“Both.” He slammed the palm of his hand against the steering wheel.
“Is he in financial trouble?”
“He has a flat off Cadogan Place, about a mile from mine. He drives a new Mercedes and wears Anderson & Sheppard.”
“Doesn’t answer my question.”
Rick slammed on the brakes and the jeep veered right, nearly running them into a pine tree. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to know how much money he has?”
Great. Yelling now. Even if he wasn’t mad at her, he was mad. Earlier-Sam would have made herself scarce until he finished snarling. Now-Sam was engaged, and according to magazines and talk shows, engaged and married people supported each other. “Beats the crap out of me,” she said, giving an exaggerated shrug. “I figured if he’s after things to sell, it must be for some reason or other. If you’re not willing to give him anything, that must be for some reason or other. Whatever it is, I’m on your side. Fuck him.”
“I didn’t write the British laws of inheritance. I certainly couldn’t control the order in which my father and his brother were born. Yes, my father started me out with millions. I’ve turned it into billions. That was me. I don’t owe Reginald a damned dime.” He turned halfway in his seat to face her. “I buy cars through him. Does the ponce think I need to do that? What more does he want?”
This really sounded like something she needed to stay clear of. “I’m just guessing,” she said, anyway, “but it seems like maybe he wants to be known as Reginald Addison, and not the ‘cousin of Rick Addison’.” She made the air quotes to emphasize her point. “And I don’t think you can do anything about that, really.”
Rick looked at her for a couple of heartbeats. Facing forward again, he backed the jeep onto the road and continued forward again. “He wants to grab hold of an old mystery,” he went on, his voice still edged with annoyance. “I’m not going to help him do it. If he wants to bury himself in that muck, he’s on his own.”
“A mystery?” she repeated.
“No, you don’t. Some things only work because they are mysteries. Leave this one be.”
It seemed like a bad time to remind him that he wasn’t the boss of her, but she said it to herself, anyway. Since she already knew this had something to do with a map and a highwayman’s treasure, a little more subtle digging wouldn’t cause any harm. Especially if he didn’t know she was doing it. “You’re mad at Reggie,” she said aloud. “I’m not helping him.”
“Good.” He turned off the main road and into the village. “And thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
He pulled into a small parking lot where a goose and a bicycle took up half the remaining spots. As he pulled free the key, Samantha opened her door and hopped to the ground. No one here knew she’d claimed a bum ankle. If she decided to come down here later on her own, she wanted the option of moving unremembered and unseen – if that was even possible in a village of four hundred or so people.
“Are you on my side?”
She looked over the hood of the jeep at him. “Of course I am.”
“We’ve been on opposite sides before.”
Great. Another surprise conversation – just when she’d thought she was getting the hang of being part of a duo. “I don’t get why you’re asking me that. Do you think I have secret plans to tell Reggie you keep a stash of Peanut Butter M&M’s in your desk or something?”
“I know you heard the words ‘treasure map’ this morning, and there you stand, not asking me a word about it. I may be the suspicious sort, and I may even be paranoid on occasion, but even taking that into consideration—“
“You’re a jerk.” Turning on her heel, stifling the thought that he made a really good point, Samantha marched up to the paned-glass door of The Bonny Lass. The chalk sign hung in the window said it was open, so she pulled open the door and stepped inside.
The half dozen men inside the long, low-ceilinged room all looked up at her. For a second, she thought she’d walked into a Tarantino movie. Nobody pulled out a machete or one of those big Braveheart claymore swords or anything, and so she nodded at the giant behind the bar. “Do you care if I sit by the window?”
“Nae. Plant yerself wherever ye like, lass.”
She smiled. “Thanks. How’s your mulled cider?”
“Nae as good as my straight whisky, but I reckon it willnae kill ye.” The barkeep looked past her, straightening to his full height as he did so. “Bless my eyes. Lads, MacKenzie down at the post office had the right of it; the laird’s returned to Canniebrae.”
“I’ll have a glass of that straight whisky you just recommended,” Rick said, his voice as smooth as if he hadn’t been accusing her of being a traitor thirty seconds ago. She ignored him as she claimed the seat looking out the window.
The chair opposite her pulled out. “So I’m a jerk because I pointed out that it’s curious you’re not more curious?”
“That’s not what you said.” She kept her gaze out the window, following the path of the wandering goose as it grazed along the base of the shop wall opposite, pausing to shake rain off its gray back.
“If you’re going to be petulant, then let’s head back to the house,” he murmured, pulling out his wallet to pay for the drinks they hadn’t even received yet.
“’Petulant’,” she repeated, snapping her gaze back to him, to that lean face and those Caribbean-blue eyes presently glaring at her. “You asked if I was on your side. What the fuck have I ever done, since day damn one, to make you ask that question?”
That had done it. The more she thought about it, the madder she got. Yeah, she’d done some stuff behind his back, mostly to protect him. But she’d never – ever – done a single damned thing to harm him. Not from the moment they met. And taking his side had ended her career (illegal or not), most of her so-called friendships, and the entire path that she’d set for her life.
His eyes narrowed. People didn’t call him out on stuff, and most of them didn’t argue with him. Well, she wasn’t most people, and if he thought he could insult her just because he was mad about other crap and she was convenient, he either needed to be set straight or she needed to pack her bags. She glared right back at him.
A pair of glasses hit the table in between them. A glass and a pewter mug, but it was enough to make her blink and look up as the giant folded his arms across his chest. “Ye’re the mysterious American lass the laird’s set to marry, aye?” he asked.
Rick’s jaw jumped. He wanted to answer for her, she knew, make sure she didn’t say something that would raise questions. Something like “maybe”, or “we’ll see about that”. She smiled. “That’s the rumor.”
Chuckling, he cocked his head. “Canniebrae’s been empty for near twenty years now. The pair of ye thinking to settle in the Highlands?”
“I—”
“Mostly attempting to escape the press,” Rick interrupted.
Samantha couldn’t help staring at him. He’d actually just spilled the plan. Out loud. To a stranger. Either the thing with his cousin had sent him off the deep end, or… Well, it had to be that, because otherwise, cripes.
The big Scotsman nodded. “We’re a fine place to hide out for a time, then. The tourists come in summer, and a few to see the snow in the winter. Ye willnae be staying through the winter though, aye? They say it gets a might cold up in the castle these days.”
“Just a few weeks,” Rick returned. “And I’d appreciate if no one here spreads the word about our presence.”
“Dunnae ye fret about that, m’laird. We ken how to keep a secret. I reckon ye’ve got a few ye keep, as well, aye?”
“Clearly I couldn’t say.”
With a snort the giant wandered off to repeat the exchange to the men who’d gathered along the bar. Rather than go back to a glaring contest, Samantha picked up the mug of mulled cider and breathed it in. Warm and cinnamon and that faint antiseptic smell of liquor that made her dislike most of it. Settling with her back against the window, she
took a swallow. Not bad, actually. “That was weird.”
Rick shrugged. “They’re the ‘second quaintest village in the Highlands,’ remember? I doubt they want our paparazzi circus coming around.”
It made sense, but he practically had a doctorate in keeping his business to himself. To blurt it out like that--
“Why haven’t you asked about the treasure map?” Rick asked, interrupting her train of thought with a much more annoying one.
She took another swallow of her cider. “I’m not answering you until you apologize to me. That really pissed me off.”
His glass left the table. A second later it returned, empty. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I know you’re on my side. I should have asked whether you mean to go after the so-called treasure on your own.”
“That’s the stupidest apology ever. So you keep your treasure map and arguments with your cousin to yourself, and I’ll keep cataloguing the castaways in your attic. If you want me involved, you ask me. Otherwise assume that family spats make me queasy, and I don’t want to go anywhere near them. Especially the ones about money.”
And if she meant to find out more about the treasure map, that was her business. It was practically self-preservation. As for any treasure that might fall out of a wall somewhere, Rick could have it. She loved the chase; the idea of treasure, especially if it was old, fascinated her, but even when he was being a stubborn jerk she chose Rick Addison.
He was still mad at whatever, so after half an hour she got up and left the pub. The rain had dwindled to a scattered mist, and she ignored it as she walked up the street. Big bowls of flowers hung from the eaves, making the shops and tiny market look even more quaint than they already were. It was nearly five o’clock, and the hardware store, bakery, and grocery were already closed for the day. The sidewalks probably rolled up at sunset – which hit pretty early this far north.
Small houses one street back more than likely belonged to the shop owners. Some of them looked at least Shakespeare old, but she didn’t feel like going sneaking around the neighborhood just to look at exposed wooden beams.
“It’s livelier during the summer,” Rick’s voice came from a few feet behind her. “At least it used to be. Orrisey gets a fair business from tourists looking for Balmoral.”
For a couple of seconds, she debated whether to ignore him. She didn’t do fights well, because the ones she had tended to be more about survival and staying out of prison than pride or whatever it was that was bugging him. Plus, he argued and negotiated for a living. “My ankle’s going to be better tomorrow,” she said instead, turning to face him. “I’m not going to keep limping around for no good reason. If you want to keep Reggie away from the west wing, you’re going to have to come up with something better than rotting floors. Tell him whatever you want; I’ll back you up because I’m on your side. But don’t expect me to buy what you’re selling.”
He cocked his head. “I need to remember that just because I want to fight doesn’t mean I should settle on you. Aside from the fact that you’re fiercer and more stubborn than a bulldog, you’re the one person more precious to me than whatever the surrounding stakes might be.”
“That’s better,” she conceded.
“I don’t apologize well or easily.”
“Yeah, I know that. I don’t, either. But seriously, if you want to fight, put on some gloves and tell me. I don’t mind a black eye in a fair fight. This crap, though?” She gestured between them. “No es bueno.”
As quick as Samantha was, he didn’t think he’d ever manage a punch even in a fair fight – not that he’d ever strike her. Interesting that she preferred that to word-battling, though. “I’ll get a punching bag,” he said aloud. “I’m not hitting you.”
“It felt like you did.”
Samantha turned around again, wandering up the nearly-deserted street. He’d seen her cry once or twice, though she’d never admitted to it. But he heard it in her voice just then, and he stood rooted where he was. She’d said she was angry, and he’d been angry, as well. Not at her, initially, but that didn’t really signify. What did signify was that he’d hurt her.
He’d divorced Patricia four years ago now, because she’d slept with one of his closest friends. Now, though, he wondered how much he’d had to do with her going elsewhere for sex or comfort or whatever it was she’d been after. They’d argued, of course, but it had always seemed insignificant. Afterward, she’d always apologized.
Samantha didn’t apologize. Not unless she’d been in the wrong. And she never backed down from a fight – especially one that he flung at her for no good reason other than that he was annoyed at Reg and old secrets he’d nearly forgotten. Until two months ago she’d also had a go-bag, as she called it, filled with necessaries and stashed under the bed or in the closet in case she needed to grab it and disappear into the night. He’d destroyed it, and she’d never made a new one. Not that he knew of. The idea that he could push her hard enough to make her regret that decision, or even act on it, made him feel ill.
“Sam?”
She turned around, still backing nonchalantly away from him. “What?”
“I don’t have anything clever to say. I was wrong, and I’m sorry. I know you’re on my side. I should never have said otherwise.”
Stopping her retreat, she strolled back up to him again. “Okay.” Samantha continued past him, back in the direction of the jeep.
“That’s it?”
“What? You were a jerk, I was offended, you apologized, I accepted. Am I supposed to demand jewelry or something? I haven’t read that book. Come on; Reggie’s probably in the west wing again, and I’m not stopping him. That’s on you.”
He’d known her for a year. Yes, they’d begun as adversaries of a sort, but she’d chosen sides quickly and decisively, and never looked back. And she still surprised him at least once a day. Today, evidently, he’d surprised her. Richard clenched his jaw. She hadn’t found him because she was looking for a boost in Society, because she wanted to be a marchioness and attend tea with the Queen. She didn’t need his money, because she had her own. Illegally-acquired and likely tainted with all sorts of legal problems, but she’d lived on it before they’d met. She didn’t want his high profile, because she felt much more comfortable in the shadows, blending in. In short, she had several reasons for not wanting to be anywhere near him, and one – that he knew of – for staying. And that would be his warm and giving personality. Lesson learned. He declined to repeat his mistakes, and he bloody well had a very good reason not to do so this time.
Pulling the keys from his pocket, he handed them to her as he caught up. “You drive.”
“You’re so cool.” Yes, she also liked his cars.
He might have remained unsettled longer, but Samantha’s driving on the muddy, winding road left little room for anything but stark terror. It was actually a relief; if she’d been careful, he would have been worried. By the time they skidded up to the old stable, he felt a certain joy at just being alive.
“That was fun,” she said, tossing the keys to Rob, Canniebrae’s mechanic and driver.
“After I go vomit I’m certain I’ll agree with you,” Richard returned, handing her the walking cane.
She made a face. “I’m healed tomorrow,” she pointed out again, and assumed her limp as he kept pace with her across the yard and up to the kitchen door.
Rolling his shoulders, he held the door for her. As a man who prided himself on knowing how people were likely to react, he’d stepped into a very large pile of horseshit here. He’d never been able to control Samantha, and eventually he’d learn to stop trying to do so. But Reg? Richard had always been the leader in that duo. This digging through the ruins thing needed to stop, both because it was dangerous and because he didn’t want it happening.
Time to stop tiptoeing, then. Having a reputation for ruthlessness didn’t mean anything if he couldn’t lean on it once in a while. “Yule, where’s my cousin?” he asked, as the butler met them i
n the kitchen.
“In the library, m’laird. Making a mess, if I may say so. He always was a willful lad, but some of those books are bloody first editions.”
“I’ll see to it.” Richard put a hand on Samantha’s shoulder.
“I’m snagging a diet Coke and some crisps and going to limp around upstairs,” she said, elbowing him lightly in the ribs as she limped by him, still managing to look graceful. “Good luck.”
One whisky even on an empty stomach hadn’t done much to him, but he nevertheless tried to measure what he meant to say to his cousin before he reached the library. Family was sticky. You couldn’t fire them, for one thing, and they always knew more about you than felt exactly comfortable. There he was, rich and semi-famous (to quote Samantha), and engaged to a woman who detested publicity. Reg had made money off him before – of that he remained reasonably certain – and he had more to lose than privacy or pride now.
“Reg,” he said, pushing open the library door.
His cousin – or his cousin’s arse, to be more precise – glowed moonlike as it thumped up and down over the splayed figure of Eerika Nyland. Fuck. Literally.
“Christ, Rick, get out!” Reg bellowed, twisting his head around as Miss Nyland gave a garbled shriek.
“Lock the damned door next time,” Richard returned, refusing to be anything but affronted that this was going on in his bloody library. “And don’t damage the first editions.” He pulled the door closed.
As he climbed the stairs to the first floor he reflected that a few years ago what he’d just seen would have deeply annoyed him, mainly because this was his house, his territory, his damned library, and he didn’t particularly want them here in the first place. Now, though, he felt a bit more…circumspect. In addition, he knew someone who would find it all hilarious.
He found her in the music room, which now consisted of a grand piano that had seen much better days and a selection of antique musical instruments decorating the walls. She sat in one of the chairs ranged around the room and munched on a potato chip as she studied an old violin just above her eye level. “It’s not a Stradivarius,” he commented, shutting the door and leaning back against it.
Barefoot in the Dark Page 11
