Roses in Moonlight

chapter 12





Derrick had never thought he would die on a frozen tundra, but perhaps he deserved it for all the times he had leaned on hapless collectors of antiquities to inspire them to relinquish their goods.

Or perhaps he was languishing on the burning Sahara. At the moment, he honestly couldn’t tell where he was. He was alternately parched and freezing, so perhaps he’d merely been consigned to a circle of hell he’d never read about.

And then the voices began.

“Aren’t you going to ask me if we should take him to the hospital?”

“Nay, Sunny, I’ll trust the herbs. And you.”

Derrick tried to frown, but it was too much effort. He was listening to Gaelic, but the cadence was slightly off. He’d learned the mother tongue, of course, because he was a Scot and because it had irritated his father . . .

He managed a frown then. He hadn’t thought about either of his parents in years. He missed his mother, occasionally, though he never thought of her without wishing that she had been a little more willing to stand up to his father. His father, that arrogant punter, had looked down on everything that smacked of Scotland as if it were less somehow than what was to be found south of the border. Or at least he had when he hadn’t been angling for the job of laird of what was left of the clan Cameron, though that had been merely for the power of it, not for the love of it. Derrick was sure that if he hadn’t had his grandfather there to instill a bit of proper Scottish pride into him, he never would have amounted to anything.

He drank something at one point that was so bitter, his eyes watered and his tongue took flight. Someone called him a useless woman. He was certain his retort to that nameless, faceless insulter had been brisk and to the point, but before he could recall the words and examine them for their beauty, they slipped away from him.

Time crawled.

“He thought you were a thief?”

“Yes. I can’t really blame him, though. I don’t think he knew anything about me except that I was staying with the Cookes.”

Derrick pursed his lips, but found they were slightly more numb than he would have liked them to be. That was a Yank speaking there. Her name was there as well, just past where his numb lips resided in a swirling vortex of swords and lace and Roman soldiers stomping through his brain, but it was too much trouble to reach for it. He closed his eyes and sighed.

A woman laughed lightly. “I’m surprised he didn’t have your entire life history at his fingertips.”

“It isn’t a very interesting life, and I’m not sure my degrees would have exonerated me.”

“And why is that?”

“Because they are, unfortunately, in antique textiles.”

Derrick realized he was listening to Sunny and Samantha. He was rather proud of that feat, actually. He struggled to open his eyes, but that was impossible.

“Oh, look, he’s awake,” Sunny said cheerfully. “Let’s get some more of that tonic down him.”

He tried to protest, truly he did. But all opening his mouth earned him was a gallon of Sunny’s worst brew poured down his throat. He swallowed, because he had to, then spat out a few choice curses. Unfortunately, that was all he spat, because that vile liquid was burning its way down his gullet to rest happily in a spot he might have called his belly at any other time. At the moment, his tum felt more like an enormous medieval hearth where there lay roasting half a bloody tree. He gasped out a plea for aid, but only had cackling laughter as a reward.

He slid into senselessness accompanied by what he was just sure he wasn’t hearing.

Double, double, toil and trouble.

He certainly had enough of both.

• • •

He woke. It took him several moments to become accustomed to that fact, but it was inescapable. He felt as if he’d been run over, then rolled over by a steamroller, then left there to have sand sprayed over him to mitigate the effects of a good snowfall. He was certain that the snow gritter had concentrated on his eyes alone, because they felt as if they were full of rocks. He would have rubbed them, but he simply didn’t have the strength. He wasn’t a fatalist by nature, but he hoped the next time he was overcome by an Elizabethan sword wound, someone would just do the right thing and put him out of his misery.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he managed to turn his head to see if anyone was by his bedside, worried about his condition. Well, there was someone sitting by his bedside, but she seemed to be less worried about him than she was about checking her email.

Not only was she checking her email, she was doing it on his tablet. He would have frowned sternly, but he didn’t want to waste any energy on that. He was saving it up to give her a proper dressing down, but he couldn’t quite remember for what. Then it occurred to him that she was using his tablet.

“Hey,” he croaked, “how’d you break into that?”

She didn’t even have the decency to look up, the heartless wench. She only continued to poke at the screen. “Lord Robert gave me the password,” she said absently.

“How’d he know it?” he rasped.

“He said you’d ask that.”

He waited, but she was obviously not going to be divulging anything on her own. “Well?” he demanded.

“He said to tell you, and I quote, that he has a brain, too, you idiot, and what were you thinking not to call Sunny sooner?”

Derrick would have snorted, but he thought that might upset the delicate balance he was maintaining between feeling like death and actually dying. He closed his eyes briefly, concentrated on breathing in and out for a bit longer, then attempted speech again.

“I believe the last bit, but not the first.” He opened his eyes and looked at her again. “How did he get my password?”

She was watching him solemnly. He wondered how it was that a certain sort of ambient light coming through diaphanous curtains could take a woman’s hair from uninspired brown to a lovely mahogany that sported strands of red here and there. Her face was, he had to admit, less stunning than it was simply lovely, all pale-skinned with a handful of freckles across her nose, as if she hadn’t spent much time in the sun. He imagined that was the case, given that she’d no doubt been putting in her time in some museum or other. Or apparently altering costumes for her father.

“Your password?” she said absently. “Well, I’m not sure I should tell you how he got it.”

“I don’t have it written down anywhere,” Derrick said crossly. “What’d he do? Beat it out of me?”

She only shook her head.

He tried to sit up, but that left him almost breathless with the aftereffects of what he supposed had been a colossal fever. He held out his hand. “Give me the tablet.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He shook his hand impatiently at her. “I need it now.”

She looked at him as if she couldn’t decide whether to hand it over or clunk him over the head with it. Good manners apparently won out because she simply laid it on the bed next to him, got up, and walked out of the room. She shut the door softly behind her.

He considered. It was possible that he had been too long in the company of thugs and their bad habits had rubbed off on him. It was also possible that he hadn’t dated anyone seriously in several years and that the bad manners of the women he did see casually had, somewhere along the line, begun to seem acceptable.

Or it was possible that he was just an ass who, judging by the date on his watch, had been completely unconscious for almost three days and had just been rude to his nurse?

“Miss Drummond,” he croaked loudly.

She didn’t return, though he honestly hadn’t expected her to. He supposed he was lucky she didn’t open the door and throw a bucket of ice water on him. He forced himself into a sitting position, was rather grateful he hadn’t eaten to have anything to throw up, then continued to sit until the stars stopped swirling around his head. It took a bit, but enough feeling finally returned in his legs that he could sense he was wearing trousers. It was for damned sure that he couldn’t see them at the moment.

He waited until the waves of nausea receded and his head stopped pounding long enough for him to actually open his eyes and peer at what he was wearing.

MacLeod plaid. Sunny’s doing, obviously.

He wondered if Samantha realized the insult that had been paid to his unconscious self, then decided he didn’t care if she did or not. He had been polite to her, because he’d felt bad about misjudging her. Now, what he needed her to do was get him through the gate, lead him to the place where she’d stashed the lace, then come back with him so he could get the lace back to Lord Epworth and the Cookes to Scotland Yard. He had no other use for her than that, no matter what his cousin and that cousin’s wife had dressed him in, no doubt giggling like schoolgirls whilst they’d been about it.

And then once he was finished with his present business, he was going to get on with his life. He had plans to start dating, big plans, important plans that he would see to, aye, just as soon as he solved his current case.

Never mind that he’d just decided that at the very instant the thought had occurred to him.

There was a T-shirt thrown over the bottom of the bed. He managed to get it over his head without undue distress, but he supposed that would have to do for any and all grooming efforts for the day. His arm ached abominably, which he found slightly disconcerting. He touched the puncture wound gingerly, hardly daring to speculate on what had found its way inside. There was a bandage there, but he didn’t imagine Sunny had put in stitches. If she’d done more than just put a plaster on it after packing it with her miracle salve, he would have been very surprised.

He gathered his courage, then got to his feet. He staggered to the door, then leaned against it for several minutes until he thought he could get the door open and continue on.

He tottered into the sitting room and managed to get to the sofa, but no farther. He sat down heavily, then put his hand over his eyes and simply breathed until he thought he could open his eyes and not have the world continue to spin wildly around him. He squinted at the coffee table in front of him and blinked in surprise. Waiting there was tea, broth, and juice. He suspected that wasn’t for Samantha’s benefit. He wasn’t sure any of it looked very appetizing, but he wasn’t going to be ungracious. Well, any more than he had been already.

He looked up to find Samantha sitting in a chair at the table, watching him.

“Thank you,” he said.

It came out more brusquely than he had intended, but what did she expect? His arm was on fire, his head felt as if it were stuffed with gauze, and there was a piece of Elizabethan lace sitting somewhere under a planter four hundred years in the past and it was that woman sitting over there’s fault.

“You’re welcome.”

He scowled. Why didn’t she just stand up to him and give him a right proper ticking off?

He didn’t want to think about why that bothered him so much, so he simply didn’t. He ate what he thought he could manage, then sat back and tried to ignore how dreadful he felt.

He needed a vacation. In fact he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a vacation. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps he shouldn’t take a vacation at a charm school.

His head was pounding, his tum was far from settled, and he thought he might have to soon go have a little lie-down. And still his lace languished in a place where it shouldn’t. He looked at Samantha to find her looking off into the distance where he wasn’t. He sighed, then set his computer on the table.

“I think I might have to sleep a bit more.”

“Sure.”

He pushed his tablet toward her. “Surf all you like, if you want.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything.

“We’ll try to go tonight.”

She looked at him in surprise. “You’re kidding.”

He wished he were. “I can’t leave that lace behind any longer.”

“But you’re in no shape—”

“I will be,” he interrupted sharply.

She didn’t reply and for some reason that irritated the hell out of him.

“How did Cameron get my password?” he demanded.

She looked at him then. “He asked you while you were delirious. He pretended to be the ghost of Christmas future, promised dire retribution if you didn’t cough up the goods, and you blurted it out like a man with a secret.”

He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her say so many things in one sentence.

He imagined his cousin had greatly enjoyed his role as reproving ghost. Perhaps there was something to be grateful for that it had been Cameron in the role and not some damned ghost in truth. In his delirium, though, he likely wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.

“Unsurprising,” was all he could manage to say, though he supposed it was a particularly lame comment on the whole situation, a situation that was absolutely untenable. His arm was killing him, which led him to wonder briefly if he shouldn’t have had a proper doctor look at it. His computer had been compromised—with help, apparently—by a woman who was too polite to tell him to get over himself.

And he still had lace where it shouldn’t have been, but he was honestly not at all sure he would manage to get to it before someone else did.

He decided that perhaps the best thing he could do was get himself back to bed and rest for the afternoon. He took a deep breath, then pushed himself to his feet.

He supposed, looking at it in hindsight, it was the deep breath that had been unwise. Perhaps he should have fortified himself with several, as well as a lad on either side to keep him upright. Instead, what he had was Samantha Drummond, doing her best to make sure he didn’t destroy the coffee table.

She caught him before he fell. He supposed it was just dumb luck that the table was topped with marble instead of glass. As it was, he heard something give under the weight of his knee on it. A porcelain saucer, perhaps.

“Sorry,” he gasped.

She put her arms around him and simply held on to him, cleverly avoiding his shoulder. “Breathe,” she suggested.

He supposed that was good advice. He didn’t want to rest his chin on her shoulder, but in his defense, he was not at his best at present. He patted her back, because his hand was there and it seemed like a friendly thing to do.

“I think I’m going to be ill,” he wheezed.

“Please not down the sweater,” she said. “It’s cashmere.”

“Textile snob.”

She laughed a little. “If you only knew.” She simply stood there for a bit longer, apparently having to brace herself solidly to keep him from pitching forward onto her. “How are you?”

“Still considering ruining your sweater.”

“You know, you might feel better if you didn’t talk so much.”

He would have laughed, but it was simply beyond him at the moment. Instead, he did as she had suggested and simply breathed until he thought he could make it back to his bed.

“Better,” he managed.

She put one hand on his good shoulder, then the other on his chest and held him steady until he could right himself. He was afraid he found it quite impossible to stay on his feet without holding on to her, even with the coffee table sitting between them.

It didn’t bode well for his evening.

“I feel better,” he announced weakly.

“Sure you do. Here, let’s get you back to bed.”

He found he simply didn’t have the strength to argue with her. It was taking all his energy just to keep his gorge where it belonged.

He didn’t fight her when she eased around the table, then drew his good arm over her shoulder. He was fairly sure he’d gasped out an apology or two, but it was entirely possible he’d imagined that.

Samantha stopped him just inside his bedroom. “Bathroom?”

“Egads, woman,” he gasped, “my dignity.”

“Which will be more seriously damaged if I have to rescue you with your trousers down around your ankles.”

He wasn’t quite sure there was any farther south he could travel when it came to his pride, so he nodded, accepted her as a crutch, then stumbled along with her to the loo.

Five minutes later thanks to sheer determination, he got the door open and managed not to fall into her arms.

“You look green.”

“I feel worse.”

“Back to bed with you, then.”

He wasn’t about to argue. He managed to get himself flat without ripping open his shoulder, but he supposed that was more Samantha’s doing than his. She peered at his shoulder.

“I think that might be starting to bleed.”

“This is my favorite . . . T-shirt,” he managed.

“I guess you could pretend it’s marinara.”

He looked at her and did his best not to see two of her. “Had to tell him something believable.”

“Well, the truth wouldn’t qualify for that,” she said, sounding increasingly far away. “I’m going to call Sunny.”

He closed his eyes. “Cameron once thought she was . . . a witch.”

“Is she?”

He shook his head, which was a very bad idea. “Herbalist.”

“Want a doctor instead?”

“Please, nay,” he said. “Just Sunny.”

“I think that’s wise. I’m not sure how you’d explain this otherwise. I’ll go call her.”

He made a grab for her arm, which was a failure. She paused at the foot of his bed.

“What?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Arse.”

“Yes, I believe you are.”

He didn’t bother to argue. He simply closed his eyes and fought the urge to lean over the side of the bed and vomit. He was fairly certain Sunny could fix that by working on his feet, but he wasn’t sure she would be willing to after Samantha got through describing his behavior, which she no doubt would. Damn her.

He realized with a bit of a start that he was angry, but he couldn’t decide whom he was angry with. Himself, definitely, because he was being rude and couldn’t seem to stop himself. Samantha Drummond, absolutely, because she wouldn’t tell him to go to hell.

He just wanted to have it all over with so he could get her and that damned piece of lace out of his life once and for all. He didn’t know her, but he was sure he wouldn’t like her if he did. Too mousy.

Of course, another lad might have called that characteristic gentleness or kindness, but he was who he was. He liked fast cars and brittle women, truly he did.

He knew he was beginning to drool, but he couldn’t stop himself. All he could do was cling to the last vestiges of thought and concentrate on a plan. He would brush up on his accent when he had a minute, get himself and Samantha Drummond to the appropriate spot, then get in and out of Elizabethan England with a minimum of fuss.

And then he would be done with everything associated with the ill-advised venture.