Cooking in the Alhambra.
Cooking in Rome.
Footsteps padded down the hall. Hope heard the soft click of the door opening, followed by a faint, insistent ringing. It took her a moment to recognize the sound of a cellular phone.
“Yes, of course it’s me, damn it.” The words were low, muffled. Hope frowned, trying to place the voice.
“I’m at Glenbrae House, of course. Where did you think I’d be?”
Detective Sergeant Kipworth, she realized.
She leaned forward breathlessly. Eavesdropping or not, she wasn’t going to miss any clues to the progress of his investigation.
“I told you not to call me here. It’s too dangerous.”
Dangerous? Hope rubbed her forehead. The room seemed to blur for a moment.
“What did you get on this fellow MacLeod? Any arrest record?”
Hope stiffened. Why were they investigating MacLeod?
“I see. You’re sure of that?”
Hope felt her heart pound. Surely they couldn’t be suspicious of Ronan.
“No previous occupations or prior addresses at all?” Kipworth bit back an oath. “That’s impossible and you know it. You’re simply not trying the right places.”
More silence.
“Then take your bloody computers and fix them. He had to come from somewhere and be born to someone. Start with his National Registration number. Maybe he’s got a passport.”
Hope pressed a hand to her lurching stomach. They would find no National Registration number and no prior domiciles for Ronan MacLeod—not for roughly seven centuries, and not many computers would be looking back that far. It would almost be funny, she thought, if the whole idea weren’t so harrowing.
Kipworth scanned a row of books along the wall. He was coming closer, Hope realized.
“Of course I’m still looking. Every bloody inch of the place. The book must be here somewhere,” he snarled. “Otherwise, I’d be out of this wretched little town in a second.”
Hope gasped at the menace in his voice.
“Just you listen to me. I’ve been tied up in this business for too long already. I’ll find your book, just the way we agreed. But there’s been a little change. That’s right, a change.” He laughed softly. “The price just doubled.”
Silence.
Hope rubbed her forehead as the floor bled into gray and then re-formed. Shivering, she sank back, thankful for the comforting support of the window. What was wrong with her?
“Yes, I know you have a buyer for your precious folio of Shakespeare and I know he’s losing interest. That’s why my fee just doubled.”
Kipworth knew about the folio? But how could he, when she and Ronan had only discovered it that morning?
She rubbed her eyes, trying to ignore another wave of nausea.
“The others? I’m doing nothing about them for now. The cook and her boyfriend are out of the way. It was easy enough to slip something in their drinks since they’re always hanging about together in the kitchen. This fellow MacLeod will bear some looking at, too. But it’s Hope O’Hara I’m after. She has to know where the book is.”
It’s Hope O’Hara I’m after.
She blinked, trying to make sense of what Kipworth had just said. How had he learned about the precious folio and why was he arguing about money?
As she sank against the wall, a board squeaked. The sound echoed sharply in the silent room.
Kipworth swung around instantly. “Who’s there?”
Hope eased back into the shadows. If he found her now, how would she explain her eavesdropping?
Footsteps paced closer and Hope had a sudden, horrible vision of being shot in her own house, convicted by posterity as a cold-blooded thief.
Then the heavy curtain rippled in a gust of air and Banquo swooped overhead with a shrill cry. “The moon is down,” the great bird cried. “The moon is down.”
“How did you get in here? I made certain that I latched the door behind me.” Cursing, Kipworth strode to the door.
Banquo was faster. He soared outside, then circled back over Kipworth’s head. “Enter three witches.”
“I’ve heard quite enough Macbeth for one day. Come a bit closer and I’ll teach you all about tragic endings.”
As Banquo soared away, Hope realized he had saved her from discovery. She released the breath she’d been blocking in her throat.
“Yes, I’m still here. That was just the bloody parrot with his infernal chatter. That’s the one, always quoting Shakespeare. What do you mean, does he know where the folio is? Are you suggesting that I interrogate a bloody bird?”
Hope realized that she was shivering, sharp, tight movements that wrenched her whole body. Something slid down her nose.
Sweat. She was freezing, yet burning up at the same time.
“Hope O’Hara? Don’t worry about her. She’ll be out of the way soon enough. I gave her enough to put her in bed for a week.” Kipworth paced beyond the curtain, laughing tightly. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to think of another way, won’t I?”
The floor swam wildly beneath Hope. He had drugged Gabrielle and Jeffrey, and then he must have drugged her tea. Dear Lord, she couldn’t let him find her here.
She wobbled to her feet, remembering that Lord Draycott was in the kitchen. If only she could get through the door and down the corridor to the kitchen before Kipworth heard her. She inched toward a potted ficus tree flanking the rear door.
“Yes, I know all about your bloody lordship and his pretty wife. They’ll get their precious book soon enough. Yes, I know they’re obsessive about their collections. I also know that they’re getting impatient.”
Hope stared bleakly at the door. Your lordship and his pretty wife. Were the Draycotts somehow involved?
She drew a broken breath, trying to sort suspicion from truth while her stomach lurched with sickening force.
She was getting worse. Probably Kipworth’s drug was just beginning to take effect. She had to make a decision quickly. As nice as he was, Lord Draycott was a stranger, a man who had appeared without notice or introduction. He could be anyone or anything.
Even a criminal.
She couldn’t afford to trust anyone. Only Ronan.
She rubbed her throbbing head, trying to remember where he’d gone. The stables?
She dragged a shaking hand across her eyes. Out the back door, past the pantry. Through the mudroom. If she was very quiet, she could make it.
Holding her breath, she eased open the door behind the ficus. A faint breath of air drifted through the room, but Kipworth didn’t appear to notice as he bent over the ornately carved fireplace.
His voice sounded distant and strained. “You heard about the fire, did you? Rather brilliant of me, I thought. A perfect way to clear out the house. No, of course I didn’t take any chances. It was all smoke. The rags I set to burn at the edge of the grate looked terrible enough, but there was no real danger to the house, I made certain of that. But the bloody woman didn’t carry anything out. The folio must still be inside, unless she’s already hidden it somewhere else.”
Hope saw Kipworth fumble in his pocket, then pull out a flat oval shape.
“The mantel? Yes, I noticed that. All kinds of carving. It might be some kind of puzzle. Your friend was a very clever man, and he could have hidden that folio you stole anywhere in the house.”
That folio you stole…
Hope barely heard, her gaze locked on the flat, gray form in Kipworth’s hands.
A snarling wolf with fangs bared.
The King’s Wolf, she thought. Kipworth had the brooch? Had he stolen it from Wyndgate?
But she didn’t stay to hear more. She crept along the hall toward the dark pantry. At the back door she bit back an oath. The heavy bolt was thrown, and she didn’t dare to move it for fear of attracting Kipworth’s notice.
She shook the door lightly, trying to focus. What to do next? The breakfast room would take her right past the door to th
e library where Kipworth was standing, but Hope realized she had no other choice. Any second she could lose consciousness. Kipworth must have poisoned the tea when she had gone out to answer the phone. Probably he had placed the call to draw her from the room. A very clever man, James Kipworth.
Although that would hardly be his real name.
Her vision blurred again. She wobbled through the mudroom, hearing no sound from Kipworth nor from the kitchen. Perhaps the Draycotts had gone out.
She dug her fingers into her temples, trying to concentrate. Five feet more, she thought. A wedge of shadow blurred the floor in front of her; beyond that lay the kitchen and its outer door to freedom and Ronan.
She inched forward, her heart pounding. She could see the edge of the door now.
Almost there…
Silence all around her. Pain and shadows.
Then she ran dead into James Kipworth’s hard chest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
HE TURNED HER SLOWLY.
His hands on her shoulders were no longer comforting but tight with suspicion. Hope wondered how she had ever thought his face was pleasant.
“Ms. O’Hara, is something…wrong? You’re not looking at all well.”
Hope managed a weak smile. “My stomach—I’m afraid I’m coming down with whatever Gabrielle and Jeffrey have.”
“You’re sick, too?” His eyes were kindly now, concerned.
Or they would have seemed so if Hope hadn’t overhead his recent conversation.
The man was a thief and possibly a killer, and Hope knew she would have to clear her blurring thoughts to have any chance of escape.
She put one hand over her stomach, wincing. He would expect her to be sick, and she obliged with a soft groan.
He put out a hand to steady her. “Good Lord, you really are sick. Perhaps you’d better go upstairs and rest.” So concerned. So sincere.
Hope shivered. “That’s where I was headed.”
“Then why did you come from the back of the house?” His eyes narrowed.
“I had to make a stop—my stomach…” Hope gave an embarrassed laugh. When his expression relaxed, she realized the story had worked.
“Then there’s no sense chatting when you probably feel like death itself. We’ll take up my questions after you feel better. Meanwhile, I’ll keep an eye out for any problems down here.”
I’ll just bet you will, Hope thought grimly. Then she had a stroke of inspiration. “This blasted flu is making me forgetful. I know there was a message I was supposed to give you, but I can’t remember what.”
His eyes narrowed. “A message? From whom?”
“From Mr. MacLeod, one of our staff. He said there was something you ought to know about, something he had found in his bedroom.”
Kipworth drew a slow, silky breath. “How interesting. I’d better go have a chat with him. Where did you say he was?”
“He went off to the upper orchard, then to the cliffs,” Hope lied calmly.
Something flickered in Kipworth’s eyes. “Why would he go there? Surely he knew I was here inside the house.”
Hope thought wildly. She pressed a hand to her stomach, which lurched with pain that was no longer feigned. “I—I can’t seem to remember,” she mumbled. “There was something he wanted you to see. He carried it from the old fishing shed. Does that make any sense?”
Her face was all innocence, all trust. It was a prizewinning performance.
Kipworth patted her shoulder. “You just leave Mr. MacLeod to me, Ms. O’Hara. I’ll look into the matter fully.” He touched the delicate silver cross at her throat. “Such a pretty piece. Another gift?” His hand lingered.
Hope could barely stand to be so close. How could a man lie so calmly? “My favorite one. Was there anything more?” She shivered—and realized too late that Kipworth had felt it, too.
“Is something else wrong?”
Hope shrugged. “I’m feeling sick again.” She lunged up the stairs with another groan of pain. “I hope you find the thief,” she called. “Whoever stole that brooch should be put behind bars.”
He stood looking up at her, a small, grim smile on his face. “My sentiments exactly. And you can be certain I won’t stop until I complete my job.”
So honest. So conscientious.
Hope suppressed another shudder as he strode down the rear hallway and disappeared.
A little time now, thank heavens. Think.
She gazed longingly at the kitchen. There were no sounds now, but the Draycotts might still be nearby. If only she could trust them.
But she couldn’t trust anyone. Not after what Kipworth had said. Anyone could have been on the other end of the line.
She had to find Ronan now.
Warm parka, Hope thought.
MacLeod’s sweater and scarf, mittens shoved in the pocket. Wool trousers and heaviest boots. All the time she fought hot, awful waves of nausea. She thought about taking something for the pain, but decided against it. An interaction might make her even worse.
Out the window she saw a dark form striding purposefully over the snow toward the orchard. “Kipworth” was wasting no time following his latest lead.
Hope plunged down the rear stairs. Fighting dizziness, she headed in exactly the opposite direction and prayed that Ronan was still out in the stables.
“DADDY?”
“What, Duchess?”
“Why is the policeman hiking in the snow near the orchard?” Genevieve Draycott braced her chin on her palms as she stared out the window. “Do you think he’s going to have a snowball fight?”
Nicholas followed his daughter’s gaze. “I rather doubt it, my love. Policemen don’t usually have snowball fights.”
“Why not?”
“Too busy. Too serious, I suppose.”
Genevieve tilted her head, frowning. “Ms. O’Hara and Mr. MacLeod were having a snowball fight the night we got here. They seemed to be having lots of fun. I like them.”
Nicholas Draycott remembered very clearly the intimate scene they had witnessed in the light of the Land Rover’s front beams. A snowball fight was the least of what they had interrupted.
He cleared his throat. “They did seem to be having fun, didn’t they?” He stared through the window at Detective Sergeant Kipworth’s retreating back, feeling a tug of uneasiness.
“Nicky, is something wrong?”
Now was not the time to discuss his uneasiness with his wife, especially with Genevieve hanging on every word. “I suspect that the man has a well-developed sense of self-preservation. No doubt he is headed outside so he can decline any taste of my cooking.”
Kacey did not laugh, too quick at reading her husband’s moods. “Nicholas, if there’s something you’re not telling me…”
Genevieve tugged at his sleeve. “Daddy, the oil is burning. And the vegetables are turning a funny dark color.”
“Damn and blast.” Muttering, the viscount spun back to the stove, his thoughts racing to some disturbing conclusions. First had come the fire, followed by the sudden sickness of Gabrielle and Jeffrey.
Coincidences?
Every warning instinct clamored into red alert.
“I’m afraid that dinner will have to wait,” he said tightly. “I’ve got to make a call.”
“But the power lines…”
Nicholas frowned, already reaching into his jacket pocket for his cellular phone.
THE AIR WAS STILL with a bitter, ringing cold as Hope made her way through the dark strands of Norway spruce along the loch. Beeches girded the stone fence, their few remaining leaves clinking like small, golden coins in the wind. White and green ran together before her eyes.
South of the stable, a sullen row of clouds swept over the hillside. It was less than a quarter mile to the old stone building, but in her weakened condition the distance would feel like twenty.
As pain burned through her stomach, she stumbled through the snow, careful to keep Glenbrae House between herself and the rise of the cli
ffs, where she prayed the counterfeit police officer was still busy searching for MacLeod.
A fir tree slapped wet powder against her face, and with every second the light changed, gray clouds racing before the afternoon sun. This time of year the weather could shift in a second. Even without the promise of more snow, it would be twilight within minutes and full darkness in less than an hour.
Soon the man who called himself Kipworth would reach the cliffs and realize he had been tricked. He would turn back and see her footprints. And then…
Hope forced away the thought. She had enough to worry about just putting one foot in front of the other in the deep, mounded snow.
She slid sideways, lost her footing, stumbled to her feet, clumsier now with growing exhaustion. She was nearly at the edge of the garden—or what would be the garden when spring melted three feet of snow. A thin, furious shout whipped down the hillside. She turned to see Kipworth raise his arm, waving furiously.
He knew. Now he would come after her.
Fear kicked hard in her chest. Only minutes now and so much ground left to cover.
She lowered her head and struggled forward, dimly realizing there was no pain or sensation at all in her feet. Her fingers, too, felt heavy and rubbery. Had she been completely rational, Hope would have been alarmed at the growing numbness.
But weariness gripped her. She closed her mind to all but the next painful step before her.
Weaker now. Slower. Every movement an agony as the drug burned through her veins and whispered seductively for her to rest.
For one last moment the sun floated golden on the horizon, then winked out. Within seconds twilight gathered in earnest, long shadows that closed into sudden darkness.
Night lay upon Glenbrae.
Hope looked south, desperately searching for the row of beech trees that marked the edge of the stable.
Nothing. No trees or bushes anywhere.
She froze, hit with a sickening realization: she had taken a wrong turn. Dizzy and disoriented, she could see nothing in the darkness.
She foundered over the snow, fighting panic. Too late she felt a sickening lurch beneath her feet and the wild sway of the ground.
Draycott Everlasting: Christmas KnightMoonrise Page 31
