more than a symbolic sip or two last night. Not that anything less than anesthesia would’ve taken away either their desire or their performance, not when everything—means, motive, opportunity—had come together at last.

  Malcolm’s auburn hair lay tousled on the pillow. She lifted the blankets and slipped into the whiskey-scented warmth beside him. With her fingertips she traced the line of his flank. He blinked, then focussed. “You’re playin’ wi’ fire, lass.”

  “I hope so,” she replied. “I’m freezing.”

  “Well then.” He scooped her into his arms, pressing against her, legs tangled, lips locked. Funny how fast his smooth, warm naked body wiped out her chill. Malcolm was real. This was real.

  He pulled away just far enough to stroke the white scar between her breasts. She answered the question in his eyes. “It’s all right. Really.”

  “Oh aye, that it is.” Malcolm smiled, a
nd bent his head to kiss the scar, and moved on from there, his lips and tongue plying the peaks and hollows of her body—ears, breasts, navel—so deftly she wondered if he’d been practicing with the tin whistle.

  But she’d found out last night he was a fast learner. “Oh yeah. There, like that …” Her voice caught in her throat.

  She could get used to this. She had every intention of getting used to it, of connecting with him physically just like they’d connected emotionally and intellectually during three months of e-mails and paper letters and long phone calls that’d just about busted her budget. But that was the only way she could hear his voice.

  “Oh aye,” he sighed. “Just that.” The bronze hair on his chest curled between her fingers. His skin was sweet salt on her lips. When she pushed him onto his back he pulled her over with him and propped his shoulders against the headboard. He was comfortable in his own skin, she thought, returning his smile. He was, for that matter, totally comfortable in hers.

  Slowly, savoring every exquisite millimeter, she settled onto him. Like a glove, like a sheath even—no problem… . All right! She wrapped him tightly, one of her hands lodged in his hair, and gauged the flow of expression across his face—that, there, oh yeah. Like the night they’d danced together his hands moved up and down her spine, and then across her ribs and over her breasts, playing her as she played him.

  They rolled over and tried another rhythm, and laughed and fitted themselves at a different angle, until at last their breaths made little wisps of steam in the cold room. Yes, yes! The flash points were like lanterns lit in the dusk, welcoming the weary traveler home. Home, Amanda thought fuzzily, is where the heart is.

  And she’d told herself there was no magic and mystery in sex any more. Yeah, right. She’d only needed the right spells and the right clues. She’d only needed the right guy.

  They were still exchanging sweaty nothings when the alarm rang. Malcolm’s jump of surprise repeated Amanda’s. She reached out and smacked the clock, which shut it up. From the doorway came a demanding, “Meow!”

  Malcolm levered himself onto one elbow. “It’s a workin’ day, is it? My debut as an interpreter?”

  “At least the house opens later on Sunday. Okay, Lafayette, hold your paws, I’m coming.”

  The tabby watched the disentanglement process with his head cocked to the side and his tail making Js on the rag rug, as though to say, they could be eating breakfast right now, but no.

  Amanda shrugged on her robe, limped off toward the kitchen, fed the cat and made a pot of tea. By the time she got back to the bedroom Malcolm was bathed, shampooed, and shaved, gleaming like he’d been polished. A white shirt reached to his thighs and red and white checkered socks rose to his knees. He was bending over the bed pleating several yards of tartan wool, providing Amanda with a very nice flash of bare buttocks. Yep, she thought with a grin, a guy in a kilt was so gorgeous he had to be ready for action at any moment.

  She clasped her hands behind her back to keep from grabbing for him. “You sure you can get that on to where it’ll actually stay on? I mean, your modern kilt has straps and buckles and sewn-down pleats but that one’s more of a do-it-yourself job. There’re some sights I’d like to keep for myself, you know.”

  He winked at her. “I’ve worn one a time or two. It’s no so awkward… . There.” He belted the fabric around his waist, attached the sporran, and reached for the white waistcoat. That properly buttoned, he turned to the mirror and tied the neck cloth around his throat.

  Amanda took the scarlet coat from its hanger and held it while he slipped his arms into the sleeves. The shoulder belt with its silver fittings went on next. Malcolm stepped into his shoes and, at last, picked up the sword.

  He’d brought the sword with him, along with its new scabbard—Calum Finlay had really strutted his stuff with that. Yesterday afternoon Amanda had burnished the basket hilt of the sword until it gleamed like gold, and wiped the shining steel of the blade clean of memory. It really was a thing of beauty, if you looked at it right. And yet, at the end of the day, that’s just what it was, a thing. Malcolm didn’t need it or anything else to prove his manhood.

  She hung the sword from his belt and stepped back to admire the effect—was he ever a thing of beauty himself! “Are you going to wear the wig?”

  “Should I?” He picked up the white curled and pony tailed wig and held it over his head like a halo.

  “No. Your own hair’s much too nice, even if the cut is contemporary.”

  “Very well then.” The wig went back on its block. “I’ll say one thing for Cynthia, Mrs. Snotty, she does things up proper.”

  “Which just makes her even more annoying,” Amanda admitted. “You’d think someone with an ego that big could at least be incompetent.”

  “Did she actually credit Wayne’s story aboot breakin’ the scabbard?”

  “She did when I backed him up.”

  “Own up to it, lassie, you’re her pet.”

  “Like she’s not fixing a collar for you?”

  Malcolm tugged at his neck cloth and gagged.

  “You’re going to knock the eyes out of every woman in the place,” Amanda went on. “I’ll be jealous.”

  “No need. I’m no givin’ any o’ them my granny’s ring, am I?” He took her in his arms. The hem of the kilt was a fuzzy tickle against her thigh. The buttons of his waistcoat pressed into her breast. The belt and sword clanked as she hugged him back.

  “I love you,” she said. There was an entire sentence that had taken on a new meaning.

  “I love you,” he said.

  Amanda wouldn’t have minded a few more seriously sappy minutes, but she could see the clock from the corner of her eye. Reluctantly she let him go. “I’d better hit the shower before I find myself signed up to interpret Medusa.”

  “No a bit o’ it,” Malcolm said gallantly, and added, “You look like you’ve been havin’ yoursel’ a fine roll in the hay is all.”

  Shoving playfully at him, Amanda headed for the bathroom. She washed and blew dry and hurried into her own costume, a much easier job with Malcolm tugging on the strings of the stays. Breakfast was less of an occasion than she’d planned—she had to throw toast and marmalade onto the table instead of baking scones. But womankind didn’t even begin to live by bread alone.

  At the apartment door they exchanged a formal bow and curtsey. Malcolm captured her left hand and kissed it, his lips warm, his clear, bright blue-gray eyes looking up at her over her knuckles and the point of the ring. Wow, she thought again. Way to go.

  Off they went through the house, making sure all the empty glasses and crumpled napkins had been cleared away after last night’s welcome party. Engagement party. Announcement of intentions party. Whatever.

  Amanda turned on the lights over the display in the entrance hall. Malcolm tipped a quick, rueful salute to James’s reconstructed head. The miniature stood in its Lucite box, the small painted face gazing into eternity. Where, Amanda assumed, his troubled soul was at rest. Better late than never. Poor James. But, at the end of the day, pity was all she had left for him.

  The artifacts Wayne had borrowed last summer were all accounted for. Amanda opened the front door and turned the sign around just as Roy crunched up the gravel walk, trailing the banner of his breath behind him. “Whoa, Malcolm,” he called. “That’s a hell of a get-up. I can’t believe your ancestor wore it all for real, in the summer yet. I bet Hewitt’s got it wrong, he really died from heat stroke.”

  “I expect the heat didna improve their tempers,” Malcolm returned.

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Amanda said, and Roy headed inside.

  Carrie rounded the corner at a fast trot. “Nippy, isn’t it? Wasn’t the mist this morning pretty? I bet it reminded you of Scotland, Malcolm.”

  “In a way.”

  “Scotland’s all hazy green and blue and purple,” explained Amanda. “Here, now… .” She waved at the lawn, the trees, and the river. The crisp or
ange and yellow hues sparkled beneath a crystalline blue sky.

  “The red uniform blends right in,” Carrie finished. “Malcolm, I hope my kids didn’t bug you too much about the kilt last night.”

  “They’re fine lads, Carrie. I didna mind answerin’ their questions.”

  Carrie stage-whispered, “This guy’s a keeper, Amanda.”

  “You think?” Amanda waggled the fingers of her left hand.

  Wayne came strolling down the walk, every powdered hair in place, tapping his cane rhythmically. “View halloo!” he called.

  “It’s a grand mornin’, Mr. Chancellor,” replied Malcolm.

  Wayne mounted the steps, every corpuscle radiating dignity. “A most excellent example of military garb, Captain Grant, but we shall have no need of swordplay today.”

  “Indeed,” Malcolm returned. “It was with the greatest satisfaction I heard of the recent cessation of hostilities.”

  “Your appearance is even lovelier than usual, Miss Witham,” Wayne went on. “One might think that your bright eyes and rosy cheeks signified …” He suddenly realized what they signified and went as red as Malcolm’s coat.

  Amanda snapped open her fan and hid her face behind it. Malcolm cleared his throat and, bless him, looked more embarrassed than smug.

  “Gotta get to work.” Wayne hurried inside. Carrie, with a sentimental sigh, followed.

  The first group of tourists tramped around the corner and the day settled into its familiar routine, spiced by Malcolm’s presence. His haircut might be wrong, Amanda thought, but his style was all right.

  The boys and men among the sightseers stared at the kilt, not sure whether to be offended or impressed—especially when the women flocked around Malcolm like bees around a flower. Amanda and Malcolm posed for photo after photo, he bowing over her hand, she curtseying, although Sally slapping James silly would’ve been more to the historical point. The tourists left clutching Cynthia’s new, revised brochure, incorporating the material from Dundreggan but putting her own spin on it.