Shadows in Scarlet, page 29
The wagging tail changed rhythm. Good. Like Malcolm, he was okay with the issues. Not that the issues were in the least okay. She sat down with her references, gripping her pencil like a sword.
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Chapter Twenty Five
The library windows might have been those of a submarine, streaked with damp, gray and sullen. The sound of the rain ebbed and flooded like the tide. When Malcolm showed up he peered resignedly outside, gave Amanda a quick kiss, and sat down at his computer. Cerberus stretched out before the electric fire, his chin resting between his paws.
Amanda tried to focus on her work, choosing which pages of Archibald's memoirs to actually copy and which to summarize, but she felt twitchy. The walls really did have eyes. Somewhere in the house doors opened and shut. The telephone rang. Maybe Wayne had drowned in the bathtub—he didn't reappear.
For a time the room was quiet, the only sound the occasional chirp of Malcolm's computer. Then the notes of the tin whistle floated through the air, snatches of melody mixed with contemplative trills. Yes, Amanda thought, Malcolm had a versatile tongue. She gave up any hope of concentrating and put the papers back in the cabinet. “How about a walk?"
"It's teemin’ doon ootside,” he returned. “But we can have a dander roond the house."
Cerberus leaped to his feet, ready to go. Malcolm and Amanda secured the electrical gear and headed out, up the flights of steps, past the blocked-off doors, and down the dead-end hallways that testified to each generation's bright ideas in home improvement. Along the way they rooted through drawers and cupboards, turning up everything from rusted agricultural equipment to crumbling butterfly collections. They didn't really expect to find the sword and the scabbard. Even in the cellar, a damp and dark but thoroughly clean stone box, there was no trace of James. Still, as afternoon darkened into night, Amanda was sure she was sensing his presence. My sweet, my own.
She and Malcolm strolled into the great hall. Amanda inspected the tapestry, wondering if she could duplicate such an intricate pattern in 14-count needlepoint. She looked up at the pikes, halberds, and muskets fanned out on the walls and remembered what Carrie had said about her own tours of Great Britain: All those old houses have enough weaponry stuck on the walls to supply a good-sized army.
But the sword and its scabbard weren't hidden in plain sight. “I keep expecting James to jump out and say ‘gotcha.’ Or, ‘unhand that damsel, you knave.’ Whatever."
"So do I,” Malcolm returned. “But you're no callin’ him any more, are you?"
"No way.” She heard a mocking echo of her own voice, with me you're strong. “Maybe when I leave he'll leave—no, he has the sword back, doesn't he? He may not need me any more. And I sure don't want to go away and leave you with a freaked-out ghost.” I don't want to leave you. But she didn't have to say that.
"What matters noo,” Malcolm said, “is findin’ a way to turf him oot."
"To get rid of him? Or to help him rest?"
"However you're wantin’ to say it."
Maybe she still felt some furtive sympathy for James, the little kid camouflaging his weaknesses with bravado.... Like she hadn't had a damn good chance to notice he was a grown man? “He needs to go away. Absolutely. Got any ideas?"
"Oh aye, that I do,” Malcolm said with a nod. “I agree James's energy's in his scabbard noo, but I'm wonderin', even so—if it was you made him strong, then it could be his fate's in your hands."
"In my ... You think that just by telling him to go I can send him away?"
"I dinna ken, lass, but it'd make a gey interestin’ exercise in positive thinkin', eh?"
"Yeah, I guess so,” Amanda said. But she wasn't putting much trust in her thinking skills. She'd made a habit recently of forcing illusionary square pegs into the round holes of reality. She'd been wrong about James, the Grants, even Wayne. And she still couldn't get a handle on Cynthia, the fairy godmother from hell.
That image made her smile. So did Cerberus, sitting on the floor between them and watching their conversation like he was watching a tennis match. “My emotions aren't jet-lagged or anything,” she admitted.
"Mine too, and I've no even gone travelin'.” Malcolm angled his forehead so that it touched Amanda's. “Which disna mean I'd no consider a spot o’ travelin'—a bit o’ research into historic property management."
The regimental flags ranked high overhead waved in a breeze. A cold breeze, that trailed icy fingers through the roots of Amanda's hair. The tapestry billowed from the wall and settled back again. Cerberus cringed.
"Stuff that for a game of soldiers,” stated Malcolm. “Come along, let's see what Mum did wi’ Wayne's ill-gotten gains."
Yeah, right, James. Like I'm really going to get off on a supernatural stalker. Her lips crimped, Amanda walked beside Malcolm and almost on top of the dog down to the dining room. Tidy cardboard and tissue paper packages were arranged along the sideboard. Norah was like Cynthia in one way, Amanda thought. She did things up right.
Amanda followed Malcolm into the kitchen, where they built sandwiches, fried chips, and brewed tea. Each with a tray, they went back up the stairs to the sitting room.
Norah was seated with Denis on her lap, Margaret tucked in beside her, and Wayne ensconced in an easy chair nearby. The television was tuned to a cricket match. “Lovely, very good of you,” Norah said when she saw the food, and added, “Irene rang. They'll be spending the night with Marie."
"There's no need for them to be drivin’ in the rain and dark,” Malcolm agreed, and made room on the coffee table for the trays.
Cerberus trotted over to Wayne and fixed him with an adoring expression. Wayne's expression was a lot less depressed than Amanda would have thought, considering. Norah probably had been doing some counseling. If she could raise a fully integrated male like Malcolm, she could rein in some of Wayne's galloping insecurities.
The four humans and three animals were barely finished with their supper before the footsteps began, steady steps that marched across the floor of the great hall below like those of a sentry guarding his post.
Cerberus hurled himself onto Malcolm's feet. The cats did their vanishing act. Norah, Malcolm, and Amanda shared a glance that was part cautious, part exasperated. Wayne muttered, “Yeah, we used to hear funny noises at Melrose when I was a kid, tree branches and stuff like that."
His equivalent of Morag. Once again Amanda tried some consciousness-raising. “It's the ghost of James Grant, Wayne, like we told you earlier. He's not a happy camper."
"After camping out at Melrose for two hundred years, I'd guess not.” Wayne chuckled at his joke. The others managed to contain their amusement. “Malcolm, Lady Norah, I really appreciate the hospitality, but I'm bushed. A plastic couch at the airport isn't nearly as nice a bed as the one you've given me upstairs. Do you mind if I go ahead and climb into it?"
Norah made a gracious gesture toward the doorway. “Good night,” everyone chorused.
Wayne's plodding steps receded down the hall and disappeared. The crisp steps below stopped. A door opened and shut. Amanda held her breath, waiting for Wayne to come racing back babbling about scarlet coats and swords, but no, he'd passed unscathed. Something about fools rushing in, probably.
"Well then,” said Norah, “I think we should leave the dishes ‘til the morn. I'm taking a book to my room. Good night.” She left with a smile.
If she'd seen Norah and Denny at the ceilidh, Amanda told herself, Norah had seen her and Malcolm. Not that now was the time or the place to get closer. Malcolm sat at the far end of the couch, tense as a twelve-year-old at his first boy-girl party. The electronic laughter of a televised game show couldn't penetrate the hush of the house. After a while Amanda realized she was holding her breath. “This is ridiculous."
"Oh aye,” Malcolm agreed.
Footsteps rang on the staircase, not growing louder and louder but starting suddenly out of nothing. A tearing, ripping sound followed by a crash reverberated through the corridor.
Sharing a dubious look, Amanda and Malcolm crept down the steps to the landing outside the great hall. Where they found Archibald's portrait lying across the angle of floor and wall, its gilt frame twisted. A vicious slash had turned his prim expression into a scream and eviscerated his ample chest. The edges of the canvas waved faintly in a cold draft that seemed to blow less from the ground floor than from the grave.
"Bugger it,” said Malcolm.
Amanda scowled up at James's portrait, at his self-satisfied smile, at his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Are you happy now?” she asked.
"I'd no make book on it.” Malcolm propped up the painting, trying to straighten its twisted frame. “Another job for the restorer in Edinburgh, right enough. The man's a bull in a china shop."
He meant James, not the restorer. “Maybe he's finished his search and destroy mission for the day."
"One way or the other, we'll be layin’ doon some plans the morn.” Defiantly Malcolm put his arm around Amanda's shoulders and walked her to her room. “Would you like me to sleep on the floor, to keep you company?"
"He'd love that."
"Like wavin’ a red flag afore his nose? All right, then, but give a shout if he comes courtin'. He needs a lesson in manners.” They indulged in one kiss, a wary look up and down the corridor, and then another. “Good night."
"Watch your back,” Amanda told him, and went into her room. There was another evening gone of the precious few remaining, damn it all anyway.
Her cosmetics lay scattered across the dressing table, eye shadow crumbled over the starched linen mat, lipstick a gory gash across the mirror. In the bathroom the flowers were not only beheaded but crushed into the tile floor. Oh shit.
A cold gust of wind chilled her to the bone. She spun around.
"Amanda, Sweeting,” James said. “Were your words of love but lies?"
She'd never seen him like this, dream distorted into nightmare. His eyes were hard and cold as marble. His mouth was set in so determined a line she suspected he was trying to keep it from quivering, either with rage or hurt or some explosive combination of the two.
His hand rested on the hilt of the sword. The genuine sword, its brass hilt catching and shading the light as his hand, as his entire body, did not. Of course the real sword fit the undamaged memory of the scabbard, and yet.... She squinted. Yes, the twisted and time-abraded scabbard hung partly over and partly under its smooth twin, making a weird double image.
"My sweet, would you betray me?"
"No,” Amanda returned. “You weren't exactly honest with me, were you?"
"Fie, madam! How dare you judge my account of such weighty matters as my very death!” He stepped toward her. The light bled from the not quite solid scarlet of his coat.
She stood her ground. If only his eyes weren't so hurt. He made her feel she'd done him wrong. He made her feel sorry for him.
"I had thought you different from the others of your sex. I had thought you not fickle but faithful. But no. You are but a strumpet, a trollop, spreading your legs for any man with the words to woo and the coin to pay."
"Oh, for the love of ... Come off it, James. I never lied to you. Yes, I told you I loved you. I got carried away. I'm sorry. But you took my feelings for you and stomped on them. If that's not betrayal, what is?"
His pain seared into anger. His lip curled. “You speak of love, do you? So did Clytemnestra love Agamemnon. So did Medea love her sons by Jason. Love, in a woman's voice, is nothing but an infernal lie."
"It is? Is that why I did what you asked me to? I brought you home. I gave you back your sword. I warned you back in Virginia you couldn't get revenge against Archibald, but I promised to tell your story. And I did, damn it, I did."
"Archibald and his wicked lies!"
"Archibald was telling the truth,” Amanda said, “and you know it."
One stride and James was in her face. His breath reeked. He reeked, like he hadn't had a bath in two hundred years. She edged away and found her back pressed against the doorframe. “You would betray me, Madame? No, I think not.” He caressed her cheek.
His hand felt like the clod of mud she'd thrown on his coffin. She shuddered, rejecting him, rejecting any sympathy she could still find for him. “It's over, James. It's finished. It's time for you to go."
His eyes glinted. His caressing hand tightened into a fist pressing into the softness of her cheek.
She jerked away. “Stop it! Leave me alone!"
"Oh my sweet,” he whispered. “Such hideous words to fall from your delicious lips, like ripe fruit become ashes. It is the greatest shame that if you will not have me, if I cannot have you, then no one will."
With a sleek rasp of metal he drew his sword. The blade passed so close beneath her chin she felt its cold steel kiss. “Hey!"
She twisted, ducking beneath his arm and stumbling to the side. Scarlet and tartan swirled. James seized her hair, jerking her forward so she landed hard on her knees. He knotted his fingers in her hair like he'd done while they were having sex. Making love. At least, she'd been making love. But James probably didn't see the contrast between then and now.
"James, stop it!” She wrenched away, by the sharp pain leaving several strands of hair in his hand. “Ow!"
Amanda leaped to her feet, but a weight, not as much as a man's body, perhaps, but a substantial force, hit her from behind. Falling against the window seat, she scrambled onto it and turned at bay. She kicked at him, but her feet struck uselessly against no more resistance than draped fabric.
James stood over her, sword upraised. The hand wielding the sword might be incorporeal, but the blade itself was thirty-two inches of fine Stirling steel. Amanda shrank back. This was beyond nightmare. This was real. She was gasping like a fish, unable to breathe, unable to cry out.
He smiled. Her terror was probably turning him on, damn him. A flick of his wrist and the sword tip snicked the catch on the window. A thrust, the ping of metal against glass, and the window flew open. The cold wet air that gushed inside raised goose bumps on her skin.
The sword gleamed, drawing arcs in the shadows, more vivid than James's hand or face or body. Tenderly its cold, hard length slipped past Amanda's cheek, first one side, then the other. She edged backward. Her hands scrabbled at the window frame. Behind her yawned empty air. Her shoulders cramped as she tried desperately to keep her balance.
In an outburst of fear and denial mixed, Amanda screamed. “Malcolm!” The name seemed to swell and echo until the wind itself repeated the cry, whisking it away into nothingness.
James's lips parted. His voice was gentle as velvet. “Ah, my sweet, the poet Marvell said that no one embraces in the privacy of the grave. Shall we determine the truth of his words?"
She tried to inhale enough air to scream again. But his eyes fixed hers, drowning her in lust and rage and fear, and she choked. The lace at his wrist shivered. The tip of the sword touched the placket of her blouse between her breasts. With the briefest hesitation the blade cut the cloth. When it pricked her skin it stung like cold fire. The heavens gaped at her back, and for a moment she wondered if they'd bury her, too, in the old churchyard.
From miles away came Wayne's voice. “Holy shit. That's James Grant."
Malcolm's voice was louder, like a clang of sword against sword. “You filthy sod. Where's your honor then, murderin’ a defenseless woman?"
The bright streak of the blade vanished. Amanda blinked. Oh. She forced one burning inhalation into her lungs, then another.
In front of her she saw James's back, the red coat tails and the pleats of his kilt. Beyond him stood Malcolm, just inside the door of the room. No wonder he hadn't heard their voices. His hair was wet and he was wearing only a pair of jeans. He'd been in the shower, probably seeing the murder scene from Psycho with himself as the victim.
But no, Amanda managed to think. James was after her. He had to take her out first. He had something to prove to her.
Two pale ovals in the doorway, ripped with the black holes of eyes and mouths, were Wayne and Norah. Somewhere Cerberus was barking hysterically. He'd been barking for several minutes now.
Like a hunting cat's tail the sword flicked back and forth. He knows how to use it, Amanda thought, easing herself off the window seat and along the wall. She suspected Malcolm knew that. “Give over, James,” he said. “You're finished here."
"So then, it's you, the insolent dog,” James said. Their voices were uncannily similar. “How dare you walk about my father's house as though you were its master? How dare you lay your hands upon my woman? By my troth, I'll sup upon your giblets before this night is done."
"He's not Archibald,” Amanda croaked from the other side of the dressing table.
James snickered. “Of course he's not Archibald, do you take me for a fool, woman?"
She took him for a lot of things, but a fool was not one of them.
"It's no your father's house,” said Malcolm. “No any more. And she's no your woman. She can choose who she wants, and she's no wantin’ you."
Amanda groped frantically for her lines. “Go away, James. I don't want you any more. You're here because of me, but now I want you gone."
He half-turned toward her, brows drawn down. “Sweeting, your words lay such a heavy burden upon my heart that in just a moment I shall be obliged to stop them, but first, if I may beg your indulgence, I have this dog to spit."
In one smooth motion James spun and lunged at Malcolm. The sword flashed. A woman cried out. It could've been Norah. It could've been Amanda herself. She didn't know.
Malcolm grabbed the chair from beside the door and jerked it upward. With a solid thunk of metal against wood it knocked the sword away. He yanked the chair to the side. The sword, imbedded in the chair's leg, almost came out of James's hand.
Almost. But James's battle-honed instincts went with the sword's momentum, so his hand never left the hilt. A wrench, and he retrieved it. He raised it again. “A fine attempt, dog, but it will not save your life."
