Roses in Moonlight

Epilogue


Derrick paced along the hallway on the bottom level of his flat, from the front door to the kitchen and back again. Nervousness wasn’t in his nature, not truly, but then again, this was something big. Very big. Very important to someone he loved very much.

He heard her coming just as he’d touched the door again. He turned and watched as his wife came down the stairs. It should have been less gobsmacking than it was, that sight. He’d been married to her for six months, after all, and should have been accustomed enough to the sight of her.

Fresh-faced Yank that she was, a girl who had to spend a certain amount of time in Scotland every fortnight or she began to wilt.

He wasn’t sure he was equal to telling her just how much he loved her.

So he decided he would take matters into his own hands and show her—

He ran into her hand as she stood on the bottom step.

“Not on your life.”

He frowned. “I was just going to kiss you.”

“No, you weren’t just going to kiss me and, no, you can’t hug me, either. You’ll wrinkle my suit.”

“It could be put back on the hanger temporarily.”

She blew her hair out of her eyes. “Derrick, really. I’m close to throwing up.”

“That’s why I’m here to distract you,” he said. He smiled pleasantly. “Altruistic, as usual.”

“Self-serving, as usual,” she said, but she smiled as she said it. “If I get through this evening without puking all over his gallery floor, then we’ll talk. Right now, I just need to go get this over with.”

“All right,” he said with a sigh. He pulled his earbud out of his pocket, taped a mic to his cheek, then leaned forward and carefully kissed her on the cheek before he turned his phone on.

“Got you,” Oliver said.

“Here as well,” Peter said. “Rufus in front in three.”

Derrick looked at Samantha to find she was gaping at him. “What?” he asked in surprise.

“Are you taking the lads with us?”

“Of course. Where’s the sport otherwise?”

“Sport,” she said, with hardly any sound to her voice. “Sport?”

“Samantha, my love, you’re about to go to a gallery opening featuring your art. Your brother has knelt in front of you and begged you to give him exclusive rights to sell your paintings and we forced him to reduce his fee to an obscenely low ten percent. I’m in a suit. What more do you want?”

“What are Oliver and Peter planning on doing?” she wheezed.

“Making sure no one fingers anything hanging on the wall and taking copious notes of all the compliments heaped upon your lovely head. What else?”

“Laxatives in Gavin’s foie gras?”

“Caught that,” Oliver said. “Brilliant idea.”

Derrick smiled. “I’m sure they’ll be on their best behavior. You look lovely. I imagine Rufus is outside.”

She stopped him with her hand on his arm. “Do I really look okay?”

“Lovely,” Oliver chimed in.

“Gorgeous,” Peter agreed.

“Shut up, the both of you,” Derrick suggested. He looked at Samantha. “You’re stunning and your carriage awaits. Shall we?”

She took a deep breath, took his arm, then nodded. He locked up behind them, then opened the door for her to get in the back of Cameron’s black Mercedes. Rufus congratulated her on her upcoming success, then got them out into traffic with a minimum of fuss.

Derrick held her hand, then shifted so he could look at her. She was still looking a little green, but he supposed that couldn’t be helped. He took her hand in both his own, then stroked the back of it because he knew it soothed her. Heaven knew it as the least he could do in return for all the ways she’d run interference for him over the past seven months, though he would have done it anyway simply because he loved her.

They had spent the month they’d been engaged in Stratford in a large manor house with several bedrooms. He’d tried to send Oliver and Peter off to actually do some business, but they’d insisted they needed to lounge about uselessly on the off chance that some theretofore undiscovered ruffian appeared and tried to vex Samantha. Him, they cared much less about. He had apparently been all on his own.

Well, all on his own except for his future father-in-law, who had seemingly been delighted to accept an invitation to take up residence in one of the bedrooms—the one between Derrick’s and Samantha’s, as it happened—an invitation Derrick couldn’t quite remember having extended.

It had been surprisingly pleasant. He had offered Richard the keys to the Vanquish, Richard had complimented him on his performance during rehearsals, and father and daughter had occasionally gone for long walks together. Derrick had happily accepted the occasional invitation to come along. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that perhaps it had been Louise McKinnon to be the fly in the soup. Samantha had come to terms with that without fuss, but she had seemingly enjoyed her time with her father who had accepted a sketch of the original Globe—looking particularly authentic, it had to be noted—with a brisk nod and a rough clearing of his throat. Relationship healed.

And when it came to him, Samantha had been ferociously protective. She had more often than not been the one to poach his earpiece and mic and work out with Oliver and Peter peace and quiet for him to rehearse. It had been a novel sensation, that of being looked after for a change. And she had sat through every one of his performances with tears streaming down her face.

They had married quietly in the village chapel the week after the show closed, with only his family and hers in attendance. Well, he supposed he counted the lads and the MacLeods in his family and she counted Gideon and Megan de Piaget, her great-aunt Mary, and her father in hers.

Cameron had thrown an enormous party for them at the keep, then done them the very great favor of taking his family and camping in Derrick’s boyhood home for a few nights, leaving them the castle itself.

Because he was a Cameron himself, after all.

He had thanked his laird very kindly for the concession a couple of days later, then taken his bride and gotten on with their lives.

Well, they’d spent a month backpacking through the Continent, looking at old things and famous art, but perhaps that was beside the point. Samantha wanted to be in Scotland when they weren’t in London and he had loved her for it.

And so they had set up shop in his flat until they could find something more suitable, he had gone back to work, and she had gotten to arting—along, of course, with agreeing to dispense her expertise in antique textiles. She had been given her own earphone and mic and proved to be very adept at distracting buyers with discussions of how best to display their new treasure whilst secretaries wrote out eye-watering cheques to Cameron Antiquities, Ltd.

The other half of their life they spent in Scotland in the house by the sea that had slowly accumulated first the necessities, then the comforts. Samantha’s flawless Gaelic had helped pave her way into the hearts of the villagers, along with periodic visits by her father, who had apparently over the years taken very seriously his own Scottish roots and the need to keep the mother tongue alive. Derrick supposed what had cemented things for them had been a visit from Samantha’s mother who had swept in like a banshee, offended everyone within earshot, then swept back out again, trailing shards of sharp things in her wake. Perhaps pity wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

“And here we are,” Rufus said brightly. “Ah, and someone to come get the door.” He looked at Samantha in the rearview mirror. “Break a leg, ducks.”

She smiled sickly and thanked him. Derrick got out first, then held down his hand to help her out. He put his arm around her shoulders very carefully so as not to muss either her suit or her hair, then took her hand and kissed it.

“Surviving?”

“I’ve been popping those antinausea things Sunny gave me all day and they’re just not working.” She looked up. “This isn’t just morning sickness, this is terror.”

“What do you have to be afraid of?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

He shook his head. “Sam, whilst I think your brother is a git of the first water, I must admit that he has an uncanny knack for spotting talent, either in this century or those gone by. Would it ease you any to know I never go after paintings when he’s anywhere in the area?”

“You’ve already told me that,” she said, sounding rather ill. “Five times today.”

“There was six. He knows talent when he sees it, damn him anyway. He had no idea until yesterday that you were the artist. If he’d thought you had no talent, he wouldn’t have insisted on the show in the first place. If learning the artist was his sister had made him uneasy, he would have canceled the show without a second’s hesitation.”

She looked up at him. “Think so?”

“I know so,” Derrick said with feeling. “I’ve watched him do it before. He once called off a deal as the cheque was being smoothed out in preparation for the signature. He’s ruthless.”

“And I’m only giving him ten percent?”

“Aye,” Derrick said with satisfaction. “Which he agreed to almost without clenching his fists.”

He offered her his arm, then led her to the gallery doors that opened to reveal her brother standing there, looking extremely relieved.

“I was almost afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said.

“Really?” she asked in surprise. “Why not?”

“Better offer,” he said sourly, shooting Derrick a glare. He held open the door and allowed her to proceed inside.

Derrick found himself almost running into Gavin’s forearm.

“You ruthless . . .” Gavin seemed to be struggling to find just the right insult.

Derrick only smiled, ducked under his arm, and walked into the gallery. He patted Gavin on the shoulder when the man caught up to him, then elbowed him out of the way so he could get to the guest of honor. Derrick exchanged a brief glance with his wife, lifted an eyebrow, then watched her walk onstage, as it were.

She was marvelous.

After a pair of hours spent either trailing discreetly behind her or positioning himself near important people to listen to their praise, he found himself sitting on a bench, flanked by Oliver and Peter.

“What’d we ever do without her?” Peter said with a sigh.

“Don’t know,” Oliver answered. “She’s a right proper lad, isn’t she?”

Derrick scowled at them both in turn. “Don’t you two have anything better to do than moon over my wife?”

Oliver sat up suddenly. “Oy, that bloke is getting awfully too close, wouldn’t you say?”

“That bloke, Oliver my lad, is the Duke of Clarence,” Derrick said dryly. “You might want to leave him alone.”

“He’s still standing a mite too close,” Oliver said, rising effortlessly to his feet. “I’ll just go be a presence.”

Derrick imagined he would. He lost Peter a few minutes afterward only to be soon joined by Cameron himself and Samantha’s father, Richard. He looked first at his father-in-law.

“What do you think?”

“I think she’s wonderful,” Richard said frankly. “And she deserves every bit of success she’s having tonight.”

Derrick had to agree. He looked at his cousin. “Thank you.”

Cameron shrugged, but he was smiling. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You married your wife who is keeping my wife from sicking up her supper on the Duke of Clarence’s well-polished shoes.”

Cameron laughed a little. “There is that, I suppose.” He shook his head. “You two are quite a pair. Why do I have the feeling you’re not only going to be buying a bigger flat here in London, but one in Stratford as well?”

“One show a year,” Derrick said. “Samantha insisted.”

“And you stomped your little foot and refused until she insisted, is that it?”

Derrick looked at his cousin coolly. “You’re about to lose your good seats, you know.”

Cameron only laughed a little. “I want you to feel properly abused over that mighty secret you kept for so long. And nay, you needn’t return the favor, though I am curious why you’re only doing one a year.”

“I don’t think I can stand being in the same ten square miles with Connor more often than that.”

“He behaved himself this summer,” Cameron pointed out.

“Aye, because a ghost or two I know paid him a visit or two,” Derrick said with a snort. He looked at Cameron, then shook his head. “How I got mixed up in anything of a paranormal nature, I don’t know.”

“Has it been worth it?” Cameron asked with a faint smile.

“Of course.”

Derrick found himself soon abandoned by his companions. Aye, he would have to make another list and add it to the Cameron-Drummond Book of Lists that Samantha tended religiously. Because his wife was a maker of lists and he liked making lists of the things he loved about her as often as possible.

He stood up when he saw her walking toward him, then sighed lightly as she walked into his embrace.

“Well?” he asked quietly.

“Gavin’s chortling. I think that means it was a success.”

“He’s glaring daggers at me, which tells me it was a huge success.” He pulled back only far enough to look at her. “Are you finished with being feted, or shall we stay?”

She paused, then took his hand. “Just one more thing.”

He followed her across the gallery, then around a corner to a hallway he hadn’t been down before. He frowned at the pictures hanging on the walls because they weren’t paintings, they were photographs.

“Is your brother stealing photographers now?” he asked with a half laugh.

“You’ll see.”

He continued with her to the end of the wall, then jumped a little when she simply pulled a picture off the wall.

“Sam, I’m not sure he’ll be able to live with this,” he warned.

She took a deep breath, turned, then handed him the framed photograph.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Oh, just something I Photoshopped,” she said dismissively. “I’m not a good photographer, but they were images I thought you might like.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Just a little thank-you for tonight.”

He looked at the photograph and shook his head slowly. There was the Globe—something he would lay money on Oliver having taken in the past—then their house in Scotland, then the sea washing up to both. Roses bloomed between the theater and the house, just as they did in their favorite garden in Stratford. He started to compliment her, then looked more closely. He could have been wrong, perhaps, but he was just certain in front of the Globe was the faint imagine of a man dressed in an Elizabethan doublet and hose. He looked at Samantha.

“Who is that?”

“Sir Richard Drummond.” She shrugged. “I had to paint him, because he doesn’t photograph very well.”

He started to speak, then shook his head. “I won’t ask. I am curious, though, why black and white?”

She shrugged. “It felt old.”

“Why the roses? Are they from Stratford?”

“Scotland,” she said. “From Sunny’s garden. Because you took me out there in the moonlight and made me feel beautiful.” She smiled up at him. “That’s all.”

He put his arms around her and held her close for several minutes, finding himself in spite of his usual glibness simply unable to speak.

“I love you,” he managed finally.

“I love you,” she said, hugging him tightly. “Let’s go home.”

• • •

Two men leaned against the outside wall of the gallery and watched as a handsome couple was picked up in a sleek black Mercedes and ferried off to their home.

“Well, Ambrose,” said one, “that was a right proper evening for them both.”

“Aye, Hugh, it was,” said the other. “All’s well that ends well, especially when there are canny Scots behind the scenes.”

The first sighed and flexed his fingers. “Heard Drummond’s doing King Lear tonight.”

“Well, the Globe is just around the corner.”

“I’ve brought tomatoes and other overripe fruits appropriate for the moment.”

And then Ambrose MacLeod, laird of the clan MacLeod during the marvelous flowering of the Renaissance, smiled, pushed away from the wall, and then followed his compatriot into the cool evening air.