Shadows in Scarlet (27 page)

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Malcolm looked from the scabbard to Amanda's face and grinned.

She blinked, reminded herself to breathe, and rebooted her brain. The first command that came up into her mind was,
don't let either of these guys get to you!

Yeah, well, it was too late for that, wasn't it? Picking up the scabbard she said as lightly as she could, “I sure don't have much of a future in historic preservation if I throw artifacts around, do I? I shouldn't even be handling this without gloves."

"Let's put it awa', then, like proper historical preservationists.” Malcolm lifted the lid of the display case, carefully holding the glass by its wooden frame.

Amanda placed the scabbard in the space between the sword and the plaque with James's name. The dull, pitted metal with its ungainly kink seemed sad next to the burnished elegance of the blade. But then, it had had a lot harder trek to the present day.

No way in hell could she explain to the Grants that the scabbard wasn't supposed be here, that it should still be in its Lucite box in the entrance hall at Melrose. Like she couldn't explain that she hadn't dropped it, it'd thrown itself down. She shot a wary glance at the wooden crate, remembering James's words:
I want revenge.

"A shame the scabbard's a bit crumpled,” said Malcolm, lowering the lid of the case. “Mind you, Calum could straighten it at his wee smiddy, but I reckon it's best to preserve it as it is."

Amanda slipped into academic mode. “The repair work would leave scars. The contrast between the two speaks volumes about time, decay, and conservation."

"And the standard display model for a sword is unsheathed and parallel with its scabbard."

"Yes.” So Malcolm was more than a pretty face and a ready tongue, he was preservationally competent. But then, someone—Norah, Duncan—had already said Malcolm was working on conservation plans for Dundreggan. Good for him.

He turned toward the crate. “That's himself, is it? May I?"

Amanda waved her hand—
go for it.

Kneeling on one knee, Malcolm rolled back the layer of foam. His fingertips traced the jaw hinge and cheekbone. His palm swept back over the arch of the skull as though brushing hair from the face of a child. His hands, Amanda saw, were long and lean, moving with a sensitivity only a man with a lot of self-assurance could afford to show.

Amanda closed her eyes.
This isn't happening, either.

His smooth baritone murmured, “So you've come hame, then, for auld lang syne. But you never kent the delights o’ Burns, did you? Puir beggar, what a shame to die so young and so far awa'."

Yes, it is.
And she was going to have to deal with it. Amanda opened her eyes. Malcolm was still kneeling beside the crate, his left forearm braced on his upraised thigh, his right hand resting on the wooden rim. “Cynthia didn't need to strong arm you into giving a blood sample for DNA tests,” she said. “The resemblance is amazing."

He looked from the nested bones up to her face. “It is?"

"The miniature,” she said quickly. “The miniature portrait Cynthia bought in London. It's copied from that portrait in the stairwell, isn't it?"

"Oh aye, but I never saw much likeness masel'. I dinna suppose we ever see oursel's as others see us, though. Which brings us back to Burns.” He tucked the foam around the bones, stood up, and set the lid atop the crate. “Your battles are done, lad. Rest in peace."

That's the idea.
“I guess you should tighten the lid. The lab packed him up with silica gel. But then, it doesn't matter whether his bones are preserved or not, not any more."

"We need to let him return to the dust from whence he came, right enough. But we can do better than this packin’ case. Lindley has a coffin for him. And Mum's arranged for a proper headstone."

"That's really above and beyond."

"We're his family. He'll have to take us whether he wants us or no."

Which left James between a rock and a hard place, Amanda thought. He couldn't ask for more respect. And yet the people who respected him were descended from.... She knew whom they were descended from. She, at least, wasn't going to hold them accountable for that shot in the dark.

Leaving the screwdriver on top of the box, Amanda turned and strolled toward the door. As she'd intended, Malcolm fell into step beside her. Attractive as he was, disillusioned as she starting to be with James, still she felt like the worst sort of hypocrite eyeing the one in front of the other's—remains.

"Just one thing,” said Malcolm. “What's your name?"

"Oh! I'm sorry. Amanda Witham. Glad to meet you."

Again they shook hands. “You e-mailed the business address askin’ for Mum's phone number,” Malcolm went on.

"That was before I knew I'd be coming here. Before Cynthia sent me off like a FedEx package. No wonder your mother was expecting a little kid."

"Cynthia? The snotty woman who rang last Sunday?"

"The what?"

"Mistress Snotty, Mrs. Anthony Chancellor.” He imitated Cynthia's too-cool-to-melt-butter drawl and smiled mischievously.

Amanda laughed. “Yeah, you've got her number. What'd she say to you?"

"No so much what she said as hoo she said it. I was thinkin’ you were a sweet, simperin’ little doll-child, wi’ hair ribbons and frilly socks. I reckoned if her son's engaged to you then he's stealin’ the cradle blind. And here you are, lackin’ two inches of my ain height, chuckin’ antique cutlery at me."

"It wasn't exactly cutlery,” Amanda told him. “And I am not and never have been engaged to her son. Who isn't here. He decided not to come. Me, I'm not even going with anyone.” Maybe she shouldn't have added that last factoid, but Malcolm took it in with a sober nod.

They stepped through the doorway of the great hall onto the landing of the stairs. Sunlight shone through the slits of windows and was reflected off the whitewashed walls, making the staircase a well of light. Just around the bend hung the three portraits. They stopped in front of them.

"May I have a look at your camera?” Malcolm asked.

She'd forgotten the camera draped across her chest. “Sure. It's not mine, though, it's CW's. Colonial Williamsburg's.” She handed it over. He squinted through the eyepiece and adjusted the lens. “Please, take pictures,” Amanda went on. “I'm supposed to come back with lots of documentation. I even have a video camera upstairs."

"Do you, noo? I helped film the excavations at Whithorn Abbey, I'd be pleased to help."

"That's cool. Thanks."

If Duncan's accent was inflected Oxbridge, and Norah's was hardly any less “proper,” Malcolm's accent ran up and saluted the St. Andrews cross of the Scottish flag. No wonder Cynthia hadn't been able to understand him, not on the telephone. Following his words gave Amanda an excuse to look at him. He was like James, and yet he was definitely not like James.

James's painted face stared into eternity, his expression obscured by the gleam of sunlight on the surface of the picture. Malcolm lowered the camera. “Too much light. But I suppose you have ower many photos o’ the miniature already."

"On every brochure,” Amanda answered. “Cynthia implied that you and your mother were living in genteel poverty, forced to sell off family heirlooms like the miniature."

"Every now and again we sell the odd mathom—to use Tolkien's word—for the ready. A bit o’ cheese-parin’ never goes amiss, but we're no on the dole."

"Cynthia usually acts like Lady Bountiful. She's not anything official with CW, you understand, but she's a major donor and really does do a lot of good work for them, so they put up with her."

"She's ower the top, Mum said."

"Too much, you mean? Definitely."

"My condolences.” Malcolm handed back the camera and pointed to Archibald's portrait. “My ancestors were a gey respectable lot. Even wi’ so many gone for soldiers, we've no had a true wastrel since yon James. Just as weel he dinna inherit, I'm thinkin', although he might have settled had he survived the skirmish in America."

"The grand and glorious Revolution, a skirmish? Heresy, Mr. Grant, heresy!” Amanda returned Malcolm's laugh. Side by side they descended the stairs. “Men of James's time and class were usually into gambling,” she essayed.

"Gamblin', wenchin', duelin', drinkin'—the lot. We have a letter to James from his dad, threatening to cut him off if he didna behave himsel'. The same letter suggests a marriage wi’ the Seaton lass. Isabel. She was the daughter of some business associate."

Okay, so James had deserved a rap over the knuckles. Maybe even a swift uppercut to the jaw. He hadn't deserved to be murdered. “James and Isabel were engaged when he died,” said Amanda. “That's in the Balcarres letter—the Museum in Edinburgh sent us a copy."

"Oh aye. Bit o’ a soap, eh? James dies, Archibald gets the girl and the brass. Snotty said you were researchin’ a book aboot James."

"An article, actually, about the discovery and identification of his body. An exercise in historical archaeology. But it may turn into a book yet, it's getting more complicated by the minute."

"My grandfather, also Malcolm, was plannin’ to write a book aboot the family history. He spent years collectin’ and organizin’ his sources but never put pen to paper. Or type to paper. I'm thinkin’ he hoped to find somethin’ glamorous among the begats and the bequeaths. But no joy. Dead respectable, as I said. You've brought us a family skeleton noo, but it's no the sort that rattles awa’ in the cupboard."

"I wouldn't be so sure,” Amanda returned, and at Malcolm's puzzled look amended, “Sorry, my brains haven't caught up with my body."

They turned down the hallway at the foot of the stairs. Arranged engagement or not, Amanda thought, James really had cared for Isabel. But even in a day and time when many men were allowed full rein and most women wore choke-chains, Isabel might not have been too thrilled about a match with a rogue, no matter how charming. Amanda was surprised James's ghost didn't resemble Marley's in
A Christmas Carol,
except James's would drag a chain of playing cards, wine bottles, and petticoats. And stolen artifacts. The scabbard was his, yeah, but he damn well could have trusted her enough to tell her what he was up to. My own, my ass, she thought.

Malcolm led the way into the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator. “Would you like a piece?"

"Of what?"

"Bread and jam, or a bittie cheese."

"No thank you, Irene fixed a wonderful lunch for us."

"Whilst muggins here is slavin’ awa’ tendin’ to the farm.” Malcolm collected supplies from refrigerator, breadbox, and pantry, and built himself a sandwich. Cerberus materialized from beneath the table, trotting to Malcolm's side like a shark scenting a disturbance in the water. “Oh it's you, is it? Okay, okay, here you are."

Amanda sat down. The dog ate his treat, sniffed around to make sure there wasn't any more, and settled down at her feet. She petted his warm, sleek head while his tail brushed rhythmically across her ankles, deciding that if dogs condescended to purr, this one was purring. “Dundreggan seems to be in great condition. It must be a nightmare trying to fight the damp rot. How often do you have to re-point the masonry?"

"It's like paintin’ the Forth Bridge—you're no sooner done than you're startin’ in again.” Malcolm sat down opposite her and contemplated his multi-layered sandwich, an architectural triumph. “We're barely keepin’ ahead o’ entropy. The walls shift, the doorframes buckle, the floors sink. One loose slate on the roof and you've a wet plaster ceilin’ comin’ doon on your heid. The place is held together by the plumbin’ pipes and the electric flex installed in 1911.” He took a bite, chewed, and concluded, “Last week a stone fell from the dinin’ room ceilin’ slap into Lindley's soup."

"Way to welcome the clergy!” Amanda said. “What did he say?"

"He was right polite, considering it could've bashed his head, and asked for a cloth to wipe the soup off his shirt. Mum said, a good thing he's no a Calvinist, we can just pour another glass o’ wine for an Anglican and he'll soon forgive and forget."

"Telling tales on me, are you?” Norah walked through the door and helped herself to a bite of her son's sandwich. “I see you've made your own introductions."

"It's a do-it-yourself age,” Amanda told her.

"Malcolm was hoping to ask you questions about opening the house to the public,” Norah went on, pulling herself up a chair.

"Theme park Scotland,” Malcolm said. “Tartan dollies. Balmorality."

"An educational center,” retorted Norah. Her tone indicated they'd been chewing over this topic for a long time.

"Williamsburg manages to be a class act,” Amanda said helpfully.

"But Williamsburg has been restored to one time period,” said Norah. “Which time period do we choose? How much restoration should we do?"

"Ye Olde Gothicke Victorian crenellations on the south tower have to go,” Malcolm said, “They're no only unsightly, the mortar's rotted through."

"But even the Victorian renovations are a part of the castle's history.” Amanda offered. “Williamsburg is one thing. Dundreggan is another. I love the eclecticism, all the different time periods mingled madly together—that's where you're unique. You should capitalize on that."

The similarly blue eyes of the Grants moved from Amanda's face to each other's and back again. “We'll be havin’ a lot to talk aboot,” Malcolm told her. He popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and licked his lips.

"Anything I can do to help..."

Cerberus leaped up, emitted an interrogative “woof?” and stared toward the door. All three faces turned that way, but no one was there.

"It's only Morag.” Norah widened her eyes in mock horror. “Whenever the floors settle and creak or a door goes off balance and closes itself, we say it's Morag. The
genius loci,
I suppose, the guardian spirit of the house. We don't have a real ghost, sad to say."

"Grandad's dad saw a gray shape in the upper hall,” Malcolm said, “but he probably had a smudge on his eyeglasses. We're sadly lackin’ in permanent bloodstains and walled-up nuns and bumps in the night. Tourists love ghost stories."