Authors: Kate Kingsbury
“Oh, I’ll be all right.” She smiled at him, resisting the urge to wipe her chilled nose with the back of her hand. “I’m bleeding tougher than I look. Anyhow, we can still have that drink if you like. It will probably do us good … keep out the bloody cold, like.”
“You brought some with you?” He looked at her as if she’d created a miracle.
“Nah, I didn’t have to, did I. These cupboards are full of bleeding booze. Here, have a look for yourself.” She took the ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the small cabinet.
Ross whistled in appreciation when he saw the rows of wines and spirits. “I dinna believe it. That’s a good bottle of scotch there, right enough.”
“You want some?” She took out the bottle and selected a bottle of brandy for herself. “If Michel can drink the stuff, then I’m going to.”
“You won’t get into trouble for this?”
“Course not. You’re a guest in the hotel, ain’t you? The stuff’s bleeding there for the guests to drink, ain’t it?”
Ross laughed, giving her that warm feeling again. She took out two glasses and stood them on the table. “You do it. I’m not very good at pouring drinks.”
Ross took hold of the brandy and poured a generous measure. “Here, lassie, drink that down. It’ll warm the cockles of your heart, right enough.”
She watched him pour out his scotch. Lifting the glass, he gave her a wink. “Bottoms up,” he said, and drained the glass without so much as a blink of his eye.
“Cor, how do you do that?” Gertie said, impressed. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I didna say that. I said I didn’t like going down the pub with the other pipers. I prefer to be on my own. That’s unless I have the opportunity to spend some time with a pretty lass like you.”
Gertie tossed her head. “Go on with you. I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“No, Gertie, I don’t.” His face growing serious, Ross put down his glass and reached for her hand. “You are the first woman I’ve looked at since my wife and bairns died in that fire. I swear it, Gertie.”
The warm touch of his hand on hers made her forget the cold. She tried very hard not to let his words go to her head. Men were all bloody alike, weren’t they? No one should bleeding know that better than her.
Then why did Ross McBride seem so much nicer than any man she’d ever met before? Why did he make her feel all squishy inside, in a way that Ian had never made her feel?
She pulled her hand away, suddenly afraid. “Here, pour yourself another drink,” she said, hoping to change what appeared to be a dangerous turn to the conversation.
“You’ve hardly touched yours yet.”
He was looking at her with such an intense look in his eyes, she felt uncomfortable. “I don’t drink that much,” she said lamely.
“A little sip or two can’t hurt you. It will make you feel warmer.”
It couldn’t make her feel any bleeding warmer than she was already, Gertie thought nervously. Nevertheless, she picked up the glass and took a tiny sip. The liquid burned her throat all the way down to her stomach.
She did her best not to shudder, but couldn’t prevent her face from screwing up.
Ross laughed. “By the third sip you won’t even feel it going down,” he said.
“Blimey, I drink this lot I’ll be on my bleeding back.” She took another sip, and this time it didn’t seem to burn quite as much. It certainly did make her feel warmer inside. In fact, she felt as if her stomach was on fire.
Ross poured himself another glass, but merely sipped the scotch before putting the glass down again. “I have something to ask you, lass,” he said, his face all serious again. “I don’t want you to answer me now, but I want you to think about it long and hard.”
She felt that sudden quiver of fear again. Hoping that another mouthful of brandy might help, she drank it down too fast. Her throat felt as if it had exploded. Coughing and choking, she put the glass down and held onto the table until the spasms had passed.
Ross looked on anxiously, but made no attempt to touch her.
Finally she croaked, “What is it, then? What do you want to ask me?”
He looked at her as if he was afraid to speak. Then, to her utter amazement, he said the last words in the world she expected to hear.
“I want to take you and the bairns back to Scotland with me,” he said. “I know we don’t know each other very well, but we don’t have time to spare to get acquainted. I’m asking you to be my wife, lass.”
“If I may say so, madam, this is not one of your most prudent ideas.”
Cecily took a careful breath. Nevertheless, the smell made her feel quite queasy. The frigid air was unpleasantly damp, and the darkness wasn’t quite heavy enough to hide the shapes of dead animals hanging all around them.
“I’m sorry, Baxter, I know the cellar of a butcher’s shop is not the most comfortable place to spend an evening, but I really had no choice. I had to move quickly.”
“It must be past midnight.”
She nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see her. He stood several paces away, hidden behind a stack of wooden crates. She had chosen to stand behind the sacks of sawdust
stacked in the comer. “Well past, I should say,” she said agreeably.
“And the smell is quite appalling.”
“Nauseating, in fact.”
“We have been here for the best part of an hour, if I’m judging correctly.”
“Yes, Baxter, I would say that’s about right.”
“And there is no sign of an intruder.”
“Not as yet, no.”
“Might I suggest that perhaps your plan is not working, madam?”
“You can suggest whatever you like, Baxter. I, however, am convinced it will work.”
“How—?”
Whatever question Baxter had intended to pose died on his lips, as a slight sound from the floor above silenced him. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
“Yes, I most certainly did.” She paused, her head tilted on one side as she heard the unmistakable sound of the street door opening.
Holding her breath, she prayed that Baxter wouldn’t speak again, or that the potential sneeze tickling her nose would not suddenly explode. The door above quietly closed. There was a long pause, followed by the slight creaking of floorboards.
Cecily let out her breath carefully as the tickle in her nose subsided.
Whoever it was had reached the top of the stairs, and was now coming down them, one cautious step at a time. Light from an oil lamp washed over the floor, and she shrank back, flattening herself against the wall.
Each one of the steps creaked as weight was put on them, and Cecily counted off the squeaks. The intruder was almost at the bottom when she heard a slight thud, followed by a soft curse.
At that moment, Baxter said loudly, “Now, madam?”
“Yes, now, Baxter.”
They stepped out together, into the light from the lamp. At first Cecily could see little above the bony knees and the kilt. Then the intruder raised the lamp to get a better look at who faced him.
“Damn you to hell,” Alec McPherson said.
“Good evening, Mr. McPherson,” Cecily said pleasantly. “Or should I say good morning? I’m so glad Phoebe gave you my message.”
“I should have known it was a trick. I should never have listened to that ridiculous woman.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Cecily saw Baxter edge closer to her. “I had to be sure I had the right man,” she said. “Tell me, what was it that Peter Stewart knew about you that could ban you from the contest?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea what you are talking about.” The Scotsman twisted his head around as if making sure there was no one else skulking in the shadows.
“Come now, Mr. McPherson. We all know you murdered Peter Stewart. I’m just curious to know why.”
The piper’s eyes rested on her face, coldly calculating. “If you must know, Stewart worked with me in the mines a few years back. He knew me when I got arrested. Three years in jail for nothing more than a fistfight. That was all it was.”
Alec McPherson stood the lamp on the floor at his feet and sat down on the steps. “I used a broken bottle to defend myself. The bugger would have killed me if I hadn’t. The judge said it was my fault for starting the fight. He said I’d disfigured the man for life.”
The Scotsman shook his head, his harsh features made cruel by the shadows. “Disfigured. It was me who was disfigured. My entire life ruined, because some nosy bastard couldna mind his own business.”
He looked up at Cecily, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. “I couldna get a job after that. Except for digging a ditch now and again, or lending a hand in the fields at harvesting. I practically starved to death at times.”
“So Peter Stewart was going to tell the organizers about your prison term?”
“Ay, he was. He knew he didna stand a chance in the contest unless he got rid of me. I’m the best piper o’ the lot, and he knew it. This contest was my chance to start a new life. I’d changed my name, hoping the judges wouldn’t find out about my prison term. But then Stewart recognized me. He picked a fight and got the worst of it. Then he told me he was going to report me.”
“So you followed him back here.”
“Ay, I did.” Slowly the husky Scotsman got to his feet. “I saw my chance and I grabbed it. It was easy enough to knock him out cold. I hung him up on the rack and I slit his damn throat. I knew the butcher would most likely get the blame. Especially since I’d heard that Stewart had been fooling around with his wife.”
“It seems that Peter Stewart made more than one mistake,” Cecily said quietly.
“You are the one who made a mistake, Mrs. Sinclair. You and your friend here.” He took a step forward.
Before Cecily could move, Baxter stepped in front of her. “I would not try that if I were you, sir.”
Alec McPherson uttered an unpleasant laugh. “And who is going to stop me? Not you, I think.”
Baxter threw up his hands. “I might not be much of a brawler, Mr. McPherson, but I assure you I can give a very good account of myself.”
“There’ll be no need for that,” a gruff voice said at the top of the stairs.
The Scotsman swung around as P.C. Northcott lumbered down the steps, followed by two wide-eyed pipers.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Mrs. Sinclair,” the constable said, puffing slightly as he reached the floor. “I thought it wise to stop by and recruit some reinforcement, so to speak.”
Cecily smiled. “Very wise,” she agreed.
“I could have handled it quite well on my own,” Baxter muttered in an aggrieved tone.
Fortunately the constable didn’t hear him. He was too busy issuing orders to the pipers to hold on to their colleague while he snapped on the handcuffs.
Announcing that he was arresting the Scotsman for the murder of Peter Stewart, P.C. Northcott led him up the stairs. Cecily watched the pipers follow him up, then turned to her manager. “Thank you, Baxter. I am most impressed by your eagerness to protect me from that villain.”
“I was merely doing my duty, madam.”
She reached for the lamp that Alec McPherson had left behind. “You disappoint me. I was rather hoping you were prepared to fight for my life out of your concern for my safety.”
“I am always prepared to do that, madam.”
Sadly she nodded. The wonderful, intimate, romantic bond that had so entranced her while dancing with him a few short hours earlier appeared to have vanished. Now she had only the memory of a very special moment, in the arms of a very special man.
Cecily found it difficult to arise with her usual vigor the following morning. Had it not been for the twins’ christening, due to take place at noon that day, she might have indulged in the rare luxury of sleeping late.
She was, however, thankful that she had arisen at her normal hour, as shortly after she had eaten breakfast she received another visit from Elsie Abbittson.
Tom, it seemed, had been released earlier that morning and was now enjoying a rest at home.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am for all your help, Mrs. Sinclair,” Elsie said as she sat on the edge of her seat on the velvet armchair. “I don’t know what I would have done without you, honest I don’t. Tom was that scared, and so was I, I don’t mind telling you. I thought he was heading for prison, I really did.”
Cecily leaned forward to pour coffee into a tiny china cup. “I’m just so happy that the right man was arrested for
the crime. I must admit, for a while there I was worried that I might not be able to help.”
“Well, my Tom is very grateful as well. He said to tell you that he will see you all right for meat from now on. He’ll be putting some good bargains your way, you’ll see.”
Cecily smiled. “That’s really very generous of him, Elsie, but it’s not necessary. I would have done the same for anyone in Tom’s position. I have a horror of injustice in any form.”
She handed the woman the steaming cup and saucer. “I hope that your unfortunate association with Peter Stewart can remain a secret now.”
Elsie took the cup with a rueful smile. “Oh, Tom knows about it, Mrs. Sinclair. He knew all along. That’s what they were fighting about, as you suggested the other day. Of course, I didn’t know that until today, when Tom came home and told me the whole story.”
She tasted her coffee, then put the cup down. “I think Peter must have been coming back the night he was murdered to warn me that Tom knew about us. I can just imagine the temper Tom was in. I’m surprised he didn’t kill Peter in the pub himself.”
“Oh, dear,” Cecily murmured. “I hope he wasn’t too angry with you when he got home?”
Nibbling on her nail through her glove, Elsie shook her head. “We got it all talked out, we did. I told him as how I was so lonely, and that I missed him when he went down the pub every night like that. He’s promised he won’t do that no more. Not as often, anyhow.”
She pulled her hand down and tucked it into her lap. “And when he does go down there, he says, he’ll take me with him. I can sit in the saloon bar with the other ladies while he’s playing darts in the public.”
“You still won’t be with him,” Cecily pointed out.
Elsie shrugged. “It’ll be a darn sight better than sitting at home on me own.”
“Well, I’m so glad everything has worked out so well for
you both.” Cecily picked up her coffee. She was anxious now to put an end to the meeting. It would soon be time to leave for the christening, and she had no wish to hold up the proceedings.
Elsie, it seemed, wasn’t quite ready to leave yet. Ignoring her coffee, which was growing cool, she said brightly, “Speaking of the pub, Mrs. Sinclair, Tom tells me it’s being sold again. Is your son leaving Badgers End, then?”
Very carefully, Cecily put down her cup and saucer. “Michael did mention to me that he thought he would return to Africa. His wife is having a difficult time adjusting to the English climate.”
“Black, isn’t she,” Elsie said, on a note of sympathy. “They have a hard time of it here, I daresay. We don’t get the sun like they get it out there. That’s why they have that black skin, you know.”
Cecily made an effort to hold her tongue. There would be nothing to gain by jumping to Simani’s defense. “You say the George and Dragon is on the market?”
“So my Tom told me. He heard about it that last night he was down there.” Elsie’s eyes narrowed. Leaning forward, she said in a voice tinged with pity, “Don’t tell me you didn’t know, Mrs. Sinclair? Oh, I am sorry—”
“Not at all, Elsie.” Cecily swallowed hard. “Of course I knew. I just wasn’t sure when Michael was going to put the inn up for sale.”
Elsie went on chattering, but she barely heard the woman. Michael had to have known when she was down there, Cecily thought, feeling herself sink into a sea of misery. For some reason he hadn’t wanted to tell her it was definite … and imminent.
Quite suddenly she felt a desperate urge to talk to Baxter. She waited for an appropriate pause, then said quickly, “I’m sorry, Elsie. Would you please excuse me? One of my housemaids is having her babies christened at noon, and I have a few things to do before I leave for the church.”
Elsie’s eyes widened. “You are going to a christening for your housemaid’s babies?”
“Yes, I am. As a matter of fact, I’m the godmother.” Cecily rose, indicating she expected the woman to leave. “Thank you so much for coming by.”
“I think that’s very generous of you, Mrs. Sinclair.” Elsie got up hurriedly from her chair. “Not too many women in your position would want to be seen dead attending their servant’s gatherings, leave alone be a part of it.”
“Not too many women in my position,” Cecily said firmly as she ushered Elsie Abbittson to the door, “are fortunate enough to be blessed with servants such as the staff of the Pennyfoot Hotel.”
Looking a trifle flustered, Elsie nodded. “Oh, indeed, indeed. Give credit where it’s due, that’s what I always say.”
Closing the door after her, Cecily leaned against it for a moment. Michael was going back to Africa. She would miss him dearly, but then she really hadn’t seen that much of him since he’d come back to Badgers End. Part of that was her fault, she knew. If she had been more tolerant …
She shook her head, trying to ease the ache in her heart. There was no point in regretting past mistakes. She would just have to put a good face on it, and be as pleasant as she could manage about the whole affair.
Right now, however, what she needed was a good cigar. Not to mention the comforting presence of Baxter. Without wasting another moment, she left the room and headed for the stairs.
“For heaven’s sake, girl, whatever are you staring at out of that window?” Mrs. Chubb demanded, her piercing voice making Gertie jump out of her skin.
“Ow! You don’t have to blinking yell like that, do you?” Gertie hastily finished polishing the pane of glass she was supposed to be working on. “I’m not bleeding deaf, you know.”
“You will be, my girl, if I have to box your ears for being saucy.”
“Sorry.” Gertie pinched her mouth closed and began soaping the next pane of glass.
“Well, aren’t you going to tell me what you were staring at?”
Gertie winced as a dresser drawer slammed shut behind her. “I wasn’t staring at nothing. I was thinking, that’s all.”
“Well, you’d better get thinking about finishing that work, that’s what I say, or you’ll be late for that christening. Where’s that Daisy, anyway? She should be finished with the rooms by now.”
Gertie didn’t answer, her mind busy with her problem.
“Are you listening to me, Gertie Brown? Don’t know what’s got into you, I don’t. You’re not worrying about the christening, are you? You’ve no need to, you know. The vicar will do all the talking. Just be sure those babies are wrapped up nice and warm in their blankets. Never mind about everyone seeing those beautiful christening gowns. That church is much too damp and draughty to—”