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Authors: Elizabeth Thornton

BOOK: A Bewitching Bride
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“But what does it say?” Kate repeated.
Gavin answered her. “It says that there is a killer on the loose who appears to have a grudge against anyone who worked at Will’s clinics. It gives their names and how they died. It mentions that each victim received a note warning them of their danger. It demands to know why the police are sitting on their fat arses when they should be out shaking trees for clues.”
She lowered herself into the nearest hard-backed chair. “How could a . . . what? . . . contributor know so much?”
“He couldn’t,” Gavin said harshly, “not unless he were a police informant.”
“But you don’t believe that?”
Gavin hesitated for only a moment. “No.”
She looked down at her clasped hands. “Then he is the killer,” she said. A longer pause ensued. “And I’m to be his next victim.” She was suddenly angry, furious, in fact. Jumping to her feet, she said, “He has done what you said he would do, he has found a way to bring in those notes to misdirect the police. Well, let him. If it’s me he wants, I’ll be ready for him.”
She marched into the other room. Gavin followed and watched, in some amusement, as she withdrew her revolver from the bottom drawer of the dresser. “You need to keep it closer than that,” he said.
“How close do I have to be, before my shot counts?”
“With that toy? I’d say ten paces. Tidy yourself as best you can. We’re moving out. There are a few things I want to say to Dalziel first.”
She wasn’t listening. Her mind was calculating the distance of ten paces between her and her target.
Come on, you murdering devil,
she said in the privacy of her own mind.
I’ll be waiting for you and make you sorry that you ever crossed swords with a witch of Braemar
.
She did not expect an answer, nor did she get one, but what she got was just as electrifying. Someone, somewhere, blinked.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Gavin demanded roughly. “We’re moving out. Tidy yourself, and let’s get going. I’ll give you five minutes.”
When he shut the door, she went through the motions of washing her hands and face, but her mind was preoccupied with the eerie feeling that she had entered the mind of a killer.
Twenty-one
She was becoming dizzy with having to move from one safe house to another at such short notice. So here they were, on the move again, this time in an ancient carriage, with a coachman to match, all of which Mrs. Hunter had loaned them, with hot bricks at her feet and a commodious man’s greatcoat to stave off the morning chill.
“I thought,” she said, “that you were going to set up an appointment with the priest at St. Peter’s to look over the parish records.”
“Dalziel will act for me.” Gavin folded his copy of the
Edinburgh Review
that he had been reading since they’d left the environs of Aberdeen. “There’s not enough light to read by. Is it my imagination, or is it getting dark?”
“It’s raining,” she replied.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it starts to snow.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is April. All the spring flowers will soon be out.”
“It was just a thought.” A moment of silence went by. “Why are you so cranky?”
Were all men as dense as he? She was cranky because the only garments she had were the ones she was wearing. She was cranky because they were always on the move. She was cranky because she wanted her family; she wanted her own things; she wanted her life back. But most of all, she was cranky because she sensed that something wasn’t right. She could feel it in every breath she inhaled.
And it was these kinds of spurious fancies that got Dr. Rankin to take her on as a patient.
She lifted her chin. “You would be cranky, too, if no one consulted you about where you wished to go or what you wanted to do. I’m not a piece of baggage to be passed from pillar to post. What will my family think when they hear that I’m on my travels again?”
He crossed one booted foot over the opposite knee and smiled expansively. “They’ll be deliriously happy. Dalziel will inform them, in the strictest confidence, of course, that we’re making for my house on Feughside to fulfill the residency requirements before our marriage can take place.”
Her heart jarred. “And what will they think when we don’t set a date and go through with the wedding?”
He answered carelessly, “We’ll cross that hurdle when we come to it.” He spread his hands. “Of course, if you have a better plan, I’d like to hear it.”
“Isn’t your house the first place our villain will look for us?”
“We can’t leave until we meet up with Dalziel.” He held up his hand to stop her next protest. “I’m not trying to avoid our villain. On the contrary, I hope he
will
show his face. And I’ll be ready for him. Feughside House is isolated,” he elaborated when she looked at him dubiously. “We’ll know him when we see him, Kate.”
“You’re setting us both up as bait?”
“As a last resort, but I’m hoping that Dalziel will bring me information that will point right at this egotistical bastard.”
She lapsed into silence. In a few days, Dalziel would catch up to them and, all going well, he would have the information Gavin wanted—the name of their killer. Then she and Gavin could go their separate ways.
She felt it again, that whisper of something that made her shiver. She gave Gavin a sideways look. He seemed relaxed, untouched by the doubts that troubled her. If he, a self-confessed wizard, was immune to her fancies, who was she to believe them?
“Why so glum?” he asked, obviously puzzled by her retreat into silence.
She rallied her glum thoughts and answered evenly, “What difference could it have made if I’d had a few words with my parents before we left? And what about my clothes? I’ve been wearing this frock for two days now.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I take your point. You
are
beginning to smell a little rank.” When she let out a hiss, he laughed. “That’s better,” he said. “I thought for a while there that you were sleepwalking. Now you have color in your cheeks and fire in your eyes.”
“How can you tell? There isn’t enough light in this rickety contraption to see your hand in front of your face.”
“Put it down to wizard’s eyes,” he said.
Her answer was to stare doggedly out the window.
He sighed. “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry we had to leave Aberdeen in such a hurry, but I wanted to avoid the detectives who are bound to come calling now that this article”—he twitched the newspaper—“is going the rounds.”
His words made awful sense. They’d both been present when two bodies had turned up. They were bound to be the prime suspects. Now she understood why they were traveling by the less populated South Deeside Road. There were fewer hamlets and almost no risk of meeting anyone they knew.
“We’ll break our journey at Maryculter,” he said. “There’s a little inn there that serves mouthwatering pies and pastries.”
“I know it,” she said. “The Black Kettle. It stands on what was once Templar land.”
When she became absorbed in her own thoughts, he touched her knee, bringing her eyes back to him. “What is it, Kate?” he asked gently.
She hesitated for only a moment. “The Templars were in my dream. At first, I was afraid of them, but I came to see that they wanted to protect me.”
“And did they?”
“They were ghosts. What do you think?”
Her tone of voice did not encourage him to pursue the subject, so he closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest.
 
 
The inn at Maryculter was as unpretentious as its proprietor, Colin Sutherland. His customers, Mr. Sutherland told them, were mostly locals, workingmen who would not be showing their faces until their work was done; then they’d drop in for one of his pies and wash it down with the local ale before going home to their wives and children.
Leastways, that was what Kate told Gavin. The landlord’s accent was so broad, he could hardly understand a word of it.
“What did you tell him about us?” Gavin asked.
“That we were in service and taking up a position at the hotel in Aboyne.”
Gavin was relieved at the change in Kate. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told her that she looked and acted like a sleepwalker. So he’d deliberately gotten her dander up. Now he had the pleasure of watching her devour the chicken pie that the landlord had suggested they order.
Between chewing and drinking copious mouthfuls of tea, she explained why she’d forgone the meat pie for the chicken. “You should always take the advice of the proprietor in a small place like this. He can’t provide an extensive menu. Only one dish will be fresh, and he knows which one it is.”
“Now you tell me,” Gavin said, imitating a growl. He shoved his plate aside. “This meat pie is positively revolting. The meat is so stringy I might as well be chewing . . . well . . . string.”
Her eyes sparkled, and she gurgled with laughter.
He was loath to say or do anything to spoil the moment, but there were still many questions in his mind that required an answer. They could wait, he decided. They could spare a few minutes just to enjoy themselves.
Under different circumstances, he would have spared a lot more time in planning his strategy for courting Miss Kate Cameron.
How to court your own wife.
Maybe he should write a book about it? The thought almost made him smile—almost but not quite. If he tried to tell her that his misspent youth seemed like a distant memory and best forgotten, would she believe him?
Probably not, but a piece of parchment signifying that they had professed their vows before witnesses was a powerful weapon. He hoped she wouldn’t force him to use it.
“What?”
“You looked thoughtful,” she said. “What were you thinking a moment ago?”
“I was thinking of writing a book.” Before she could probe, he pushed back his chair and got up. “Let’s go for a walk to stretch our legs.”
 
 
“Maryculter,” she said, inhaling deeply. “My father regards this spot as holy ground.”
“Why is that?”
“Because of the Knights Templar. They owned all this land once, and the lands across the river in Peterculter.” She pointed across the river.
“I thought that was a legend.”
She looked at him as though he’d used a four letter Anglo-Saxon word. “Don’t you know the history of your own backyard?”
“Obviously not, but I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me.”
She flattened her lips but not for long. “Talk to my father,” she said. “He knows everything there is to know about the Templars on Deeside. But don’t make the mistake of arguing the point with him. He doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”
“Is that what he and Sally’s fiancé were arguing about at Will’s funeral, the Templars?”
She nodded. “For the most part, Cedric thinks he is an expert. Papa thinks he’s an ignoramus and said that he could prove that the Templars went as far afield as Braemar.”
She seemed to know where she was going, so he allowed her to lead. When they stopped, he looked down on the wide sweep of the river far below them. “What am I looking for?” he asked.
“You’re standing on it. The ruins of the Templar chapel. This is all that is left of them in Maryculter, this and their bones where the graveyard once stood.”
He looked down at his feet. No moss covered these stones. It was too damn cold. “I thought,” he said, “that the Templars were great warriors. Didn’t they protect pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land?”
“They were both warriors and monks. Every monk was a soldier, and every soldier was a monk. On Deeside, they farmed great tracts of land. They were also healers and herbalists and brought back many herbs from their travels. The buildings have disappeared, but if you come across a stand of Madonna lilies or betony, you’ll know that the Templars were once there.”
“Fascinating,” he said. The only flowers he knew were the kind that would soften the ire of a tempestuous female. Roses always seemed to work for him. He didn’t think roses would work with Kate Cameron.
“How do you know so much?” he asked. He was enjoying the break from plotting and planning for every eventuality in keeping her safe. It felt so . . . domestic. Their villain seemed a million miles away.
She slanted him a quick look. “Some of us on Deeside are more interested in the natural flora and fauna than the artificial variety.”
Grinning, he asked, “And what do you consider the artificial variety?”
“Birds of paradise,” she retorted succinctly. “You know, ladies who are not precisely ladies.”
He drew a finger down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. She gazed up at him with a question in her eyes.
“I married one of the wildflowers,” he said. “How do you explain that?”
“Expediency,” she retorted. “Don’t worry, Gavin. I won’t hold you to any promises when the time comes for us to part. I’m just as eager as you to be rid of this bogus marriage.”

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