“Stop,” I yelled. “You’ll hurt me.”
“That’s garbage. I’m being as gentle as I can.”
“Your hands are freezing.”
A stream of curses exploded behind me, and I guess he stopped being gentle, because there was a tearing sound, and, like a cork from a champagne bottle, I popped out through the hole.
He stared at me. I stared back. Dark. Rugged. Handsome. And furious as hell. He crouched by my side, his body tense, like a beast preparing to tear its prey apart. He opened his mouth to speak—or, more likely, to yell at me.
I closed my eyes.
“Holy cow,” he said. “Is your hair meant to look like that?”
My eyes blinked open. “It’s auburn.”
“Auburn?” He cocked a brow. “I’d call it beetroot.”
“That’s the difference between fifteen minutes and three quarters of an hour.”
He grinned at me. “I know who you are.”
Relief brought out my silly side. “Great,” I told him. “Do you want the Mediterranean Cruise or the Year’s Subscription to Reader’s Digest?”
“You’re Cleopatra’s cousin,” he said, not even pretending to be amused.
My mouth made an “O” of surprise.
“I guess we’re related too,” he continued. “Kind of.”
That gave me an excuse to examine his face. And something strange happened. Something that hadn’t happened in quite some time—my heart went thump and longing coiled in my stomach.
He seemed a little older than the thirty-four years listed on Aunt Rosemary’s Fact Sheet. Worry creased his brow, and the smoky eyes were shielded by heavy lids. Deep vertical lines bracketed his mouth. If it hadn’t been for the untidy curly hair, he would have looked extremely severe. The khaki cargo pants and olive green down vest were plain and functional.
I shook my head to indicate I hadn’t been able to place him.
“I’m Cleopatra’s uncle,” he explained. “Francis Layton was my half-brother. You and I are related by marriage. My mother used to be married to your grandfather’s brother.”
It took me a while to work out the intricate pattern of relationships connecting us. “You’re a lot younger than your brother,” I pointed out. “I believe he was my father’s age.”
“Francis was eighteen when I was born. My mother never intended to remarry after her first husband died. Then she met my father, and he made her change her mind.”
“The Copper Heiress.”
“What?” He shot me a baffled look.
“Your mother. That’s how she’s remembered in the local lore. The American Copper Heiress who married into the Layton family.”
“My mother’s family did have some mining interests, but that was a long time ago, and there was never much to inherit.” He craned his neck, scowling around the turret. “Just like this place. A frigging nightmare.” He waved his hand at what I’d taken for a pile of rubbish. “I’ve been trying to make it safe.”
I took a closer look, identifying the things I’d seen on the landing as a stack of bricks and a tub of ready-mix cement. “You were going to brick up the hole.” I glowered at him. “You could have bricked me in.”
He looked startled, and then pleased with himself. “So I could. It sure would have added to the local folklore.”
I lifted my chin. “I could have found another way out.”
“You want to try, be my guest.” He pointed at the hole behind me.
I ignored the challenge. “What are you doing here?”
“Cleo asked me to come. Francis died almost a year ago, right after Cleo got married. She wanted to find out more about this place.”
“Why didn’t she come herself?”
“She didn’t want to leave her husband behind, and he couldn’t come.” The clipped tone suggested my captor held no affection for the man who’d married his niece.
“Well, I’d better get going.” I adjusted my parka and started to scramble up.
To my surprise, Miles Kendrick leaned over to help me. One strong hand curled over my elbow, the other settled firmly across the small of my back. “Are you okay?” he asked, sounding concerned. “I mean, I didn’t bruise your legs, or anything?” His head tilted toward me. “I couldn’t let you escape. You might have been hurt if you’d wriggled through, and the floor on the other side collapsed.”
Back on my feet, I flexed my muscles, feeling a little foolish for having ignored the potential danger. “I don’t know,” I told him. “It takes a while for bruises to form. I’ll be able to tell tonight.”
A sudden smile transformed his stern features. “That’s a date,” he said. “I’ll meet you around eight at that place in the village. Dead Sheep, or something.”
“The Royal Goat,” I corrected him, trying to hide the jolt of excitement that shot through me. “And if you want to eat, you’d better make it seven. On Saturdays, they run out of anything decent on the menu before eight.”
“Seven it is.” He saluted in a way that suggested he’d been in the military. Then he turned his back and carried on with his little construction project, ignoring me, as if I’d already left. I watched him for a moment or two. Then I sauntered down the stairs and rushed out to brief Aunt Rosemary.
If I hadn’t been so stirred up by his brooding Heathcliff looks, I’d have thought about it sooner. I was halfway back to Mill Cottage before the question struck me.
How could he have known that I was Cleopatra’s cousin?
How did he even know that Cleopatra had a cousin?
I myself had only known for a few days, and Simon Crosland had made it clear that personal information about the other heirs named in the Layton trust could not be disclosed without their permission.
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Chapter Four
“You should have invited him over for a drink,” Aunt Rosemary complained. “It’s not fair to hog him.”
I balanced on one foot in the hall, kicking off her Wellington boots. She picked them up to inspect the soles for mud before shoving the boots into the closet under the stairs.
“I wanted to go incognito,” I explained. “He doesn’t know that I’m related to you, or that I’m staying next door to him.”
Aunt Rosemary stood silent for a while, her hand resting on the doorknob. I could almost hear her brain whirring. “But he knew that you’re Cleopatra’s cousin,” she said slowly.
“Second cousin,” I corrected. “And yes, he knew.”
Aunt Rosemary released the cupboard door and ushered me into the kitchen. “He knows, and he knows who I am, too. That’s why he’s rented the cottage. He’s spying on us, just as much as we’re spying on him.”
My brows edged up. “Next thing, you’ll tell me that you suspect him of feeding false information through the baby monitor.”
Aunt Rosemary contemplated me. “I wouldn’t put it past him,” she said, her face solemn. “He must be up to something. Otherwise, he would have revealed his Layton connection earlier, when he came to rent Rose Cottage. I certainly wouldn’t trust anything he says that sounds too convenient.”
I shrugged, keeping my opinion to myself. “I’d better have a bath before lunch. I’m filthy from crawling on that dusty stonework.”
Aunt Rosemary protested, but when I pointed out that sandwiches don’t go cold, she was forced to agree. I was granted permission to escape upstairs. I ran a bath and shampooed my hair, over and over again, until the water turned pink from the dye I’d washed out. Afterward, I peeked in the mirror and convinced myself that the fiery purple shade had faded a little.
While I was toweling myself dry, I agonized about dressing for the evening. Cute, with a miniskirt and patterned tights? Daring, with a droopy neckline and no bra? Then I realized that unless I wanted to knock on Miles Kendrick’s door and seek access to my wardrobe, I had nothing to wear, except for a pair of striped cotton pajamas and the jeans and sweater I’d arrived in. The mud on the jeans had dried by now. It brushed off
quite well, and I borrowed Aunt Rosemary’s Oscar de la Renta perfume to freshen up the sweater.
We had our lunch of tuna sandwiches and fruit salad. For the rest of the afternoon, I studied a book on Florentine frescoes. Although I hadn’t been able to find another job as a designer, I hadn’t given up hope. I occupied idle moments by studying art and doodling up designs for sofas and handbags and whatever else caught my fancy. But today, my concentration had gone to pieces. When the clock struck six, I gave up and loitered about until it was time to leave.
At exactly five minutes past seven, I pulled open the door to the Royal Goat and walked into the lounge bar. Flames roared in the open fireplace and a wintry scent of evergreen trees permeated the air. I searched the crowd. Miles Kendrick wasn’t there. I spotted my childhood friend Grace Parker waving furiously at me from a corner table. I didn’t recognize the man she was with. He wore layered clothing and had his dark hair gelled into artful spikes. Not the type I was used to seeing with Grace, who believed real men didn’t use cosmetics, not even lip salve.
“Alexandra,” she yelled. “Over here.”
I lifted my hand in a greeting and strolled over, grateful for the interruption. It covered up the fact that Miles lacked the courtesy to arrive on time. I gritted my teeth as I considered the possibility that I’d been stood up, and how it would feed the village gossip mill if anyone found out.
“Alexandra, this is Brandon Hastings,” Grace said, beaming at me. I tried to smile back, but only managed a puzzled frown. The Grace I knew would rather die than wear girlie clothes, but tonight she was tucked into a leopard-print dress and a pair of high-heeled boots.
“Brandon, this is Alexandra Holt. We’ve been friends since we were little.”
I said hello and shook hands with Brandon, who gave me a lazy once-over.
“What have you done to your hair?” Grace asked.
I grimaced. “Please. Don’t start.”
“It’s cool,” Brandon said. “I like bright colors.”
“I don’t use the home stuff,” Grace told me. “I go to a salon in Salisbury.”
I took a closer look and realized that her mousy hair was several shades lighter than it used to be, and streaked with gold. “I wish I had too,” I confessed.
“Would you like to join us?” Grace asked. “Brandon will get you a drink.”
“Err, sure...” Brandon muttered, unfolding his lanky frame.
I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m meeting someone.” The bell above the door jingled. I turned to look. The new arrivals were an elderly couple in matching pale green leisure suits.
Brandon sank back into his seat, heaving a sigh of relief, as if his life had just been spared.
Ten minutes was my time limit of waiting for a man, and by now it was up. I wanted to quietly slip out and pretend that I’d never been, but I knew Aunt Rosemary would give me hell if I went home without anything to report.
“You ought to talk to Brandon,” Grace said. “He is writing a book on derelict stately homes. He’s been researching Layton Manor.” She looked embarrassed, but an eager glint filled her eyes.
I realized that she knew about my father’s parentage. I controlled my agitation. Everyone in the village must have gossiped, apart from those too young to understand the issues involved. Had the children known, I would have been taunted. My mouth tightened as I wondered how I’d have dealt with chants that my father was a bastard.
I decided to put Grace out of her misery. “I don’t think I could help much.” I kept my tone light. “With my father and grandmother dead, I doubt there’s anything I could tell Brandon that he doesn’t already know.”
Brandon perked up beneath the spiky hair. “Are you connected to the Laytons?”
I grinned at Grace. “My father was a Layton by-blow. His biological father was the younger of the Layton twins. Martin Layton had a fling with my grandmother before he and Francis brought the manor crashing down. My father was the result.”
“Oh.” Brandon jerked upright in his seat. His slim frame appeared to grow even taller. “That’s cool,” he muttered.
Someone shouted out my name. I turned to look and discovered it was Ron Willard, the landlord at Royal Goat. “Miles is in the public bar playing darts,” he bellowed. “He asked me to watch out for you. Should I tell him that you’re here, or do you want to go through and find him?”
Suddenly, I felt shy. It had been a long time since I’d been out with an attractive man, and having people around who knew my track record didn’t help. I reminded myself that last night I’d listened to Miles declaring his love to someone, which put him out of bounds. Any interest from my part was a complete waste of time.
“I’ve got to go,” I said to Grace, and I added a few polite words to Brandon, wishing him success with his book. Then I pushed between the crowded tables toward the bigger and noisier public bar on the opposite side of the archway that divided the room into two.
Ron was weaving between people, clearing away empty glasses. As I walked past, I nodded my thanks to him.
The scene in the public bar took me by surprise. I had expected Miles to sit in a quiet corner, alone, observing the crowd. Instead, I found him taking his turn at the dartboard. Dressed in loose jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt with ‘Annapolis’ on the front, he stood leaning forward, his stance firm, eyes squinting as he took aim.
One by one, the darts found their mark with a little thud. Two old boys from the small army of pensioners who made the Royal Goat their second home cheered loudly after each throw. When Miles finished, they stepped forward to thump him on the back. Miles grinned with an air of camaraderie, picked up his pint from a nearby table, and took a long gulp.
When he noticed me, he stilled. Coming back to life, he drained the last of his drink, laid down the empty glass and turned to say something to his new friends. Then he strode up to me, his face stern. “We’ll go to the other side where there’s less noise,” he said. “We need to talk.”
I gave him a blank stare. Talking is what people did when they went out for a drink. It was on the tip of my tongue to point that out. Then I decided that sarcastic banter could wait until we knew each other better.
“All the tables are taken,” I told him. “You were late.”
“I wasn’t late. I was here before you.” He placed his hand on the small of my back and steered me across the room.
“You were in the wrong place,” I threw over my shoulder.
“We weren’t specific about where I should stand. The person who arrived last should have looked around.”
So much for saving sarcastic banter for later. I couldn’t think of a smart retort, so I continued walking ahead of him, until we’d crossed through the archway back into the lounge bar.
“See?” I said. “No vacant tables.”
He pointed to the alcove by the window. I craned my neck for a better view. The secluded table had no occupants. A little red plastic sign that said ‘Reserved’ stood in the middle. Miles lifted his arm. I followed the direction of his gesture and saw Ron Willard waving back at him, a big smile on his face.
“We almost lost it,” Miles said as he ushered me on. “Ron said he could only hold the table until half past seven.”
“Ron doesn’t reserve tables.”
“Sometimes he makes an exception.” Miles pulled a chair for me.
“He doesn’t reserve tables,” I insisted as I sat down.
“Of course he does. Otherwise, why would he have these plastic signs?” Miles leaned past me, picked up the ‘Reserved’ sign, and shoved it between the bottles of mustard and ketchup in the condiment basket.
“Only for special occasions.”
Miles circled to the other side of the table, sat down, and grinned at me. The intensity of his gaze made my skin tingle. “It is a special occasion,” he said. “I told the landlord that I was going to make a proposition to a lady and needed peace and quiet.”
My mouth fell open. When I finally man
aged to speak, the words came out in the little squeaky voice of a mouse. “You what?”
“A proposition. To you.”
I stared at him. “Do you realize that by the time it makes the rounds in the village, it will have become a proposal?”
His smile was gentle. “I’m counting on something like that.”
My brain refused to deal even with the simple task of reading the menu that Tracey, one of the waitresses, came to dump on the table. She fussed around longer than was necessary, until she’d managed to position herself behind Miles. Then she winked at me over his head.
I turned away, my cheeks burning. From the corner of my eye, I caught Grace gesturing. It was a none-too-subtle thumbs-up sign.
I exhaled a resigned sigh. “What’s going on in here?”
“We’re ordering,” Miles said.
“You know what I mean. Everybody thinks we’re lovebirds.”
He was unapologetic. “I needed to make sure we had a quiet table. I’ll explain. But I also need to eat. Do you want me to choose for you?”
I picked up one of the menus. “How could you possibly know what I want?”
His brows lifted. “You don’t eat red meat. You like fish, salmon in particular. You hate celery, but you like most other vegetables.”
I gaped at him. A chill of fear slithered down my spine. “Who are you?”
He pointed to the menu in my unsteady hands and went back to reading his. By the time we’d ordered, I was so frantic, I had trouble remaining in my seat.
“How did you know I’m Cleopatra’s cousin?” I asked. “Why do you know anything at all about me?”
“You look alike.” His eyes swept over me. “You could almost be sisters. I guess your real hair color is light brown like hers. The same delicate bone structure. Not a face that instantly catches your eye, but when you take the time to look, you see its beauty.”
Although I chose not to acknowledge the compliment, I couldn’t hide the blush of pleasure that rose to my cheeks. A suspicion stirred inside me that Miles was after something, and was using flattery to smooth his path.
“How did you even know that Cleopatra has a cousin?” I asked. “My father had nothing to do with the Laytons.”
The Layton Prophecy Page 3
