Page 23 of Death at a Highland Wedding (Rip Through Time #4)

TWENTY-THREE

I don’t get to join the interview outing. I’ve already gotten the very strong impression that Müller considers few people worth talking to, and women are refused that questionable distinction altogether. Müller seems to like McCreadie well enough and tolerates Gray, so it makes sense for those two to perform the interview. Does that rankle? Yes, but mostly just because Müller is a key suspect, and I want to be there.

With that avenue cut off, I’d like to get Cranston’s fingerprints to exclude them. McCreadie agrees I should be the one to do that and the one to speak to Cranston, because in this case, my sex and lack of status help. There’s no way Ross is letting either McCreadie or Gray near his suspect. Me, though? Accompanying the accused man’s fiancée, who is bringing him food and a change of clothing? We couldn’t possibly be up to anything.

That’ll need to be done this evening, when it makes sense for Fiona to take dinner and clothing. In the meantime, then, I’m doing a bit of busywork with Isla. From the note the maid found, it seems that Sinclair planned to meet his beloved at the same bench where we’d seen Isla and McCreadie earlier. Hey, it’s a very romantic bench.

Isla and I are heading there to look for clues. The theory is that Sinclair went to meet the recipient of that letter, but was cut down on his way. His body had been found on the other side of the road, but he had been heading in the bench’s direction, as if circling wide to keep anyone from spotting him walking with whomever he sent that note to. If that’s what happened, then there might be signs of the woman at that bench, where she would have waited before giving up.

Is it also possible that she went to meet him with that shillelagh in hand, intending to kill him? Yes. I struggle to envision Sinclair as the kind of lover who’d incite a woman to murder, but I can’t discount anything based on a two-day impression.

“Perhaps there were two women,” Isla says as we walk. “One received the letter, and the other learned of it and killed him for being unfaithful.”

“Ezra Sinclair as a two-timing cad?” I say.

“I do not know if I see him in that role,” she says, “but I could imagine him leaving an unhappy lover in his wake. He has moved on, most politely, but she cannot let him go.” At my look, she says, “He did have a certain way about him that I could see women finding attractive.”

“Huh. You know when Hugh, Duncan, and I were discussing the women Ezra might have been meeting, we forgot about you.”

Her cheeks heat as she shoots me a murderous glare. “It was not me, in case there is any question on the matter. I would not be running over the moors chasing romance with a near stranger. I said that I could see other women finding him attractive. He was…” She hesitates. “Not to my taste.”

“Your taste being… anyone in particular?” I tease, but she only rolls her eyes.

“Of the other women in the house, can you see him being to their tastes?”

“I do not know them well enough. Ezra Sinclair was a type, one women can find attractive, but I did not.”

“A middling sort.”

She glances over.

I shrug. “We discussed this. Hugh says women had always found Ezra attractive, and I think it’s because he was very average. Nonthreatening. Attainable. Also, kind, which goes farther than most people give it credit for.”

“Kindness goes very far. Ezra… Yes, middling, as you say, but also comfortable and very attentive.”

“Attentive? To anyone in particular?”

She waves a hand. “In general.”

“So no one in particular that you noticed?”

As she walks in silence, her hand slips into her pocket. Looking for her mints. When I met Isla, she had a nervous habit of popping them, arising from her asshole of a husband insisting she had bad breath. A habit rooted in shame and humiliation became an anxious compulsion, one she’s been breaking. Seeing her reach for the tin, though, tells me that my question makes her uncomfortable.

“Isla?” I say. “Do you know who that note was for?”

She shakes her head.

“But you have a suspicion?”

“Violet,” she blurts. Then she clenches her fists. “And I fear that says more about me than her, so you ought not put much faith in it. I thought I sensed a tension between her and Ezra, one that might speak of a hidden attachment. But I did not see anything overt, and I fear I…” She swallows. “I hoped to see an attachment. Ezra seemed a decent fellow, and she seems so sad.”

Isla wanted to see a sign that Violet had a new love, proof she was over McCreadie, and she’s uncomfortable because that hope would only partly be rooted in concern for Violet.

“I knew of the broken engagement, of course,” she says as we walk. “It was the cause of Hugh’s estrangement from his family. He made a hard choice, and it cost him. But I did not ever consider how it affected Violet. I had very little contact with her, only passing in social circumstances. Now I understand what she went through, and the man who put her through that is…” She swallows.

“A very dear friend of yours.”

She nods. I haven’t pressed her to admit how she feels about McCreadie. Part of me wants to push, but a bigger part realizes she’ll push back, possibly by shoving her feelings even deeper into hiding.

She slows to touch an overhanging branch, shielding her expression. “Is it wrong that I am not furious with Hugh? Am I being deliberately obtuse? Or, worse, one of those women who absolves a man simply because she knows him. Oh, he did not mean it. You do not understand him. ”

“Except”—I lower my voice—“you do understand him, and you know he did not mean to cause her pain.”

“He was thoughtless,” she says, abruptly resuming her walk. “Young and careless and inconsiderate, and I am angry with him for that. But I also understand that he did not foresee the consequences for her. Young men never do.”

“I get the sense he sees them now.”

She nods. “He does, and that is why we were together earlier. Because he is feeling melancholy and wished to talk. He wanted to believe Violet had moved on with her life and understood they would have been a poor match. But I am not sure they would have been. Perhaps not the most joyful of unions, but better than—” She clears her throat. “Better than most.”

“Hugh wants more from a marriage,” I say softly. “And I’m sure he told himself he also wanted more for Violet, but as you say, men don’t think about such things. It was an arranged marriage, and that brings in all new levels of blame and guilt.”

“All that blame goes to the woman,” Isla says. “It is as if Hugh changed his mind about buying a horse. No one else will want that horse because clearly it is deficient. At best, you can hope to sell it cheap.” Her voice goes harsh. “We are not horses. ”

I take her arm and hold it as we walk.

“I fear…” She trails off before trying again, her voice a little firmer. “I fear… Oh, I do not even know how to say this.”

“It’s just us, Isla. Nothing you tell me goes back to Duncan.” I lean around her to meet her gaze. “You know that, right?”

She nods, her eyes glistening. “I do, and thank you. I know how close you and my brother are, and I appreciate that I do not need to worry about that.”

“He tells me nothing that you say to him in confidence either. Just as I’m not worried about you sharing something I said in confidence. We’ve worked all that out, thankfully.”

We worked it out with a stumble. A serious one. I confessed my truth—about time traveling—to Isla first, and that hurt Gray, more than I would have expected.

Isla walks in silence until we can see the lake, and then she blurts, “I fear the broken engagement was my fault.” Her head jerks, as if she is trying to pull back the words. “Not entirely. But partly. Then I think that, and I am…” She struggles for a word. “Uncomfortable. It feels like hubris.”

“Okay,” I say slowly.

“I kissed Hugh. It was awful.” Her eyes widen. “Not the kiss.” A choked sound that isn’t quite a laugh before she flushes. “That was not awful at all.”

“You kissed Hugh this morning?”

“What?” She stops and turns to look at me. “No, not this morning. Before my marriage.”

“You kissed Hugh when you were young.”

“No.” Another flush, this one paired with a guilt-ridden glance away. “Right before my marriage. The day before.”

“Oh.”

“That was the awful part,” she says. “It was the day before Lawrence and I planned to elope. Hugh was about to leave for London, and he came by to see Duncan, only Duncan had forgotten he was coming by, forgotten Hugh was leaving at all. You know how he can be.” Her lips twitch in a half smile. “I was there alone, and I invited Hugh to tea and he kissed me.”

“During tea?”

Her cheeks flame. “I stood to ring for the maid, and Hugh rose as well, and I was so close I nearly crashed into him. He told me Lawrence was not the man for me. He did not know of the elopement, of course, only that there was tension over our courtship, my parents refusing to let us marry. I had pretended the relationship was over, but Hugh knew better. He begged me to listen to my mother and Duncan. Then he kissed me. And I… I kissed him back.”

“Ah.”

“I fled after that. Said I did not mean it and ran upstairs, and Hugh did not follow. He left for London, and I spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous confusion. That kiss was… Confusing. I ought to have refused it. I ought to have been horrified by it. But I was not, and yet I loved Lawrence. I was marrying Lawrence.”

Her gaze turns my way. “I felt like a harlot. You will understand how ridiculous that is, as I do now. At the time, though? To be in love with one man and let another kiss me? To enjoy that kiss? To want to run after Hugh and ask what he meant by it?”

She crosses her arms, as if suddenly chilled. “I panicked. I should have analyzed the data and determined the cause. The cause being that I had convinced myself I was in love with Lawrence because he made me feel loved. He showered me with praise and affection, and I had never experienced that from a suitor.”

“In my time, we call that love bombing,” I say.

A brittle laugh. “That is exactly it. He bombarded me with what seemed like love when it was only artillery intended to break down my defenses and win himself a wealthy bride. He was so handsome and well regarded that I could not help but bask in his attention. If his kiss did not ignite me the way Hugh’s had—” She clears her throat. “The point is that, in my guilt and shame and confusion, I only became more determined to marry Lawrence. Which I did.”

“And then…”

“And then Hugh cut his trip short, came home, and ended his engagement to Violet.”

“Oh.”

She slants a look my way as we resume walking. “Once, after a glass of whisky, I said that I hoped it had nothing to do with our kiss, any guilt over it. He said no, that he had already been in the throes of uncertainty about the engagement when he kissed me, and he apologized for that. He blamed his confusion.”

“Over his engagement.”

“Yes, he said he was not himself. He was confused and worried that I was still seeing Lawrence, and in the turmoil of those emotions, he kissed me, and he was sorry if that had been upsetting. I said no, that it had been a time of confusion for me as well. We left it at that.”

“Okay.”

“But I have since wondered whether it could have been more. Whether he might have had deeper feelings for me.”

I’m about to answer that question when her next words stop me.

“I feared he might have had deeper feelings,” she says. “And then I feared he did not.” She flutters her hands. “Worse, it is what I still fear.”

“That he has deeper feelings for you? Or that he does not?”

“Both,” she says with obvious exasperation. She stops on the edge of the lake and looks out over it. “When we were children, Annis always counseled me not to be a foolish girl. To her, that was the worst thing a young woman could be, and so it became the same standard for me. Whatever else I might be—odd, awkward, wild in my thinking and my habits—at least I was not foolish. Then I grew up and became exactly that. The foolish girl who fell for Lawrence Ballantyne. After that, one would think I had learned my lesson. But clearly I did not, because I have grown into a foolish woman who, at the same time, both wants and fears a man’s romantic regard.”

Her words are like the swing of an anvil, and I’m half inclined to duck my head to avoid the blow. Wanting a man’s attention while being terrified of what it would mean? Why no, I’ve never felt that at all.

I say, very carefully, “That doesn’t seem all that foolish to me.” I clear my throat and shove thoughts of Gray aside to focus on Isla. “You have deeper feelings for Hugh?”

“Yes.” She blurts the admission like she’s confessing to wanting him dead. “I am a fool.”

“I can’t imagine thinking any woman foolish for liking Hugh. He is very easy to like.” I quickly add, “Not that I have any such feeling for him.”

She turns a small smile on me. “You do not need to explain. I understand very well where your affections lie, and what your feelings are for Hugh. Friendship. As mine should be.”

“Why?” I move up beside her to look out at the lake. “If I said I’m certain that he feels the same—”

“Do not. Please.”

“Okay.” I stand there, thinking.

She said she fears he doesn’t feel the same. That makes sense; who wants to like a guy who doesn’t like them back? In my case, I’m just hoping my feelings for Gray subside, like an inconvenient crush.

Yet she also said she fears Hugh feeling the same, and she just stopped me from saying I believe he does. Why would she not want Hugh to return her feelings?

The thought of Gray having feelings for me makes my heart jump… but it also makes my stomach drop, a little voice in me screaming No, no, no! That way lies heartache, because as much as I want to insist Simon is wrong, deep down, I fear he isn’t, that Gray and I would both be hurt.

I continue, slowly, “You’re afraid of Hugh having deeper feelings for you because it’s safer to stay friends. You have that much, and you don’t want to lose it.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re afraid you would lose it because your only experience with love is heartbreak.”

Her shoulders roll in discomfort. “Humiliation and shame. Not heartbreak. I never loved Lawrence. I only told myself I did.”

You don’t elope with someone you don’t care about. Even if it hadn’t been a great love, there’d still been heartbreak, on top of the humiliation and shame. Also, disappointment. Crushing disappointment.

She pivots to me. “What if Hugh does care for me? What if he kissed me because he cared for me back then? What if everything could have been different? If I could have ended things with Lawrence and been with Hugh instead.” Her eyes glisten. “What if I could have been happy?”

I take a moment before answering slowly, “How did you feel about Hugh when he kissed you? Did you love him?”

“What?” Her brows knit and she gives a short laugh. “Of course not. He was my younger brother’s friend. I was very fond of him, naturally, but he was…” Her hands flutter again. “Hugh.”

“And after that kiss? Did that make you think of him as more than Duncan’s best friend?”

Her face reddens. “Yes, but not as a possible husband. If I am to be forthright, as I know I can be with you”—her face goes even redder—“what it awakened were thoughts of desire, of physical want.”

“The thought that you might like to take Hugh as a lover. Not the thought that you might like to run away and marry him.”

If her face goes any redder, it’ll burst into flames. “Yes. That. If I saw him as more than Duncan’s friend, it was that I saw him as a desirable man. But not as a husband.”

“Well, then, I don’t think you can look back and wish you’d made another choice. I don’t think there was a choice to make. Not between Hugh or Lawrence, at least. You thought you loved Lawrence, and I suspect, at that age and point in your life, you were more interested in love than lust.”

She nods, her gaze lowered.

“Those deeper feelings for Hugh, did they come more recently? Since Lawrence died and your friendship deepened?”

“Our friendship deepened before Lawrence’s death, but yes, those feelings came only after my marriage had ended—in theory if not in fact. After Lawrence and I decided to live separate lives.”

“If Hugh had deeper feelings for you when he kissed you, that could have something to do with why he ended his engagement. He realized he wanted more from a lifelong partnership. If you’re worried that he ended his engagement before discovering you’d eloped?” I shrug. “He could have returned to Violet. She’d have taken him back.”

She nods, her gaze down.

“But whatever Hugh felt, you didn’t feel the same at the time. You didn’t choose between two men and pick the wrong one. You believed you were in love with one guy and chose to marry him.” I look her in the eye. “If you think you’ll make the same mistake with Hugh, he’s not Lawrence.”

“I know. But even if Hugh does feel that way about me, he’s impetuous. He could think he wants to be with me and then change his mind.”

“He was impetuous. That’s the young man who offered to marry you so you could study in England. The one who kissed you and begged you not to marry. The one who broke off his engagement. But that isn’t the man who had to deal with the consequences of that breakup—hurting Violet and being disowned by his parents—and still never went back on his decision. The one who is, if I’m right, courting you at the speed of molasses because he knows that’s what you need.”

Her lips twitch. “I am not overly familiar with molasses, but I presume it moves slowly.”

“So slowly. But it’s worth the wait. As Hugh thinks you are.”

Fresh spots of color darken her cheeks.

“Think about it,” I say. “There’s no rush, obviously. But if you have any doubts how Hugh feels? I’ve been here over a year now, and I’ve never seen him look at another woman. How long has it been since he date—courted someone?”

“I—I would not know. He hardly shares that information.”

“True, but I’m going to bet that you’ve known there were women, in the past, and now there aren’t. Maybe he just can’t find any. It’s too bad he’s so unattractive and ill-tempered.”

She smiles and shakes her head. Then she gestures at the bench. “We have long since arrived at our destination, and I know you need to investigate.”

“Sure, but there’s no rush. We can keep talking. Give me time to mention the way Hugh looks at you, the way he finds excuses to touch your hand, the way he jumps when you want something—”

“Investigate,” she says, jabbing a finger at the bench. “Or I will turn the discussion to how you feel about my brother.”

“Why, would you look at that? It’s the bench I need to examine for potential evidence.”

She shakes her head and leaves me to it.