“Helen?” I called.
“In here!” she cried. She had to be behind the wide arch. There was nowhere else to hide in here. The place was literally the size of a kid’s playhouse.
I hesitated inside the nave. If this was a trap, I didn’t want to be caught without an escape route. “Helen, the police are on their way.”
“Fuck that!” a man yelled. “Get over here or she’s going to die.”
“Martin?”
I wasn’t surprised. I’d never really believed that fake apology of his. What a snake.
“Move it!” he shouted.
I looked at Robin, who shook her head madly. “Don’t.”
“What else can I do?” I whispered.
“Who’s there with you?” he shouted.
“No one,” I said. “I talk to myself when I’m nervous.”
“She’s lying,” a chirpy voice sang out from behind us.
Serena stood a few feet away, pointing a gun at us.
“Serena?”
“Surprise,” she said.
Serena and Martin, accomplices? Curiouser and curiouser.
“Move it.” She jerked the gun toward the altar, and we took that as a sign to get moving.
Robin grabbed my arm and we approached the altar, which was separated from the nave by a velvet rope extended across the archway. The small altar area was painted white and the ceiling was low and vaulted. I felt as if I were walking inside an igloo. Stained-glass windows illuminated the space, throwing blue and green shards of color across the stone floor. A font of holy water was suspended on the far wall, and covering the altar were layers of elegantly braided and embroidered blue, gold and white silk runners.
A body was sprawled under the altar.
“Royce?” I said.
Robin whispered, “Is he dead?”
“Not yet,” Martin said menacingly. “But the day’s not over yet. Now shut up and come over here where I can see you.”
I unhooked the velvet rope and peeked around the arch. Martin had one arm around Helen’s neck in a choke hold and was pressing a knife to her throat with his other hand.
“Martin, what are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m pouring tea, you stupid bitch. What do you think I’m doing?”
“I thought you loved Helen,” I said. “Why are you hurting her?”
Helen squirmed and he struggled to adjust his grip. “This seems to be the only way to get my darling wife to cooperate.”
“Really?” I said. “Because that technique never works for me.”
“That’s because you’re a bitch whore.”
“Well, that explains it,” Robin whispered.
I turned to glower at her but met Serena’s gaze instead. She didn’t look so willowy and wrung-out now. She looked skinny and mean and surly.
“Helen’s not like you,” Martin said with a sneer, and tightened his hold. Helen began to gag and he let up slightly. “She can be taught to obey.”
“Of course she can,” I said, watching Helen, who stared back at me with wide eyes. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and I knew she was scared to death. So was I. But to get us out of here, I was going to have to placate a psycho. Been there, done that. Hoped I’d learned something.
“She just needs to remember who’s in charge,” he said, emphasizing each word by jerking his arm against Helen’s throat. “Am I right, Helen? There won’t be any more talk of divorce, will there, Helen?”
Helen’s eyes goggled.
“Stop,” I said frantically. “Threatening her with a knife is not what love’s all about.”
“Shut up,” he said. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know Helen still loves you,” I said, pushing the truth, but desperate to make him reconsider his actions. “She, um, told me. And you told me you loved her, too.”
He swallowed, then shook his head and grumbled, “I said shut up.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t seem to know what to do next. Helen looked utterly terrified.
“So you killed Kyle,” I said slowly, since I wasn’t ready to shut up entirely.
“Yeah,” he snarled. “And good riddance.”
“Why?”
He stretched his neck and shoulders. “He thought he could fuck around with my wife. I warned him to stop, but he just laughed at me.”
“You warned him?”
Helen’s eyes met mine and I knew she was hearing this for the first time, her own husband verifying that he had killed her lover.
“Yeah, and he wouldn’t stop.” Martin waved his knife defensively as he spoke. “Said she was filing for divorce so she’d be free to go with him. Wrong!”
“What did you do, Martin?”
His chuckle was raw and evil. “It was so friggin’ easy. What a posh ass. I got him into that room as easily as I got you to come here.”
“You called his cell while we were at the pub,” I said. “You told him you had Helen.”
He laughed smugly. “Yes, and he came running, didn’t he?”
Robin edged closer to me, obviously as creeped out by him as I was.
“So he must’ve loved Helen very much to go with you,” I reasoned.
“No! He didn’t love her. I love her, and no one else can have her.”
I watched as Helen absorbed the words. Her face crumpled as she began to cry, began to realize that maybe Kyle had loved her, after all. I couldn’t say that he had or hadn’t, but if it helped in the moment to ease some of her pain, then it was worth it to say that yes, he’d loved her.
But oh, God, Angus MacLeod was right: Kyle’s murder wasn’t about a book at all. It was about Martin being insanely jealous of his wife’s relationship with Kyle McVee. Martin had killed the man to get his wife back. I’d always known Martin was emotionally abusive, but I’d never really suspected he could be a killer.
My mistake.
I glanced behind me, considering the possibility of distracting Serena and grabbing Martin’s knife. I turned back and focused on the knife and Martin. That was when I realized he was holding my knife. My French paring knife with its two-inch-wide, flat, square blade. I’d sharpened it finely enough to split a hair, so even if he barely grazed her, he would draw blood.
I had to breathe, had to center my thoughts. Unfortunately, they were racing around in circles. “Why me, Martin? Why did you use my tools?”
“I saw you with him,” he said, his eyes like lasers honing in on me. “On the street. I was following him, trying to trap him, and I saw him grab you. You kissed him. I knew you were a whore bitch.”
Okay, that was getting old. Martin was undoubtedly insane. The signs might’ve been there all along, but I’d never seen them.
“He hates you,” Serena explained.
“I get that,” I muttered.
“He’s not exactly speaking in code,” Robin said, a smart-ass to the end.
“You shut up,” Serena warned Robin. To me, she said smugly, “It was my idea to steal your tools. Martin wanted to make you pay somehow. He’s always hated you, from the time he first met you in Lyon. You were so full of yourself. You tried to talk Helen out of marrying Martin. McVee tried to do the same thing, right, Martin? When you were all in Lyon, right? Seems he wanted Helen for himself, even back then.”
Martin pressed his lips into a thin line, so Serena kept talking. “McVee acted like nothing was going on between him and Helen, even pretending friendship, offering to buy Martin a drink on occasion. He tried that a few nights ago when they first arrived. That was the last straw, wasn’t it, Martin?”
Martin leaned against the vaulted wall, dragging Helen with him. Was he growing tired of all the talk? If he reached the end of his rope, would he let Helen go or would he kill her?
“How’d you get into my room to steal my tools?” I asked, not only to stall for time but because I needed to know.
Serena snorted a laugh, then chirped, “Housekeeping.”
“You,” I said, as realization dawned. “You were that hotel maid. The first day I was here.”
“The girls prefer you call them housekeepers,” she said acerbically.
Whatever. “Yeah, sorry.”
“No wonder I could never get any towels,” Robin murmured. She was acting cool, but her eyes darted back and forth between Serena and me. She wore an expression of both worry and revulsion with some impatience mixed in. Not a good combination.
Maybe I should’ve stopped asking questions, but I had to keep them both talking. “So I guess this means you’re not Mrs. Kyle McVee.”
Serena wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Me and that pansy toffer? Fat chance.”
If she thought Kyle was rich and snooty, how in the world did she put up with Martin?
“So what does that make you and Martin?” I asked.
She grinned at Martin with affection, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention. “He’s my baby bro.”
Her brother? I looked from one to the other. Why hadn’t I seen the resemblance? Both tall, both thin, the wispy blond hair and pale blue eyes, same shape of the head. “I see it now. But Helen never met you before?”
“No, Martin was busy playing the toff, weren’t you, bro? Didn’t want his big sis coming around.” She continued to keep a vigilant eye on her brother, but her gaze had narrowed a bit. “But baby bro ran into a little trouble up here.” She shrugged. “So who ya gonna call?”
“Big sister,” I said.
“Bingo,” she said, waving the gun at me. “I hopped the train and got here in two hours. I’ve been here all week. Had plenty of time to play housekeeper. That’s how I got those love letters inside Kyle’s room.”
“Love letters?” I asked.
She relaxed her grip on the gun and exhaled heavily, perhaps annoyed that I was so dense. “I suppose you’d call them poison-pen letters. Just wanted to pull his chain a bit, you know.”
Kyle’s poison-pen letters. I’d forgotten about them until now.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Robin whispered under her breath. “They’re both nuts.”
Luckily, only I heard her and I squeezed her arm in commiseration. Serena saw the move and aimed the gun back at me.
“I thought people in England didn’t use guns,” I said.
Serena’s laugh was harsh. “You haven’t been in my neighborhood, have you?”
Mentioning her neighborhood reminded me of something that had bothered me from the very beginning. “How do you know Minka?”
Serena chuckled malevolently. “I needed a shill. She was in the right place at the right time and bought my sad-widow story, hook, line and sinker.”
“Figures,” I said.
“She has a good heart but not many brain cells,” she added.
Out of the mouths of criminals.
“So, you’re from a bad neighborhood?”
“It was all right,” she said, and tossed her hair in a defensive gesture.
“It’s just that I always thought Martin was wealthy.” She snorted a laugh. “There’s a good one, eh, Martin?”
“But he owns a bookstore.”
She winked. “He’s a clerk. But the owners trust him, let him take care of the business. He wormed his way into their hearts, didn’t you, darling?” She smiled widely. “No, he’s not the toffer, but he knew how to look the part well enough to snag himself a rich bride. And our Helen’s just the girl. Lets him take care of the finances, don’t you, dear? We don’t want to lose her, now, do we?”
She winked and I stared warily at Helen. She looked more than terrified now. She looked furious.
Serena continued to talk, but Martin was the one I watched. He hadn’t loosened his grasp on Helen, whose eyes were completely focused on him. What was she thinking? Was she looking for the right moment to attack him somehow? She had nothing to lose. Martin seemed more than willing to kill her.
“Taking your tools was a piece of cake,” Serena went on. “Martin told me he’s always stealing things at these book fairs because people don’t pay attention.”
“That’s enough, Rena,” Martin said abruptly. “Just shut up and kill them.”
“Me? What about-”
“Now!”
“In a church?” she said, taken aback. “And go to hell?”
Serena had standards all of a sudden?
“Do it!” he shouted.
“Wait,” I cried, frantically stalling for time. “You… you cut our brake line. Um, how did you know we were going for a drive?”
“What?” He stared at me. He seemed to be losing focus. Maybe he was starting to realize the trouble he was in. Or maybe he was just nuts, as Robin had said.
“Are you okay, Martin?” I asked.
“He’s fine,” Serena said heatedly.
I turned to her. “He seems kind of spaced-out.”
“He gets tired. He’s not been well, worrying about things.” Then she flipped her hair back in a contemptuous move. “Besides, what do you care, anyway?”
True. I didn’t care about him at all, except that he was a murderer and was holding Helen at knifepoint. My knifepoint.
Martin shook his head like a wet dog, coming out of whatever daze he’d been in. “Everybody heard you,” he snapped.
I looked at him. “Heard me what?”
“You and your people, making plans to go to Rosslyn Chapel the other night.”
Oh, great. He’d overheard that freaky conversation with Mom and Dad outside the hotel pub, before they went off to do the conga. “So you cut the brakes in Robin’s car yesterday morning.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“I guess it was quite a shock when you found out Helen was in the car, too.”
“I blame you for that,” he said, glaring at me. “She could’ve been killed.”
Yeah, duh. “What happened to Perry?”
He frowned. “Perry saw me coming out of the auto garage, and later, when word got out that you’d crashed, he tried to blackmail me.”
“Yeah,” Serena said offhandedly. “He had to go.”
“So you killed him,” I said flatly.
“We did it together,” Serena said, beaming. The family that kills together. Jeez.
“A shame,” Martin said. “I always liked Perry.”
He would.
“And you broke into my room last night. Why?”
He looked puzzled. “You’re mad.”
Now I was the puzzled one. “Are you saying you didn’t break into my room last night?”
“Hell, no,” he insisted, then looked at Helen. “I wasn’t in her room, I swear.”
The fact that Helen obviously couldn’t care less didn’t faze Martin, but I believed him. But if it wasn’t Martin, then who broke in? Whom did Gabriel chase away from my room last night?
I had another realization. “You followed me to the National Library.”
Martin chuckled. “Now, that was fun. That shelf fell like a big tree, and you never even saw me.”
“Jackass,” I said under my breath.
“I heard that,” Robin whispered. “We need to get out of here.”
“I know.”
Without warning, Helen said, “Kyle was a wonderful lover.”
“Uh-oh,” Robin murmured.
“What?” Serena said in disbelief.
“Shut up!” Martin said, shaking his wife.
“Jesus Christ, Helen,” Serena cried. “What kind of stupid cow are you?”
“Don’t call her a cow!” Martin shouted.
“Easy, bro,” Serena said, holding up both hands in acquiescence.
Robin swore under her breath. I had to agree; this was not going to end well. And where the hell was everybody? The police? The tourists? Was everyone off having tea or something? Had Serena locked the door behind her?
“You killed the only man I ever loved,” Helen said, her voice strained and halting.
“I told you to shut up!” Martin roared.
“And I’ll never do what you say,” Helen said flatly.
Serena stared in disbelief at her sister-in-law, and I couldn’t blame her. What was Helen thinking by taunting Martin? On the other hand, what did she have to lose?
Martin flexed his arm, putting more pressure on Helen’s throat. It must’ve been the last straw, because she bent, then swung her leg and kicked him in the shin.
Martin grunted. “What’re you-”
She kicked him again.
“Stop provoking him.” Serena moved closer, clearly sensing trouble.
The kick didn’t disarm Martin, but it distracted Serena long enough for me to grab the only thing within reach: the four-foot-high wrought-iron candle stand. I whipped it like a light saber at Serena’s stomach and her gun went flying.
I heard the chapel door bang open then. “Yoo-hoo!”
“It’s Mom!” I shouted at Robin. “Don’t let her come in here!”
Robin took off. I went scrambling for the gun and so did Martin, relaxing his grip on Helen, who sprang loose and went after the only target available: Serena. Robin jumped on her back and started pounding the hell out of her.
“Go, Helen!” Mom shouted from the back of the nave.
“Get off me, you bitch!” Serena bucked, but Helen was too pissed off to care.
Martin yanked the gun out of reach, but I managed to scrape his arm with my nails. The gash drew blood and he swore ripely as it dripped onto his beige linen jacket.
“Shit,” he cried. “You bitch!”
“Payback always is,” I said, and backhanded him across the chin. Man, that hurt.
His head jerked back just as heavy footsteps pounded across the nave floor. Martin paid no attention, just shook off my attack and fought to aim the gun back at me. “I’ll kill you, bitch.”
“I don’t think so,” Derek said as he dived on top of Martin.
“Oomph.” Martin’s hand released the gun and it skittered away.
I managed to roll out of Derek’s way, then scrabbled to my knees and claimed the gun. I wasn’t entirely sure whom to point it at, so I held it up as if it were a trophy. Which it sort of was, I guess.
Derek jumped to a standing position, then shoved one foot onto Martin’s back, forcing him to stay prone on the floor until a constable scurried in and handcuffed him.
Derek’s eyes were dark with concern as he lifted me up, took the gun from my hand and pulled me close.
“Where the hell have you been?” I asked as I buried my face in his soft leather jacket.
“Just trying to quell an international incident,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around me. “Sorry I was late.”
I sagged against him, craving the warm strength he radiated. “Late? No, you were right on time.”
“And the grand-prize winner of the Lawton-McNamara Bookbinding Prize is… Brooklyn Wainwright!”
As I walked up the aisle to the wide stage, I was vaguely aware of the announcer describing my work. A giant screen played a short video I’d shot of my gilding process. I think I made a speech, but mere minutes later, back in my chair and surrounded by the crowd of over two thousand of my peers, I had almost no memory of what I’d said.
But I had a gleaming Baccarat crystal plaque with my name on it to remind me that I’d won.
Later, during the champagne reception that followed, I savored the rush of hugs from family and friends, the joy of my work being recognized, and the admittedly shallow but nonetheless thrilling shock of victory. I was pretty sure I’d never forget it as long as I lived.
The sight of my parents dressed in matching tartans almost brought tears to my eyes. It was safe to say that the one thing they would never be called was subtle.
My mother ran up and hugged me. “I’m so proud of you, honey.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She looked me up and down. “We should’ve bought you a kilt, too. You look so serious in your black suit.”
“I was trying for understated elegance.”
“And that’s exactly what you achieved,” she said with a generous smile.
I laughed. I knew I would never be as flamboyant as my parents-or Robin, for that matter, who stood a few feet away wearing a short gold sheath that fit her like skin. But I thought the black silk pants and slim matching jacket I’d chosen suited my mood tonight. Just hours before, I’d struggled for my life with a homicidal maniac and his sociopathic sibling. Serena and Martin had been led away in handcuffs, and Helen had collapsed in the arms of the first constable on the scene and been taken to the hospital for observation.
I saw Royce across the room, having an animated conversation with the small group gathered around him. He wore a tuxedo and a rather rakish bandage around his head. Earlier, he’d made the mistake of arguing with Helen in the hotel lobby when Martin came looking for his wife. Martin had immediately concluded that Helen and Royce were also having an affair and decided to add Royce to his kill list.
I shook off those awful thoughts and instead watched Robin flirt with Angus. He’d also dressed in full kilt regalia for the occasion-or maybe for Robin, who’d expressed more than a passing interest in seeing him kilted to the max.
I’d had a debriefing session with Angus directly after the St. Margaret’s standoff. He’d relished the fact that Martin’s purpose in killing Kyle had been that oldest of motives, jealousy, pure and simple.
“Nobody kills over a book,” he reiterated.
I didn’t take it personally because he was right-this time. But who was to say that books couldn’t kill?
I took another sip of champagne as Mom and Dad discussed stopping at Stonehenge on the way back to London tomorrow. I was about to comment when I heard a whining voice somewhere close by, behind me. I focused my attention on the snippet of conversation.
A man was saying, “Why, it’s simply wonderful work, excellent inlay, superior gilding and the best example of-”
“But did she have to win first prize?” Minka whined.
Another woman asked, “Have you seen her book?”
“I saw it, I saw it,” Minka groused. “What’s the BFD?”
“One merely has to observe the outstanding use of-”
Minka interrupted with a sound of pure disgust and stomped away.
Ah, sweet. “More champagne, please,” I quipped, perky in victory.
“That’s my girl,” Dad said, happy as a man could be when dressed from neck to knees in red plaid wool.
A passing waiter stopped and held his tray steady as I traded my empty glass for a flute filled with sparkly liquid.
After the tense confrontation of that afternoon, the party atmosphere was infectious. I reveled in the laughter and cheer and made plans to meet friends in Lyon in the summer and the Lisbon fair next fall.
As I sipped champagne and shared an air kiss with the woman who ran the book-arts center where I taught classes back in San Francisco, a commotion erupted nearby. From out of the crowd, two men approached.
“Stop pushing me.”
“You’ll apologize now and be done with it.”
It was Tommy and Harry from the Robert Burns Society, my kidnappers from earlier in the week. They stopped in front of me and Tommy nudged Harry. “Now, tell her you’re sorry.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Hello, Brooklyn.”
“Hi, Harry,” I said. “Hi, Tommy. What’s going on?”
A waiter sailed by. Harry grabbed a champagne flute from the tray and drained it in one gulp.
He wiped his mouth, then blew out a heavy breath. “I’m to apologize for frightening you last night, miss. I thought I could get inside, grab the book and be done with it. Seems I was wrong.”
I gaped at him. “It was you?”
“Aye, it was me,” Harry grumbled, shooting a dirty look at Tommy. “And I’d’ve done it clean and quietly without causing you any pain and suffering if it hadn’t been for that other bloke. Where’d he come from, anyway? Bugger all, the man took ten years off me life.”
“You were going to steal the Robert Burns book?”
“Aye, he was,” Tommy said, shaking his head. “But it was for the greater good, love.”
“You frightened her very badly,” Derek said sternly. “I would strongly urge her to press charges.”
“You would?” I said, looking at Derek.
“Oh, now, miss,” Harry said in a rush. “That won’t be necessary. I admit it was a foolish thing I did, and I’ve learned my lesson.”
“He’d had a snootful in the bar with the boys,” Tommy whispered loudly. “He did it for Rabbie.”
“For Rabbie,” I said, and sighed. “I’ll let it go this time, Harry, but don’t ever do anything like that again.”
“Ach, no worries, miss. As I said, I’ve learned my lesson.”
“We’ll be off now,” Tommy said. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Miss Brooklyn.”
“Likewise,” I said, and watched as Tommy nudged Harry toward the bar.
The chandeliers glittered, the champagne flowed and the big-band music brought a sophisticated flair to the festivities.
Derek checked his watch, glanced around, then leaned in close to me. “Can I drag you away from the celebration for a moment, love?”
“Okay,” I said, then was struck that this might be the last night I ever see him. And wasn’t that depressing? I forced myself to smile as I added, “I have no plans to do anything other than swill champagne and bask in the glory of the big win.”
“That’s my girl.” He was tall, dark and tempting in a beautiful suit that fit his wide shoulders and narrow waist to perfection. He took my hand and a little shiver of excitement passed through me. Was it the touch of his skin? His accent? His strength and virility? Something about Derek Stone always gave me a little thrill of anticipation, and I doubted the feeling would ever get old.
I sipped my champagne as we walked to the front desk. Derek asked for his package and the clerk handed him a small wrapped parcel.
The Robert Burns book.
I turned on him, miffed. “I left that in the safe. What are you doing with it?”
“Giving it to you,” he said, and handed me the book.
“Oh.” I held the book close to my chest. “Hmm. I’m not sure what I should-”
“Let’s go outside, shall we?”
Taking hold of my elbow, he walked me out to the valet area, where a deep purple Bentley limousine was parked. It was solidly built, like a Sherman tank.
The blacked-out back window slowly rolled down and a woman inside extended her expensively gloved hand out the window.
Derek turned to me. “May I have the book?”
“You’re kidding,” I whispered. I recognized the woman wrapped in shadows in the Bentley’s backseat.
“I never kid,” Derek said.
I stared at the Robert Burns book, its red gilded cover radiant in the reflected light of the old-fashioned streetlamps that lined the hotel’s drive. Then I met Derek’s gaze. “Are you sure it’s the right thing to do? The world should have a chance to see this book and read its contents.”
“This is the right thing to do,” Derek assured me.
Why wasn’t I convinced? “It doesn’t matter what I think. The book belongs to Royce McVee.”
“Yes, I spoke with him earlier. He’s thrilled to be rid of it, and when he heard who the buyer was, I thought he would spontaneously combust.”
“Oh. Well, that settles it.” Reluctantly, I gave the book to Derek and he turned to face the woman in the car. He placed the book in her open hand and bowed from the waist.
“Thank you, Commander,” she said crisply. After handing the book to a man sitting beside her, she gave me a minute nod and a queenly wave of her hand. The window began to rise and the Bentley drove off.
“Whoa,” I said, staring at the car as it reached the end of the drive and turned left. “That was intense. So you told her about the book?”
Derek watched until the Bentley disappeared over the ridge. “No.”
“But how else would she know? She must’ve heard the whole background thing with Robert Burns and the princess.”
“Not from me,” he stated. “Do you honestly think I would repeat the story of a seditious eighteenth-century Scots poet illegitimately fathering a royal princess’s baby? I’d be laughed out of the palace. It obviously never happened.”
“But-” A movement across the street caught my eye. I glanced over and saw Gabriel leaning against a stone wall, watching me. His arms were folded across his chest and he was laughing. A black taxicab pulled up and Gabriel gave me a salute, then climbed into the cab and was whisked away.
“What were you going to say?” Derek said.
I blinked a few times. Had I imagined him? No, and I hadn’t imagined his laughter, either. So now I had to wonder if Gabriel had tried to steal the book in order to sell it to the very person who now owned it. I couldn’t blame him for laughing. Maybe I should’ve just let him get away with the book.
“Love?”
I focused on Derek. His eyes twinkled with laughter and his lips were twisted in that mocking half smile I grew more and more fond of every day, despite my best intentions.
“So you’re saying,” I began, “that all of a sudden, out of the blue, the queen of England gets a bug up her butt for an old book of coarse, sentimental, impossible-to-comprehend Scottish poetry.”
He flexed his shoulders. “If you don’t mind, we Brits prefer not to think that members of our beloved monarchy have bugs.” He shrugged. “Or butts, for that matter.”
“Sorry to offend. But…” I stared down the street, where I’d last seen the Bentley driving east toward the palace. Then I glanced in the opposite direction, where Gabriel’s taxi had gone. I wasn’t sure what I’d learned from the Flaxen’d Quean and Kyle’s death, but I knew I was not quite as unhinged and tattered as when I first arrived in Edinburgh. In fact, I felt a lot better. I turned to Derek and asked, “What do you think will happen to the book?”
He eased his arm around my shoulders and I caught a trace of his scent, an intoxicating mix of leather and citrus and pure masculinity. “I think it’ll make for hours of royal bedtime reading.”
“I doubt it,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t help but worry that she’ll take that book and its secrets to her grave.”
“Darling Brooklyn,” he said with an affectionate squeeze. “That surely won’t be the only secret she takes with her.”
“Aha! So you admit she’ll be taking the secret with her, which must mean that you believe the story is true.”
“That’s quite a leap, and you’re sadly mistaken.”
“No, I’m not. I think…”
He stopped in the shadow of the hotel wall. The night was cool, but I didn’t feel it as he held me at arm’s length and patiently studied my features. “The stress has finally gotten to you, hasn’t it, darling?”
“I’m not stressed at all,” I said, biting back a grin. “I feel great.”
He touched my cheek, pushed a thick strand of hair behind my ear and kissed me there. “But you’re obviously delusional, aren’t you?”
I laughed, then almost moaned as he moved his lips along my hairline and down to skim across my jaw. I should’ve asked him if this was his idea of a kiss-off, or if he intended to finish what he was starting. Instead, I decided to do as Guru Bob would do and simply live in the moment.
“What was the question?” I whispered when I could speak again.
“Ah, your memory is impaired as well,” he murmured, his warm breath stirring the tiny hairs along my neck. “I suspect you’ve conked your head on some hard surface. That can be dangerous. I’ll have to watch you very carefully from now on.”
“If you insist,” I managed to say as he turned his attention to my earlobe.
“Oh, I do, sweetheart,” he said. “I really do.”