The stranger pulled his collar tighter against another punishing blast of wind and rain and jogged the final few steps to the bus door. No border laird, just a rather ordinary-looking man in his midthirties, fit and broad-shouldered and thoroughly modern in jeans and a leather jacket. Well, I amended as he smoothed back his curling black hair and grinned at the bus driver, maybe not exactly ordinary-looking…
“Heyah,” he greeted the driver, swinging himself up the final step. “Saw me coming, did you?”
“Aye, well, ye do stick out, lad. Thought I might as well wait for ye, save ye the walk back.” The doors swung shut and, joy of joys, the bus sprang forward once again as the new passenger dropped into the seat across from me, planting his feet wide apart on the floor to brace himself.
He and the driver chatted on like old friends, which I supposed they were, about the state of the weather and the latest rebellion of the bus driver’s daughter and the health of the younger man’s mother. It had been some years since I’d spent time in Scotland, and I’d forgotten just how musical the accent was. This was a thicker accent than I was accustomed to, and I couldn’t catch each word as it was spoken, but I did my level best to follow the conversation. Just for practice, I told myself. Not because I was interested.
The bus rattled noisily over the moor, dipped into Coldingham town and stopped for a moment to let off the teenagers. Shifting round in his seat, the bus driver sent me a courteous glance.
“You’re for Eyemouth, lass, aren’t ye?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The man from the moor lifted an eyebrow at my accent, and glanced over. For a moment, my mother’s face rose sternly in my mind. Never talk to strangers… But I pushed the image back and sent the man a friendly smile.
The bus driver carried on speaking, over his shoulder. “Are ye up here on holiday?”
Having received little response from the man opposite, I turned my smile on the driver instead. “Interviewing for a job, actually.”
“Oh, aye?” He’d politely modified his speech, as most Scots did when talking to a non-Scot, and though the accent was still there I found him easier to understand. “What kind of job?”
Well, that was just the question, wasn’t it? I didn’t really know, myself. “Museum work, of sorts,” I hedged. “I’m interviewing with a man just outside Eyemouth—”
The dark man from the moor cut me off. “Not Peter Quinnell, surely?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Christ, you don’t mean to say you’re Adrian’s wee friend from London?” He did smile then, and the simple act transformed his rugged face. “We’d not expected you till tomorrow. David Fortune,” he held out his hand by way of introduction. “I work with Quinnell as well.”
I shook his hand. “Verity Grey.”
“Aye, I ken fine who you are. I must say,” he confessed, leaning back again, “you’re not at all as I pictured you.”
Everyone said that. Museum workers, I had learnt, were supposed to be little old ladies in spectacles, not twenty-nine-year-olds in short skirts. I nodded patiently. “I’m younger, you mean?”
“No. It’s only that, with Adrian recommending you, I’d have thought to find someone… well, someone…”
“Tall, blonde, and beautiful?”
“Something like that.”
I couldn’t help smiling. I was, to my knowledge, the only dark-haired woman who’d ever received so much as a dinner invitation from Adrian Sutton-Clarke, and I’d held his interest only until the next blonde came along. But while our romance had proved temporary, our separate paths, by virtue of our work, kept crossing and recrossing like some fatalistic web. Truth be told, I probably saw more of Adrian now than I had when we were dating. When one wasn’t actually in love with the man, he could be a quite enjoyable companion. Adrian, at least, understood the restless, independent streak that had made me chuck my British Museum job and strike out on my own to freelance. And he’d learnt I never could resist a challenge.
About the Author
After studying politics and international development at university, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Susanna Kearsley worked as a museum curator before turning her hand to writing. Winner of the UK’s Catherine Cookson Fiction prize for Mariana, Susanna Kearsley’s writing has been compared to Mary Stewart, Daphne du Maurier, and Diana Gabaldon. She recently hit the bestseller lists in the U.S. with The Winter Sea, which was also a finalist for both a RITA award and the UK’s Romantic Novel of the Year Award. Her books have been translated into several languages, selected for the Mystery Guild, condensed for Reader’s Digest, and optioned for film. She lives in Canada, near the shores of Lake Ontario.
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