Page 10 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

TEN

I do indeed sleep well. So well that I wake to Alice shaking me. When I open my eyes, her concern hardens into annoyance.

“Finally,” she says. “You are making it very hard for Mrs. Ballantyne to get her breakfast on time.”

I frown and push up. “Am I supposed to fetch her breakfast?”

“No, I am. Only she asked to have it in her room with you, and I said you were still abed, and she worried that you were sleeping late again and might be ill. So I had to wake you first, which means her breakfast will be cool and mine will be ice cold.”

“I am so inconsiderate, sleeping at night.”

“It is morning.”

I glance toward the windows, with the blinds closed tight. “Are you certain? That is the problem, Alice. The closed blinds and lack of light to wake me.”

“Would you like me to open them at four in the morning, when the sun rises?”

I yawn and stretch. “That would be lovely, thank you. Be sure to get up at four and fetch me a coffee, will you?”

She shakes her head, scowling, and then peering at me. “Are you unwell?”

I roll my shoulders. “Not at all.”

“You have overslept twice. You are not having headaches, are you?”

I frown as I swing my legs out, flinching as my feet touch the cold floor. “Headaches?”

She crosses her thin arms, setting her jaw in an obvious show of belligerence, which means she’s anxious about something. “You changed in personality after striking your head. If you had headaches, that might mean you are changing back. Catriona loved to oversleep.”

“Ah.”

I roll my neck, getting out the kinks. It also gives me a moment to think. Alice fears the return of Catriona, who’d bullied her. Of course, Alice would never admit that, but the concern lingers and I feel guilty about it. I’ve mentioned this to Isla, who says, quite rightly, that even the truth wouldn’t keep Alice from worrying.

“I haven’t been having headaches,” I say. “I’m oversleeping because I’m late getting to sleep. This isn’t my usual room, and I’m fussing. Late to bed, late to rise. I’ll reassure Isla. Any time you’re concerned, though, feel free to quiz me. I’ll tell you something Catriona wouldn’t know. Like that last week, when we went shopping for the trip, you fairly drooled over that boy outside the dress shop.”

“I did what?” she squeaks indignantly.

“Salivated.”

“I did no such thing. I do not remember any boy, and whatever you are implying—”

“That he had something theft-worthy peeking from his back pocket, and it would have been so easy to nick that you could hardly tear your gaze away.”

“Oh. Him.” She rocks back onto her heels. “I was hardly staring . That would only get me caught. I didn’t nick it, though. I don’t do that anymore. Though it would have taught him a lesson. Someone was going to steal it.”

“Agreed. But you were right to refrain. Although… given that you are getting older, you might not want to stare so openly at young men’s bottoms.”

She squawks, and then glowers, turns on her heel, and heads for the door.

“You are welcome for the advice!” I call after her.

Alice and I both take breakfast with Isla, and it’s not cold, because Alice would never allow that. The more I see of this get-together, the more I’m glad we don’t entertain overnight gatherings at the town house. Glad for the sake of the staff, that is. Not only do they need to worry about keeping track of all the guests and their various needs and wants, but there are also the lady’s maids trying to give their mistresses a hot breakfast, even if it’s hardly the cook’s fault it went cold. There’s jostling for position among the staff on behalf of their bosses, without those bosses having a clue what’s going on “below stairs.”

Our breakfast is hot and delicious, and if Mrs. Hall was at all scandalized by Isla dining with her maid, she didn’t comment. Nor would Isla consider whether it might add extra work for the staff. As conscientious as Isla is, she’s grown up with servants and, in some ways, they’re like fairies, magically getting things done.

The private breakfast does make a relaxing start to my day. The balcony doors are thrown open, and we start eating inside, but after an hour, it’s warm enough to tempt us out. After Alice removes our breakfast, we finish our morning tea at a tiny table overlooking the lawn.

When footsteps sound, we look down to see McCreadie rounding the corner of the house. He spots Isla on the balcony, and his face lights up. He swings his hat off with a flourish and holds it to his heart.

“‘What light through yonder window breaks,’” he calls.

When he doesn’t say anything else, Isla waves. “Well, go on.”

“Er…”

I lean over and fake hiss, “East! Sun!”

“Uh… from the east, hark, it is the sun and…”

I groan and slouch dramatically against the railing. Then I spot another figure walking over behind him.

“Duncan!” I call. “Help Hugh! He’s trying to do the window soliloquy.”

“Window soliloquy?” Gray says.

“ Romeo and Juliet ? Shakespeare?”

Gray moves forward, his arms crossing. “Is that the play where the young woman takes some mysterious potion to make her appear dead? Even if such a thing existed—belladonna perhaps—it would be ridiculously risky. And then the young man himself takes some mysterious poison he just happens to have at hand? She wakes and stabs herself in the heart? Do you know how difficult it is to do that? The stomach, yes, but the heart? How sharp is that dagger? How does she avoid the ribs on her first try?”

“Speaking of soliloquies,” I mutter to Isla.

“More like a lecture,” she murmurs back. “And not nearly as romantic.”

“Wait!” McCreadie says. “‘It is the East, and Juliet the sun.’ That’s it, yes?”

I groan and shake my head. “You’ve lost the thread, Hugh. Try again tomorrow. Maybe brush up on your Shakespeare first. And whatever you do, don’t ask Duncan for advice.”

Isla laughs softly.

“You are both out bright and early,” I call down.

“It is past ten,” Gray says.

“We are looking for Archie,” McCreadie says. “For…” He lifts a croquet mallet and swings it like a baseball bat.

“You’re going to ambush Mr. Cranston and beat him senseless?” I say. “I can understand the impulse, but perhaps your sister would prefer you waited until after the wedding.”

“He wanted to play this morning. At ten. That is what we agreed. He is nowhere to be found, and his coat is gone.”

A chill runs down me. “He was out last night wearing it. Did he not come in?”

McCreadie frowns, as if wondering how I’d know this. He waves his hand—still holding the mallet, which makes Gray take a step back.

“No, no,” McCreadie says. “There is no concern. Mrs. Hall saw him this morning.”

I exhale. “Good. So Mr. Cranston has gone off on some errand. I could point out that running an estate this large means he has a lot to tend to while he’s here. However, if searching for him means I can join you for a walkabout, then I think we really should look for him. Make sure he didn’t stumble into one of his own traps.”

“Which would serve him right,” Isla mutters. Then she says, “I do not mean that, of course.”

“Oh, while I wouldn’t want him badly injured, I’d settle for a near miss that scares him enough to have Mr. Müller immediately round up all the traps.”

“We should look for him,” Gray says. “To be safe, as you say.”

“A fine excuse. Isla? Will you join us?”

“Tramping through trap-ridden fields before the heather is dry? No thank you. I will, however, join you for croquet afterward. For now, Alice and I should pop in to see the kittens.”

I call down to the guys, “Give me two minutes.”

After we set off, Gray tells McCreadie that we’d had a moonlight picnic. Why mention it? Because I’d suggested I knew Cranston had been out last night, and Gray would feel some obligation to tell McCreadie, in case it came up later. McCreadie would hardly care. The obligation is on Gray’s part, just another aspect of their friendship.

We don’t mention the woman we saw. That’s the thin line where honesty bleeds into troublemaking. McCreadie’s sister is about to marry Cranston, and we don’t want to suggest her groom was having an illicit assignation, even if Gray is certain that wasn’t the case.

Gray mentions us being out, and then talk turns to plans for the day. Once the bride’s and groom’s parents arrive, it’ll be all wedding prep all the time. There’s much to be done, preparing the grounds for the wedding, and we’ll gladly help with that.

“The wedding is tomorrow at eleven,” McCreadie says. “Followed by a luncheon and then dancing and such. The bride and groom will depart later in the afternoon. We will need to spend the night, but how long we stay the following day depends on all of you. I have no obligations here.”

“We will leave early,” Gray says. “The trip is best made at a leisurely pace. I believe it would be best to depart at dawn, which means we ought to turn in for the night after the bride and groom depart.”

McCreadie exhales softly, and I realize why. Because while his parents aren’t staying at the lodge, his ex-fiancée’s parents are, and that’ll be a lot more awkward without wedding preparations to keep everyone busy.

“That is a fine plan,” McCreadie says. “I—”

A figure appears on the road. At first, I think it’s Cranston. He’s tall, with a black coat that billows around him.

The figure raises one long arm, pointing past us, and shouts, “Go back.”

I blink, not sure whether to laugh or wonder whether I’m still asleep, lost in some weird dream with a black-clad figure on an empty road pointing a bony finger and intoning, “Go back.”

“Go back now or all is lost?” I murmur. “Our poor souls damned for all eternity?”

“No,” McCreadie says. “I believe the threat is ‘Go back or I will scowl at you very hard and sneer about the uncouthness of the Scottish people.’”

“Müller,” I say. It is indeed that gamekeeper. He stands on the rise, pointing and repeating those two words, as if we’re children who’ve wandered from the schoolyard. Except schoolyard monitors don’t usually carry rifles.

We keep walking.

“Back to the house,” Müller says as we draw closer.

“No,” McCreadie says, injecting the single word with such cheerfulness that I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.

“No?”

Gray responds, his tone mild as we reach the man. “It is an English word that means we will not do as you say. We are on the road, and our host has said that it is safe, and we are free to traverse it.”

“On that note, have you seen our host?” I say.

There’s a moment where it seems as if Müller is going to pretend I didn’t speak. But then he looks my way, and there’s such contempt in his gaze that I almost step back.

Gray moves forward, getting slightly in front of me, confirming I didn’t imagine that look. “Miss Mitchell asked you a question.”

“I have seen no one except three of Mr. Cranston’s guests wandering about where they should not be.”

“Huh,” I say. “That couldn’t be us, as we are allowed to be on this road. Now, if you will allow us to pass, please, we would appreciate it.”

Müller lifts the rifle to hold it with both hands. The barrel is angled down, but the message is clear.

“I say, old chap,” McCreadie says, affecting the worst English accent ever. “You are not waving that gun at me, are you? That would be a poor choice. Very poor indeed. Being a gamekeeper, I would presume you know that you are far too close to use it effectively. Particularly when one of our party has a proper handgun concealed on their person.” He looks at us. “Anyone fancy an American Wild West showdown on this fine morning?”

Müller’s eyes narrow.

McCreadie continues in that same cheerful tone, “I do not think we were properly introduced, old chap.” He tips his hat. “Detective Hugh McCreadie, of the Edinburgh police. This is Dr. Duncan Gray, who also works for the police, and this is his assistant, Miss Mitchell. You have police in Austria, do you not?”

There’s the smallest flicker in Müller’s eyes, not anger but surprise, as if he didn’t expect McCreadie to guess his origins.

McCreadie continues, “As for which of us has the gun, that answer will be given if you do not lower that rifle, sir.”

I hold my expression in place, hoping I don’t betray the fact that I’m the one he means… and that I don’t actually have the derringer. I didn’t expect to need it on a morning stroll.

Müller doesn’t look away from McCreadie. He’s decided the police officer is the one with the gun, and he’s contemplating what to do about it. I highly doubt he intends to shoot us, but he doesn’t want to back down either.

When he lifts the rifle a scant inch, obstinance more than threat, Gray steps forward and, his gaze locked with Müller’s, takes hold of the barrel and moves it aside.

I brace for Müller’s response, but he only gives a grunt of something almost like respect and lowers the gun. Then he eyes Gray, as if seeing him with fresh eyes.

“We would like to continue on our way,” Gray says. “We will stay on the road, and if we must leave it for any reason, we understand the risks. If you see Mr. Cranston, we would appreciate it if you told him we are looking for him.”

“I have not seen him,” Müller says. “But if you are going to walk, you had best keep your gun out. I found a stag over the hill.” He jerks his chin in that direction. “I was going to the house to tell Mr. Cranston. They grow bolder.”

“I presume you do not mean the deer,” McCreadie says.

Müller snorts. “The deer I could deal with. I could deal with this, too, if the master would let me.” He twists the word “master.” “The stag is dead. They are usually sneaky about it, taking the whole carcass and leaving me with only bloody traces. This time, they butchered it in place and only took part of the meat. Left the rest to rot.”

I have questions. But at best, Müller will ignore my queries, and at worst, he’ll decide I’m a fool for asking. If he’s thawing toward McCreadie and Gray, I should let them handle this.

“This happens often, I presume?” McCreadie says.

“Birds. Deer. Rabbits. They take what they wish.”

“Was this a red deer or roe?” Gray asks.

“Red.”

The larger subspecies then. That means the culprit wasn’t a wildcat or even a stray dog. It’s possible that the stag died of another cause and what seemed like partial butchering was actually scavenging, but no one points that out. If we do, Müller will snap that he knows the difference.

McCreadie, however, finds a way around the question with, “Trapped or shot?”

“Bow and arrows. That is what those children like.”

“Children?”

Müller waves a dismissive hand. “The boy and his lame sister. They do not even bother to hide that it is them.”

McCreadie nods. “I hope you are able to resolve the issue. I understand it would be very frustrating.”

Müller mutters under his breath, but it seems more the awkward mumble of someone who doesn’t know how to handle an empathic response.

“We will all be on our way,” McCreadie says. “If we see Mr. Cranston, we will tell him you need to speak to him.”