She headed over to the stove and found the kettle. It was quite a stove, she thought—even quite a kettle, a work of art in well-polished copper. She put water on to boil, then turned, suddenly aware that she was being watched.
Bridey was there. Tiny, slim, yet straight as an arrow. She had silver hair, blue eyes and a face creased with kindness and compassion. She had smiled often in life, Caer thought.
But she wasn’t smiling now, as she pointed at Caer.
“I know who you are. What I don’t know is just what you’re doing here.”
7
It was damned difficult to be in a man’s house, trying to prove or disprove the idea that said man was the target of a murderer, and that the murderer, according to the man’s daughter, was his wife.
Zach tossed and turned for a while, then gave up and got out of bed. He was beyond exhausted, and he knew he wasn’t going to be any good to anyone if he didn’t get a decent night’s rest, but he was awake—wide awake. So he rose, slipped into his robe, and padded out of his room and down the stairs in his bare feet.
He paused just outside the kitchen, aware of the murmur of voices. He held perfectly still for a moment, trying to listen in. He wasn’t actually fond of eavesdropping, but right now, anything going on in this house was of interest.
But the voices were too low for him to make out any words, though he recognized both speakers: Caer—and Bridey.
He headed in, glad he had eschewed slippers for his bare feet, even though the hardwood floors were cold where there were no throw rugs. He was almost upon the two before they saw him, though it did him no good. He heard nothing, only saw Caer putting on the kettle, while Bridey sprang to life at the sight of him and headed for a cabinet for an extra cup.
“Zach,” the old woman said with pleasure. “You’ll be joining us, then, for a spot of tea?”
“It’s just what I came down for,” he said. “Thank you.”
“We’re brewing the real stuff, nothing herbal,” Caer warned.
“Ugh. Herbal,” he said, and smiled.
The two women had been engaged in an intense conversation. Now, they were talking about tea. What the hell had he interrupted?
Bridey, little bit of a thing that she was, pulled out a chair and said, “Sit, Zach.”
“Why don’t I serve you?” he suggested.
“Because I’m still whole in mind and body, and can manage to pour tea,” she said firmly. “Now, sit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and did as he was told.
Caer measured tea into the small strainer sitting on the teapot and poured boiling water through, while Bridey set cups, sugar and milk down on the table, along with spoons and napkins. “We’ve some scones somewhere,” she muttered.
“Just tea is fine,” he said.
“You’ll have a scone,” she said.
Caer looked at him, amusement in her eyes, along with a warning that he should simply obey.
She was wearing a flannel robe. Pale blue. Her hair was a cascade of midnight waves over the soft color, and her eyes looked like sapphires in contrast to the light shade of the robe. She was wearing pajamas beneath the robe, and matching slippers. They were new, he thought, and had come from one of the upscale shops whose bags she had been carrying the other day.
She wore the ensemble well. Very well.
“Caer and I were just talking about Ireland and the old ways,” Bridey said.
“Ah,” he replied, and smiled. Bull. Something important had been going on between the two of them. But neither one was going to tell him now.
Divide and conquer, he decided. Tomorrow, he would talk to each of them alone.
“Aha!” Bridey said with pleasure, opening the breadbox. “Fresh-baked blueberry scones. I’ll just pop the little darlings in the microwave and they’ll be ready to eat.”
Caer brought the steeping tea to the table and flashed the old woman a smile as she said, “Warm scones. That sounds lovely, Bridey.” She gazed at Zach. “You must be exhausted. What are you doing out of bed?”
“Overtired,” he said simply.
She poured his tea. “Cream and sugar?”
“Of course. Bridey will insist.”
“It’s the best way,” Bridey agreed, popping three scones into the microwave and setting the timer.
“So what were you two saying about Ireland?” he asked, nodding his thanks to Caer as she prepared his cup and handed it to him.
He couldn’t help noticing the thick dark lashes that covered her downcast eyes.
Bridey was the one to answer. “Oh, we were just talking about the old beliefs, such things as leprechauns—and the coming of the banshee.”
“Now, Bridey, you can’t still believe in leprechauns, can you?” he asked.
“I do,” Caer said lightly. “And why not? Never offend one—you’ll have bad luck forever.”
“Ah,” he acknowledged dryly.
“Hmph,” Bridey said. “You might think her highness got off the plane and offended a leprechaun the minute she stepped onto Irish soil, Sean was sick so quickly.”
Evidently Bridey wasn’t fond of Amanda, either.