Shadows in Scarlet (21 page)

Every face around the table turned toward her. Even Wayne was clueless, Amanda noted with a sideways glance, not that that was anything unusual. She was starting to feel nervous, the same way she felt when she saw a police car in her rear view mirror.

"A new publicity angle?” asked Helen.

"Re-patriating Captain Grant's bones. Mr. Malcolm Grant sounded very interested when I put the idea to him. Dundreggan does have a family cemetery, he said, with graves dating back to the seventeenth century. A small private ceremony to lay Captain Grant to rest would make a lovely closing for our film. Why, we might want to do an entire book about Captain Grant—I'll write the introduction, of course. Maybe a TV special, an episode of
Nova
or
The New Explorers
on PBS."

A spear of asparagus wedged in Amanda's tonsils. She sputtered and took a gulp of her tea.
I want to go home,
James had said.

"Yes, Amanda, you clever girl, it was your idea! Just wait until you hear the rest.” Cynthia opened her arms like Pavarotti going for the high note. “You and Wayne are going to be Williamsburg's emissaries to Dundreggan!"

Amanda gaped. She was hallucinating. Cynthia just said.... She snapped her teeth together before she drooled Hollandaise down her blouse and shot a look at Wayne. His flabbergasted expression had to be genuine. If he were acting, he wouldn't let the end of his tie trail onto his plate.

"You do have a passport, don't you, Amanda?” Cynthia asked. “Wayne, darling, your tie."

The other faces at the table were blurs, and offered no help. Amanda turned back to Cynthia. “Passport,” she croaked. “Yeah, I got one a couple of years ago just in case.... What do you mean Wayne and I are going to be emissaries?"

"Well it's obvious, isn't it? You and Wayne will leave Richmond Wednesday afternoon, change planes in Newark, arrive in Glasgow Thursday morning, and take another short flight on to Inverness. Mr. Grant very kindly said he'd either meet you himself or find someone to do so. I'm calling him this afternoon with your flight num..."

"You've already made reservations?”
I've lost it,
Amanda thought.
I just interrupted Cynthia.

Cynthia laughed, her necklace jangling, and patted Amanda's arm. “Don't worry, dear, I'm paying all your expenses. Just one more donation to Colonial Williamsburg, right? We'll get some other interpreters to fill in at Melrose while you and Wayne are gone, including someone to stay the nights. I always worry about you out there alone, a woman and everything."

And what?
Amanda wanted to ask.

"Helen, give Wayne and Amanda some cameras, please."

"Sure,” said Helen.

"Carrie, you'll need to brief them on what you need for your article. And I think it's only fair you list Amanda as co-author."

Across the table Carrie muttered, “Boy, that never occurred to me."

"Bill, the bones. I thought at first we might leave a few of those finger bones on display, but no, that doesn't seem right, does it?"

"Can't usher the man through the Pearly Gates without all of his body parts.” Hewitt sounded as though he was starting to enjoy the comedy. It was a comedy, wasn't it? Any minute now Cynthia would shout, “April Fool!"

Amanda looked down at her plate. The ham and asparagus were gone, replaced by a cup of chocolate mousse frilled with whipped cream. A hand holding a pot of coffee hovered in her peripheral vision. “Ah, no thank you.” The last thing she needed right now was caffeine.

She was going to Scotland. She was taking James home. Free. No, not free, saddled with Wayne. Talk about every silver lining having a cloud.

Scotland! All right!

"Will a week be long enough?” Cynthia asked, glancing conspiratorially from Amanda to Wayne and back again.

Wayne was smiling his village idiot's smile, his eyes glazed, a morsel of whipped cream stuck to his upper lip.
Anticipating a honeymoon?
Amanda asked him silently. But she wasn't going to enable either of the Chancellors to spoil her mousse. She dipped her spoon and licked sweet chocolate.

"We'll keep the scabbard,” Cynthia went on. “Perhaps Lady Norah will send us the sword for display. We could have a nice little ceremony re-uniting the two. Maybe a re-creation of the battle of Greensprings Farm for the film."

I want my sword.
Did it matter whether James was near the scabbard—the real, physical, scabbard—as long as he was near the sword? Probably not. Not as long as the truth came out.
I want revenge.
Amanda sucked down the last of the mousse, licked her lips, and envisioned the garrets at Dundreggan crammed with family diaries, letters, signed confessions—anything to back up the murder charges. Which Cynthia could then trumpet from the rooftops as loudly as her heart desired.
Yes!

"Is everyone finished?” Cynthia pushed back her chair, rose, and led the way into the living room trailing clouds of glory.

"Thanks for the chow,” Helen said, “but I have to run. Amanda, Wayne, I'll come out to Melrose tomorrow for a photography lesson, okay?"

"I'll be ready,” Wayne said, rubbing his hands together. With her fingertip Cynthia wiped the cream from his lip. Together they turned to Amanda and smiled, teeth gleaming.

"Mrs. Chancellor, we need to get one thing clear,” she began. She stepped onto the deep-pile carpet of the living room and turned her heel. Carrie grabbed her arm. “Thanks."

"Bones,” said Hewitt. “Thank you, Cynthia—storage box—customs declaration. Bones. Bye."

Cynthia opened the door. “Sorry you can't stay longer. But we'll get together soon and discuss our plans. How about a television series on historical houses and the people who lived there? I could introduce each episode. I have contacts at WETA in Washington, you know."

Hewitt shoved Helen out of the way and ran out the door. Carrie, still grasping Amanda's arm, scooped both their purses from the floor and headed for open air, murmuring, “Thank you so much for the wonderful lunch, Amanda and I need to put our heads together for that article, so much research to do, what a wonderful opportunity this is."

"I always wanted to go to the UK,” added Amanda. “I really appreciate your generosity, even though there's something you need to know...."

"She'll love Scotland,” Carrie concluded. “Lunch was wonderful. See you tomorrow, Wayne."

They were outside. The door shut behind them. The moist sunshine seared Amanda's cheeks and drew thick beads of sweat from her forehead. She tasted chocolate in the back of her throat, cloying sweet, like Cynthia. That buzz she was hearing was probably cicadas in the shrubbery, not her brain on overload. “Scotland. Wednesday. What'll I wear?"

"I'll lend you a couple of sweaters."

"My hair's a mess."

"Go down to Beauty World and ask for Maryann. She'll give you a quick trim, fix you right up."

The sun glinted off the windshield of her car and Amanda winced. “Geez, talk about a Catch-22 situation. Good thing you hauled me out of there before I spilled the beans about the engagement. If Cynthia knew the truth she wouldn't be sending me to Scotland with Wayne, would she? Or would she?"

Carrie rolled her eyes. “Here we were plotting an end run around her and she makes an end run around us. By giving you just what you want, the Grant family archives."

"Like I'm going to give her what she wants? No way am I taking on Wayne. I mean, now he's got his mother pimping for him."

"It's not his idea. And Cynthia just thinks she's being a cool contemporary mom. If the sexual connotations ever even occurred to her, she banished them to the woodshed."

"If Wayne wasn't such a doormat I wouldn't be getting a cool trip,” Amanda said, shaking her head. “But it's because he's a doormat I want to strangle him and feed him to the Loch Ness monster. Geez."

"Just don't do him in until you've brought me all the information you can find, including annotated copies and complete documentation. Okay?"

It was a toss-up between four-letter words and a laugh. Amanda chose the laugh. She groped in her purse for her car keys. “Okay. I resign myself to the whims of fate. Where's the beauty shop?"

Carrie gave her directions. “See you tomorrow. Assuming you'll be all right out at Melrose tonight."

"I'd rather deal with James than Wayne any day. I guess he'll be happy to hear he's going home."

"Uh-huh,” Carrie said cautiously.

"I did get his picture. I think. I'm not sure just why it's important to me that I have a picture of him. To prove it to you, I guess."

"No, to prove it to yourself,” Carrie told her. “Say hi to the gals at the beauty shop."

Amanda unlocked her car and climbed in, wondering whether one or the other of the Chancellors was watching her from the house and gloating. The truth wouldn't make any difference to Cynthia, she decided. Lady C. moved in mysterious ways, her wonders to perform.

A quick shampoo and trim did settle her down—women had hairdressers, men had bartenders—and she spent her grocery money on a twill skirt and a waterproof jacket. She checked with her bank and made sure her credit card would work in British ATM machines, just so Wayne couldn't pick up all the tabs.

Amanda returned to Melrose late in the afternoon, changed her clothes, and called her parents in Chicago. “Guess what? Mrs. Chancellor is sending me to Scotland to take the bones back—sure, I'll send you photos—yeah, I have my passport, it makes a good ID.” She didn't tell them about Wayne, just that a fellow interpreter was going along. She certainly couldn't tell them about James.
I've fallen for a ghost—yeah, he's a bit old for me, but it's just a Highland fling anyway...

She returned from her tour of the house and grounds to find Lafayette dozing on her new skirt. She lured him away by spiking his usual dinner with a bit of leftover lunchmeat.

While she brushed the cat fur from the twill she made a mental checklist. Suitcase. For a week, just one. A carry-on. How big would the box of bones be? She'd need money for porters. And she had to organize her notes. Going away and leaving her thesis in a drunk and disorderly condition was like going out without clean underwear.

In the gathering darkness Amanda threw together what perishables she had in her refrigerator and ate them, not that she really tasted a thing. Then she checked her e-mail. There was a note from Preservation Imaging with Dundreggan's phone number, signed,
Malcolm Grant.
Too late now, she'd be on his doorstep in a couple of days. Not that Cynthia had bothered mentioning her name, it seemed, as Grant hadn't picked up on it. Either that or he was a total snob. He wasn't into self-promotion, though—she still didn't know just what Preservation Imaging, Ltd, did, although it sounded intriguing.

Amanda was e-mailing her friends with the scoop when the phone rang. “Melrose Hall."

"Hi,” said Wayne's voice. “It's me."

"Wayne, what am I going to do with you?"

"I've got it all figured out. When we get back from the trip we'll tell Mother we discovered we just couldn't get along with each other and so we're breaking up."

"That ‘I Love Lucy’ routine is so old it's got whiskers on it."

"It'll work, really."

"Nothing's working like I expected it to. It's worth a try, I guess. But Wayne...."

"Yes?"

"Oh, nothing. I need to go. I have to get myself organized."

"It'll be a cool trip, we'll have a good time, you'll see."

"Good night. See you tomorrow.” Amanda hung up. She was getting more and more cranky with Wayne. She hated herself for it, and she hated him for making her do it. But he'd backed her into a corner. He was probably just stalling her with his “we're breaking up” plot. He intended to come back engaged for real.... She was not going to let poor testosterone-impaired Wayne ruin her trip.

This was sweet. A busman's holiday, a chance to do some significant research, a chance to get out of the heat, a chance to help James. To help him rest. To help him leave her forever.

This time Lafayette didn't yowl and scratch. Deeply offended, he marched briskly away and banged through the flap. Amanda felt the sudden chill gratefully—what was a bit of chill outside her body when the inside was flushed with warmth?

A moment later she was skimming the floor into James's arms. If he'd been solid she'd have knocked him backward. As it was, he caught her in a deliciously airy embrace, tartan swirling. His kisses were cool, moist, headier than whiskey. She allowed herself a lengthy greeting before trying to speak.

"James."

His lips and tongue caressed her neck, sending shivers down her back. His hair felt like spider webs against her ear.

"James, I have to tell you something."

His right hand dived beneath her T-shirt and cradled her left breast, thumb teasing the hard peak of the nipple.
Oh yeah.
No wonder the man had risen from the dead. That much testosterone would launch a Saturn rocket.

"James!” she squeaked breathlessly. “Wait a minute!"

He looked up, eyes dancing. “Yes, Sweeting? What would you say?"

"I have good news. I'm going to be able to take you home after all."

"Home."

"Scotland. Dundreggan. Just like you wanted."

"Ah.” He frowned, and she could no longer feel his hand. “How kind of you, to undertake such a perilous journey on my behalf, but I fear I don't quite..."

Understand? No, he was much too proud to admit he didn't understand. “Your sword is at Dundreggan. You'll be there with it. And after I help write the article about you, everyone will know how Archibald—what Archibald did to you. You'll be able to rest."

"Ah.” His hands fell away, letting her T-shirt fall. “My bones, you mean to say. You will return my bones to Dundreggan."

"Yeah, that's about the size of it."

"'Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear to dig the dust enclosed here,'” James quoted. “'Curst be he who moves my bones.’ Not that my bones are similar to those of Master Shakespeare, and they have already been disturbed, have they not, or I would not be..."

A ghost,
Amanda finished for him. She'd done it again, hadn't she? She kept stepping in it with James like Wayne kept stepping in it with her.