Never Sleep With Strangers (12 page)

The words came out sounding far more harsh than he had intended.

She gazed at his hand where it rested on her upper arm. Her long blond hair brushed over his fingers, soft as silk. To his dismay, that slight sensation was arousing.

“Not here, not now,” she said nervously.

“We have to talk,” he insisted.

“Later,” she said, pulling free.

“I'm taking that as a promise,” he told her.

He ushered her out. Aware that, though she had shaken off his touching, she was sticking very close to him.

And he realized that she didn't want to be left alone in the dungeon of Lochlyre Castle.

With him.

But then again…who did?

A
mazingly, Sabrina didn't dream that night; she slept like a log. The evening had ultimately gone pleasantly, with everyone trying to figure out why the butler had died first. Dinner had been delicious, rack of lamb, and she'd been starving. She had opted for regular coffee rather than decaf with their late dessert, and despite even that, she had come upstairs, changed into a nightgown—and slept.

Only the persistent tapping on her door forced her to wake up. And by then it was morning.

“Sabrina, hey, wake up! Hurry!”

At her ex-husband's urgency, she catapulted out of bed and into her robe and hurried to her door.

Brett was in jeans and a heavy sweater. “Hey, sleepyhead, you've got less than a week now to find the killer. If you sleep the whole thing away, you'll never be the master sleuth.”

“I'm awake. What's the rush?”

“Riding!”

“Riding?”

He nodded. “A riding party is going out. Come on, hurry, we're probably late already. The others might have headed out. Come on, you want to see the countryside before bad weather moves in, right? Get dressed. I'll wait for you.”

“I need coffee, Brett.”

“I'll get it for you.” He waved his hands at her. “Go on, get moving. I'll bring you coffee.”

He closed her door and disappeared. She shrugged and decided that if the rest of the household was headed out riding, she didn't want to be left behind. She loved horses, and the countryside did look beautiful.

She hopped in and out of the shower, careful to bring her clothing into the bathroom with her. She emerged in jeans, shirt, jacket and boots to find that Brett had returned and was comfortably curled on her bed—offering her coffee.

She took the cup.

“Get up,” she commanded him.

“Why?” he demanded.

“You make it look as if you've been sleeping here.”

He frowned, studying her. “What are you so afraid of?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you care what something looks like?”

“Brett, you're my friend, I care about you, but you are my ex-husband, and though I'll surely make lots of new mistakes in my life, I'm not going to repeat old ones. I'm not marrying you again, and I'm not sleeping with you again, and I don't want people thinking that we're a twosome.”

He was still studying her as he stood up. “So.”

“So what?”

“So there is something between you two.”

“Who two?”

“You and our host. I was right.”

“You were right about what?”

“You slept with him.”

“Oh, Brett, please.”

“I still love you, Sabrina.”

“Brett, you never loved me.”

“I did. I do. But don't worry, I'm going to prove to you that I can be good for you. Drink your coffee, and let's get going.”

There was no one in the hallway, on the stairs or even in the great hall as they walked out of the castle into the front courtyard. The stables were ahead to the right. Two horses were saddled and bridled and ready for them.

“I guess the others have gone on ahead,” Brett murmured.

“Are you sure?” Sabrina demanded, suddenly suspicious.

He laughed. “Well, since I'm already a ghost, you know that I'm not the murderer, so I'm not luring the Duchess to her doom.”

“You've got a point there,” she said. She walked up to one of the horses, a sleek bay that stood about sixteen hands high. She stroked the horse's velvety nose. “What a beauty. This is a great idea, Brett. Thanks for coming to get me.”

“Yeah, sure, let's get started.”

He gave her a hand before leaping up on the roan that had been tethered next to the bay. He started from the castle at an easy lope, looking back a little uneasily. Sabrina thought he was worried about her.

“Go on, you know that I can ride!” she told him delightedly.

Riding had been one of the benefits of growing up in the Midwest. But this was some of the most spectacular scenery she had ever seen. The ground was rolling here in the valley, while majestic hills rose up around them. Leaving the castle behind, they came up on a little promontory. She could see the hills rising higher and higher toward the mountainous country to the northwest, the loch shimmering in the sun below them and a sea of grass and flowers seeming to flow all around them. The air was crisp and cold with the promise of strong weather to come, yet it felt delicious, and she was delighted to be out.

“Which way did they head? Do you know where we're going?” she asked Brett.

“Of course.”

“How?”

“I was here before, remember?”

“Where are we heading?”

“That way.” He pointed to the northeast.

“Oh. Race you to that copse!” Sabrina called out, and she nudged her mount. Her horse smoothly began to run. The animal was graceful, the air was invigorating, the world around her was beautiful. Sabrina felt a pure rush of exhilaration.

She heard Brett pounding up behind her, and at the copse she reined in, waiting for him.

“Remember when we went riding outside Paris?” he asked her. “There were flowers everywhere.”

“There were women everywhere,” she corrected him.

He shrugged that off, looking at her, his brown eyes sincere. “I've learned my lesson, Sabrina.”

“Brett, you make sexual innuendos every time you're around anyone who's even remotely female.”

“Even remotely female? I resent that!”

“Brett, you—”

“Sabrina!” He reached over, placing his hand on her thigh. “I only do that because I want you so badly and I can't allow other people to see just how much.”

She stared at him. “Oh?” she said softly. “Brett, were you having an affair with Cassandra Stuart when she died?”

“Me?” he demanded, startled. Then he huffed, “This place is getting to you, Sabrina. You can't let it. Cassie is dead and gone. We need to let her rest in peace, forget the past and get on with our lives. Come on, I'll race you to that next little hill there!”

He took off; she followed. As they rode, the wind whipped around her, colder than it had been only minutes before.

She looked up. The sky had been a deep, striking shade of blue. Now it was darkening to mauve. She reined in next to Brett on the hill. “Looks like that bad weather is coming in. We should find the others.”

“Maybe they're up ahead in that hunting lodge.”

“I don't see any horses.”

“Maybe the horses are in back. Let's get there and see.”

He nudged his horse into a lope. With little other choice, Sabrina followed.

 

Jon's note that morning had read simply: “Attend the séance in the crypt at 11:00.”

Joe Johnston and Tom Heart were in the great hall when he went down for coffee, and like the good game players they were, they were trying to figure out why the butler should be the first to die.

“He knew something. People who know things are dangerous,” Joe said.

“He was blackmailing someone,” Tom suggested.

“Obviously,” Joe agreed.

“I say there's an accomplice in this. Not a single person acting alone,” Tom continued to theorize.

“I say that there isn't enough information in as yet, but I agree with you—I think we have two people acting on this.”

“Now the danger involved in having an accomplice to murder is that, even if you commit the perfect crime yourself, you have to worry about the other person. Leaving a clue. Panicking. Giving something away.”

“Being an idiot and doing the wrong thing.”

“Exactly!” Tom said, pleased that Joe seemed to agree with his thinking. “Especially when the murderer is a clever enough person but emotionally involved with the accomplice.”

“And the accomplice is an idiot. Happens often enough.”

“And naturally, a man can prove to be a real fool himself when he commits murder because of a woman—”

“Meaning,” V.J. interrupted from the doorway, “that the woman, who is, naturally, the accomplice, is an idiot?”

“Now, Victoria—” Tom began.

“Oh, now, Tom, don't you ‘Now, Victoria' me!” V.J. said sternly. “You were implying that the murderer must be a clever man with a female accomplice who must be an idiot.”

“Both could be incredibly clever,” Joe suggested diplomatically, but it was too late.

V.J. gave him a withering stare. “Perhaps a woman is the killer, and her bumbling assistant is a male,” she said.

“Perhaps a woman is the killer,” Tom said, looking at V.J., “and her male accomplice is a bumbling idiot madly in love with her, trying to keep them both from spending the rest of their lives behind bars.”

“Either that,” Jon interjected smoothly, “or both of our killers are women. V.J., my love, we know that women can be deadly. We grant you that!”

V.J. sniffed, shaking her head sadly at him. “I can see that I'm outnumbered. Excuse me, gentlemen. I have a date with destiny.” She exited the room.

Joe glanced at his watch. “Well, excuse me, too.”

“Crypt?” Jon asked.

“Séance?” Tom queried.

“The séance is in the crypt. We might as well head down together,” Jon said.

“Sir, it's your castle,” Tom said gallantly. “Lead the way.”

Jon was surprised to feel an uneasy sensation prickling the back of his neck as his colleagues followed him down the back stairs to the dungeon. He was surprised to realize that having anyone behind him had become an unnerving experience.

They reached the crypt, however, without incident. V.J., Dianne, Reggie and Anna Lee Zane were already there. Candles had been lit, and a crystal ball sat on a low wooden table. Pillows strewn around it served as seats. The women were at their places around the table, which had been set as far from the tombs as possible, about ten feet away. Still, there was an eerie feel to the setup. Candlelight paled to shadows. Flames reflected in the crystal ball. Wisps of smoke vanished into the air. Cassie's tomb, one of the closest, gleamed dully.

“Join us, gentlemen,” Dianne invited. Seated at the crystal ball, she was reading the game instructions propped in front of it. In black stretch pants and sweater, with her fashionable short black hair, pale skin and bloodred nails, she looked the part of a prophetess.

Her brooding eyes met Jon's, belying her light tone. “We're to contact Mr. Buttle, the butler,” she said dryly. “Join hands and chant and ask the spirits of the castle to bring him to us.” She made a face. “I assume that our boy Brett, the poor, deceased Mr. Buttle, is hidden behind a tomb somewhere, about to make a ‘spirit' appearance. Shall we start?” she inquired.

“We're not all here,” Jon said. Sabrina was among the missing.

“Well, here's Thayer coming now,” V.J. said, curled comfortably on a cushion. “We'll wait a minute for Susan and Sabrina—”

“Well, we can't wait forever,” Anna Lee said impatiently. “Maybe they weren't instructed to come to the séance.”

“And maybe one of them is the murderer,” Joe suggested.

“Conspiracy theory—they're both the murderers,” Tom said.

“Well, maybe Sabrina can't be here,” Anna Lee said with exasperation, “since she rode out of here with her ex-husband not too long ago.”

“Rode out with
Brett?
” V.J. said incredulously.

“Rode out where?” Dianne asked.

“Rode out on what?” Thayer demanded.

Anna Lee looked at Thayer incredulously. “A horse, obviously. It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out!”

Jon strode to where Anna Lee was sitting, drawing her to her feet to question her. “When? When did they ride out?”

She seemed startled, almost unnerved, by the pressure he was putting on her. “I guess about an hour ago. I saw them leaving the stables at—”

“Alone?” Reggie asked.

Anna Lee nodded.

“How delicious! Rumors about those two must be true,” Dianne said.

“Which way did they go?” Jon demanded.

“They were headed northwest.”

“Oh, Jon, don't look so concerned. They'll be all right. They were married, and they're obviously getting back together—” Dianne began.

“And there's a major storm system moving in! The fools could be stranded in it. Even killed,” Jon said angrily. “Excuse me.” He turned abruptly on his heel to leave.

Jon didn't understand his sudden sense of fear. Sabrina could ride; she wasn't an idiot. And whether he liked it or not, she had been married to Brett and had evidently gone off with him willingly.