by Lynn Kurland
“What do you have to be afraid of?” he asked.
She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”
He shook his head. “Sam, whilst I think your brother is a git of the first water, I must admit that he has an uncanny knack for spotting talent, either in this century or those gone by. Would it ease you any to know I never go after paintings when he’s anywhere in the area?”
“You’ve already told me that,” she said, sounding rather ill. “Five times today.”
“There was six. He knows talent when he sees it, damn him anyway. He had no idea until yesterday that you were the artist. If he’d thought you had no talent, he wouldn’t have insisted on the show in the first place. If learning the artist was his sister had made him uneasy, he would have canceled the show without a second’s hesitation.”
She looked up at him. “Think so?”
“I know so,” Derrick said with feeling. “I’ve watched him do it before. He once called off a deal as the cheque was being smoothed out in preparation for the signature. He’s ruthless.”
“And I’m only giving him ten percent?”
“Aye,” Derrick said with satisfaction. “Which he agreed to almost without clenching his fists.”
He offered her his arm, then led her to the gallery doors that opened to reveal her brother standing there, looking extremely relieved.
“I was almost afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said.
“Really?” she asked in surprise. “Why not?”
“Better offer,” he said sourly, shooting Derrick a glare. He held open the door and allowed her to proceed inside.
Derrick found himself almost running into Gavin’s forearm.
“You ruthless . . .” Gavin seemed to be struggling to find just the right insult.
Derrick only smiled, ducked under his arm, and walked into the gallery. He patted Gavin on the shoulder when the man caught up to him, then elbowed him out of the way so he could get to the guest of honor. Derrick exchanged a brief glance with his wife, lifted an eyebrow, then watched her walk onstage, as it were.
She was marvelous.
After a pair of hours spent either trailing discreetly behind her or positioning himself near important people to listen to their praise, he found himself sitting on a bench, flanked by Oliver and Peter.
“What’d we ever do without her?” Peter said with a sigh.
“Don’t know,” Oliver answered. “She’s a right proper lad, isn’t she?”
Derrick scowled at them both in turn. “Don’t you two have anything better to do than moon over my wife?”
Oliver sat up suddenly. “Oy, that bloke is getting awfully too close, wouldn’t you say?”
“That bloke, Oliver my lad, is the Duke of Clarence,” Derrick said dryly. “You might want to leave him alone.”
“He’s still standing a mite too close,” Oliver said, rising effortlessly to his feet. “I’ll just go be a presence.”
Derrick imagined he would. He lost Peter a few minutes afterward only to be soon joined by Cameron himself and Samantha’s father, Richard. He looked first at his father-in-law.
“What do you think?”
“I think she’s wonderful,” Richard said frankly. “And she deserves every bit of success she’s having tonight.”
Derrick had to agree. He looked at his cousin. “Thank you.”
Cameron shrugged, but he was smiling. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You married your wife who is keeping my wife from sicking up her supper on the Duke of Clarence’s well-polished shoes.”
Cameron laughed a little. “There is that, I suppose.” He shook his head. “You two are quite a pair. Why do I have the feeling you’re not only going to be buying a bigger flat here in London, but one in Stratford as well?”
“One show a year,” Derrick said. “Samantha insisted.”
“And you stomped your little foot and refused until she insisted, is that it?”
Derrick looked at his cousin coolly. “You’re about to lose your good seats, you know.”
Cameron only laughed a little. “I want you to feel properly abused over that mighty secret you kept for so long. And nay, you needn’t return the favor, though I am curious why you’re only doing one a year.”
“I don’t think I can stand being in the same ten square miles with Connor more often than that.”
“He behaved himself this summer,” Cameron pointed out.
“Aye, because a ghost or two I know paid him a visit or two,” Derrick said with a snort. He looked at Cameron, then shook his head. “How I got mixed up in anything of a paranormal nature, I don’t know.”
“Has it been worth it?” Cameron asked with a faint smile.
“Of course.”
Derrick found himself soon abandoned by his companions. Aye, he would have to make another list and add it to the Cameron-Drummond Book of Lists that Samantha tended religiously. Because his wife was a maker of lists and he liked making lists of the things he loved about her as often as possible.
He stood up when he saw her walking toward him, then sighed lightly as she walked into his embrace.
“Well?” he asked quietly.
“Gavin’s chortling. I think that means it was a success.”
“He’s glaring daggers at me, which tells me it was a huge success.” He pulled back only far enough to look at her. “Are you finished with being feted, or shall we stay?”
She paused, then took his hand. “Just one more thing.”
He followed her across the gallery, then around a corner to a hallway he hadn’t been down before. He frowned at the pictures hanging on the walls because they weren’t paintings, they were photographs.
“Is your brother stealing photographers now?” he asked with a half laugh.
“You’ll see.”
He continued with her to the end of the wall, then jumped a little when she simply pulled a picture off the wall.
“Sam, I’m not sure he’ll be able to live with this,” he warned.
She took a deep breath, turned, then handed him the framed photograph.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Oh, just something I Photoshopped,” she said dismissively. “I’m not a good photographer, but they were images I thought you might like.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Just a little thank-you for tonight.”
He looked at the photograph and shook his head slowly. There was the Globe—something he would lay money on Oliver having taken in the past—then their house in Scotland, then the sea washing up to both. Roses bloomed between the theater and the house, just as they did in their favorite garden in Stratford. He started to compliment her, then looked more closely. He could have been wrong, perhaps, but he was just certain in front of the Globe was the faint imagine of a man dressed in an Elizabethan doublet and hose. He looked at Samantha.
“Who is that?”
“Sir Richard Drummond.” She shrugged. “I had to paint him, because he doesn’t photograph very well.”
He started to speak, then shook his head. “I won’t ask. I am curious, though, why black and white?”
She shrugged. “It felt old.”
“Why the roses? Are they from Stratford?”
“Scotland,” she said. “From Sunny’s garden. Because you took me out there in the moonlight and made me feel beautiful.” She smiled up at him. “That’s all.”
He put his arms around her and held her close for several minutes, finding himself in spite of his usual glibness simply unable to speak.
“I love you,” he managed finally.
“I love you,” she said, hugging him tightly. “Let’s go home.”
• • •
Two men leaned against the outside wall of the gallery and watched as a handsome couple was picked up in a sleek black Mercedes and ferried off to their home.
“Well, Ambrose,” said one, “that was a right proper evening for them both.”
“Aye, Hugh, it was,�
� said the other. “All’s well that ends well, especially when there are canny Scots behind the scenes.”
The first sighed and flexed his fingers. “Heard Drummond’s doing King Lear tonight.”
“Well, the Globe is just around the corner.”
“I’ve brought tomatoes and other overripe fruits appropriate for the moment.”
And then Ambrose MacLeod, laird of the clan MacLeod during the marvelous flowering of the Renaissance, smiled, pushed away from the wall, and then followed his compatriot into the cool evening air.
