Roses in Moonlight (33 page)

“Who is that?”

“Sir Richard Drummond.” She shrugged. “I had to paint him, because he doesn’t photograph very well.”

He started to speak, then shook his head. “I won’t ask. I am curious, though, why black and white?”

She shrugged. “It felt old.”

“Why the roses? Are they from Stratford?”

“Scotland,” she said. “From Sunny’s garden. Because you took me out there in the moonlight and made me feel beautiful.” She smiled up at him. “That’s all.”

He put his arms around her and held her close for several minutes, finding himself in spite of his usual glibness simply unable to speak.

“I love you,” he managed finally.

“I love you,” she said, hugging him tightly. “Let’s go home.”

•   •   •

T
wo
men leaned against the outside wall of the gallery and watched as a handsome couple was picked up in a sleek black Mercedes and ferried off to their home.

“Well, Ambrose,” said one, “that was a right proper evening for them both.”

“Aye, Hugh, it was,” said the other. “All’s well that ends well, especially when there are canny Scots behind the scenes.”

The first sighed and flexed his fingers. “Heard Drummond’s doing
King Lear
tonight.”

“Well, the Globe is just around the corner.”

“I’ve brought tomatoes and other overripe fruits appropriate for the moment.”

And then Ambrose MacLeod, laird of the clan MacLeod during the marvelous flowering of the Renaissance, smiled, pushed away from the wall, and then followed his compatriot into the cool evening air.