Shadows in Scarlet (42 page)

Malcolm's auburn hair lay tousled on the pillow. She lifted the blankets and slipped into the whiskey-scented warmth beside him. With her fingertips she traced the line of his flank. He blinked, then focussed. “You're playin’ wi’ fire, lass."

"I hope so,” she replied. “I'm freezing."

"Well then.” He scooped her into his arms, pressing against her, legs tangled, lips locked. Funny how fast his smooth, warm naked body wiped out her chill. Malcolm was real. This was real.

He pulled away just far enough to stroke the white scar between her breasts. She answered the question in his eyes. “It's all right. Really."

"Oh aye, that it is.” Malcolm smiled, and bent his head to kiss the scar, and moved on from there, his lips and tongue plying the peaks and hollows of her body—ears, breasts, navel—so deftly she wondered if he'd been practicing with the tin whistle.

But she'd found out last night he was a fast learner. “Oh yeah. There, like that...” Her voice caught in her throat.

She could get used to this. She had every intention of getting used to it, of connecting with him physically just like they'd connected emotionally and intellectually during three months of e-mails and paper letters and long phone calls that'd just about busted her budget. But that was the only way she could hear his voice.

"Oh aye,” he sighed. “Just that.” The bronze hair on his chest curled between her fingers. His skin was sweet salt on her lips. When she pushed him onto his back he pulled her over with him and propped his shoulders against the headboard. He was comfortable in his own skin, she thought, returning his smile. He was, for that matter, totally comfortable in hers.

Slowly, savoring every exquisite millimeter, she settled onto him. Like a glove, like a sheath even—no problem....
All right!
She wrapped him tightly, one of her hands lodged in his hair, and gauged the flow of expression across his face—
that, there, oh yeah
. Like the night they'd danced together his hands moved up and down her spine, and then across her ribs and over her breasts, playing her as she played him.

They rolled over and tried another rhythm, and laughed and fitted themselves at a different angle, until at last their breaths made little wisps of steam in the cold room.
Yes, yes!
The flash points were like lanterns lit in the dusk, welcoming the weary traveler home.
Home,
Amanda thought fuzzily,
is where the heart is.

And she'd told herself there was no magic and mystery in sex any more.
Yeah, right.
She'd only needed the right spells and the right clues. She'd only needed the right guy.

They were still exchanging sweaty nothings when the alarm rang. Malcolm's jump of surprise repeated Amanda's. She reached out and smacked the clock, which shut it up. From the doorway came a demanding, “Meow!"

Malcolm levered himself onto one elbow. “It's a workin’ day, is it? My debut as an interpreter?"

"At least the house opens later on Sunday. Okay, Lafayette, hold your paws, I'm coming."

The tabby watched the disentanglement process with his head cocked to the side and his tail making Js on the rag rug, as though to say,
they could be eating breakfast right now, but no.

Amanda shrugged on her robe, limped off toward the kitchen, fed the cat and made a pot of tea. By the time she got back to the bedroom Malcolm was bathed, shampooed, and shaved, gleaming like he'd been polished. A white shirt reached to his thighs and red and white checkered socks rose to his knees. He was bending over the bed pleating several yards of tartan wool, providing Amanda with a very nice flash of bare buttocks. Yep, she thought with a grin, a guy in a kilt was so gorgeous he had to be ready for action at any moment.

She clasped her hands behind her back to keep from grabbing for him. “You sure you can get that on to where it'll actually stay on? I mean, your modern kilt has straps and buckles and sewn-down pleats but that one's more of a do-it-yourself job. There're some sights I'd like to keep for myself, you know."

He winked at her. “I've worn one a time or two. It's no so awkward.... There.” He belted the fabric around his waist, attached the sporran, and reached for the white waistcoat. That properly buttoned, he turned to the mirror and tied the neck cloth around his throat.

Amanda took the scarlet coat from its hanger and held it while he slipped his arms into the sleeves. The shoulder belt with its silver fittings went on next. Malcolm stepped into his shoes and, at last, picked up the sword.

He'd brought the sword with him, along with its new scabbard—Calum Finlay had really strutted his stuff with that. Yesterday afternoon Amanda had burnished the basket hilt of the sword until it gleamed like gold, and wiped the shining steel of the blade clean of memory. It really was a thing of beauty, if you looked at it right. And yet, at the end of the day, that's just what it was, a thing. Malcolm didn't need it or anything else to prove his manhood.

She hung the sword from his belt and stepped back to admire the effect—was he ever a thing of beauty himself! “Are you going to wear the wig?"

"Should I?” He picked up the white curled and pony tailed wig and held it over his head like a halo.

"No. Your own hair's much too nice, even if the cut is contemporary."

"Very well then.” The wig went back on its block. “I'll say one thing for Cynthia, Mrs. Snotty, she does things up proper."

"Which just makes her even more annoying,” Amanda admitted. “You'd think someone with an ego that big could at least be incompetent."

"Did she actually credit Wayne's story aboot breakin’ the scabbard?"

"She did when I backed him up."

"Own up to it, lassie, you're her pet."

"Like she's not fixing a collar for you?"

Malcolm tugged at his neck cloth and gagged.

"You're going to knock the eyes out of every woman in the place,” Amanda went on. “I'll be jealous."

"No need. I'm no givin’ any o’ them my granny's ring, am I?” He took her in his arms. The hem of the kilt was a fuzzy tickle against her thigh. The buttons of his waistcoat pressed into her breast. The belt and sword clanked as she hugged him back.

"I love you,” she said. There was an entire sentence that had taken on a new meaning.

"I love you,” he said.

Amanda wouldn't have minded a few more seriously sappy minutes, but she could see the clock from the corner of her eye. Reluctantly she let him go. “I'd better hit the shower before I find myself signed up to interpret Medusa."

"No a bit o’ it,” Malcolm said gallantly, and added, “You look like you've been havin’ yoursel’ a fine roll in the hay is all."

Shoving playfully at him, Amanda headed for the bathroom. She washed and blew dry and hurried into her own costume, a much easier job with Malcolm tugging on the strings of the stays. Breakfast was less of an occasion than she'd planned—she had to throw toast and marmalade onto the table instead of baking scones. But womankind didn't even begin to live by bread alone.

At the apartment door they exchanged a formal bow and curtsey. Malcolm captured her left hand and kissed it, his lips warm, his clear, bright blue-gray eyes looking up at her over her knuckles and the point of the ring.
Wow,
she thought again.
Way to go.

Off they went through the house, making sure all the empty glasses and crumpled napkins had been cleared away after last night's welcome party. Engagement party. Announcement of intentions party. Whatever.

Amanda turned on the lights over the display in the entrance hall. Malcolm tipped a quick, rueful salute to James's reconstructed head. The miniature stood in its Lucite box, the small painted face gazing into eternity. Where, Amanda assumed, his troubled soul was at rest. Better late than never.
Poor James.
But, at the end of the day, pity was all she had left for him.

The artifacts Wayne had borrowed last summer were all accounted for. Amanda opened the front door and turned the sign around just as Roy crunched up the gravel walk, trailing the banner of his breath behind him. “Whoa, Malcolm,” he called. “That's a hell of a get-up. I can't believe your ancestor wore it all for real, in the summer yet. I bet Hewitt's got it wrong, he really died from heat stroke."

"I expect the heat didna improve their tempers,” Malcolm returned.

"There's coffee in the kitchen,” Amanda said, and Roy headed inside.

Carrie rounded the corner at a fast trot. “Nippy, isn't it? Wasn't the mist this morning pretty? I bet it reminded you of Scotland, Malcolm."

"In a way."

"Scotland's all hazy green and blue and purple,” explained Amanda. “Here, now.... “She waved at the lawn, the trees, and the river. The crisp orange and yellow hues sparkled beneath a crystalline blue sky.

"The red uniform blends right in,” Carrie finished. “Malcolm, I hope my kids didn't bug you too much about the kilt last night."

"They're fine lads, Carrie. I didna mind answerin’ their questions."

Carrie stage-whispered, “This guy's a keeper, Amanda."

"You think?” Amanda waggled the fingers of her left hand.

Wayne came strolling down the walk, every powdered hair in place, tapping his cane rhythmically. “View halloo!” he called.

"It's a grand mornin', Mr. Chancellor,” replied Malcolm.

Wayne mounted the steps, every corpuscle radiating dignity. “A most excellent example of military garb, Captain Grant, but we shall have no need of swordplay today."

"Indeed,” Malcolm returned. “It was with the greatest satisfaction I heard of the recent cessation of hostilities."

"Your appearance is even lovelier than usual, Miss Witham,” Wayne went on. “One might think that your bright eyes and rosy cheeks signified...” He suddenly realized what they signified and went as red as Malcolm's coat.

Amanda snapped open her fan and hid her face behind it. Malcolm cleared his throat and, bless him, looked more embarrassed than smug.

"Gotta get to work.” Wayne hurried inside. Carrie, with a sentimental sigh, followed.

The first group of tourists tramped around the corner and the day settled into its familiar routine, spiced by Malcolm's presence. His haircut might be wrong, Amanda thought, but his style was all right.

The boys and men among the sightseers stared at the kilt, not sure whether to be offended or impressed—especially when the women flocked around Malcolm like bees around a flower. Amanda and Malcolm posed for photo after photo, he bowing over her hand, she curtseying, although Sally slapping James silly would've been more to the historical point. The tourists left clutching Cynthia's new, revised brochure, incorporating the material from Dundreggan but putting her own spin on it.

"Is that really his sword?” a teenaged boy asked. “Will you run up the staircase for my camcorder?” asked a girl. “A duel,” sighed one middle-aged lady. “He died for her in a duel. How romantic."

Malcolm drew the sword and posed by the staircase, back straight, chin up, only the angle of his brows giving away his sense of humor. He politely but firmly refused any action shots.

Over lunch Amanda, Malcolm, and Carrie shook their heads. “Even when the book comes out,” Amanda said, “we're never going to drive a stake through the heart of the Sally-and-James-as-tragic-lovers story. People have to have their illusions."

"Like believin’ their ancestors were romantic heroes,” said Malcolm, “no ordinary folks like themsel's."

Carrie shook her head. She was the only person who knew the full story, not just the truth about James, but the truth about his ghost. “The book will make your reputation as a scholar, Amanda."

"You're doing the hard part,” Amanda told her.

"No, you and Malcolm did the hard part, you lived to tell the tale."

Malcolm lowered his voice conspiratorially. “If you wrote aboot the ghost you'd spoil your academic reputation but make a pile o’ brass."

"Yeah, like I'm going to go on the tabloid talk shows with the sordid details,” Amanda retorted.

"For God's sakes don't tell Cynthia about the ghost,” added Carrie, “or she'll make that film of hers even mushier than it already is. James Grant, dead for love."

"Love had very little to do wi’ it,” Malcolm stated.

Speak of the devil.... Cynthia's melodic voice drifted into the kitchen, playing counterpoint to Bill Hewitt's staccato sentences. “...enough material, Bill? Good, good, the reconstruction is going beautifully, we'll start serving tea in the summerhouse this spring. Wayne, you naughty boy, there you are."

"Good afternoon, Mother,” said Wayne's courteous voice.

"How's the new apartment? Are you hanging up your clothes? Honestly, Bill, I know children have to have their little rebellious moments, but it's just so hard on the parents."

Hewitt's mutter was unintelligible, not that Cynthia was listening to him anyway.

"Wasn't Amanda pretty as a picture last night? So sweet. If you children would just communicate properly, be up front, like I am, we'd never have had that little misunderstanding over an engagement."

Cynthia and her entourage, Hewitt and Wayne, swept into the kitchen. “And here the little lovebirds are!” she trilled, air-kissing in Malcolm and Amanda's direction. “I'm so glad I was able to play a part, however small, in bringing you two together."

"Very kind o’ you.” Malcolm bowed. “Most obliged."

"I'll be at the summerhouse,” Hewitt said. “No need for you to come, Cynthia. It's very muddy.” He fled through the back door, slamming it emphatically behind him.

"How considerate,” said Cynthia, glancing down at her black patent pumps. The rest of her outfit consisted of red stockings, a starched white blouse, and a wool jacket and skirt in what must have been the tartan of Clan Las Vegas. “Wayne, call that Ms. Brown and tell her I'll be much too busy to receive her this afternoon.” She turned to the others. “Another one of these so-called psychics, she says she's doing a story for the Washington Post but I suspect it's more like the National Enquirer. Honestly, where do these people come from? The real story of Sally and James is interesting enough without dragging in supernatural claptrap."