A Rip Through Time(114)

My mouth opens, ten questions leaping into the gap, but I close it and nod. “He’s not at a public house, but yes, I was just about to leave. Is—Mrs. Ballantyne is out front.”

His brows gather, face darkening. “You brought my sister?”

“Uh, no. Didn’t you follow her?”

“Certainly not. I followed you. You were obviously in a hurry to leave earlier this evening, and I presumed you were about to follow another clue. Which is why I had that talk with you—vowing to do better, so that you wouldn’t feel the need to do such things on your own. But obviously…”

He pulls back, and in that movement, I see his hurt.

Damn it, Duncan. I’m sorry. I really am.

“I’m sorry—”

“No need,” he says, too quickly to mean it. “You did not trust me yet. I have not earned it.” He starts for the hall. “We must get to my sister. She is too reckless by far.”

“Not reckless,” I say as I hurry after him. “Just restricted. Restricted and restrained and sheltered, and so when she gets an adventure, she isn’t prepared to deal with it.”

He turns to peer at me, and I realize I’m using my Mallory voice. I wave at the hall. “We’ll speak later, sir. I have—I have things I need to tell you, but for now we must get to Is—Mrs. Ballantyne.”

We walk two steps. Then I stop so abruptly he bashes into me.

I turn. “There are notes. I can grab them quickly. I just need you to watch me, so you may tell Detective McCreadie that they are where I said they were.”

“As I found you here, I am not certain how that proves anything. You may have planted them.”

I curse under my breath. Then I stride forward. “Forget the notes. We’ll discuss them once we have your sister.”

“Are you all right, Catriona? You sound odd.”

“I am distracted, sir. Upset at my discoveries and distracted and now concerned about Mrs. Ballantyne.”

We reach the door. I wave for him to wait while I peek out. There’s nothing to see, though—just the stairwell. We creep out, and I ascend first, scanning the yard.

We jog to the road and then stride along it. Or Gray strides, while I need to stay jogging to keep up.

“You said you knew I was up to something earlier?” I prompt carefully, mostly just to get him talking. He’s trying to act normal, but I feel the edge of a chill. I didn’t confide in him, and that stings, however much he wants to pretend it doesn’t.

For a moment, he seems ready to brush off my question. Then he says, “There was something you were not telling us. Something about Constable Findlay. You discovered something else earlier today, and I had the distinct impression that you did not trust Detective McCreadie with the information.”

“That’s not it.”

“No?” He glances over as we turn the corner. “Yes, perhaps I misspoke. You did not trust Detective McCreadie or myself.”

“I suspected Constable Findlay, and I know he is very close to Detective McCreadie, so I wanted proof before I took my suspicions to him.”

“That is what I presumed,” he says. “I followed you, and I saw where you were going, and as it seemed unlikely to be an assignation, I knew you must be investigating Constable Findlay. I am resisting the temptation to lecture you on the dangers of what you did. I know you are not a child, even if you do seem very young to me. However, you are very obviously able to take care of yourself, as you proved when attacked the other day and as you proved again tonight.”

“I did not prove it so well tonight,” I mutter. “Detective McCreadie wasn’t joking when he said you know how to fight.”

He shrugs, relaxing a little. “A skill I learned early in life. While my former public school now admits international students, I was an anomaly at the time, and some people do not like anomalies. They mistake difference for weakness. I learned how to teach them otherwise, sometimes with my grades and sometimes with my fists. The problem, as my mother would say, is that I came to enjoy the latter an unseemly amount.”

I smile. “Well, you are good at it, which always helps.”

“It does, and so I say, as a fellow student of the art, that you have obviously had training yourself. You would do much better without those damnable skirts.”

“Tell me about it.”

He relaxes more, even offering a faint smile. I’m about to say something else when we turn the corner and I stop short.

Isla is gone.

“Catriona?” Gray says, frowning at me.

I hike my skirts and break into a jog. He follows, and I run as fast as I can to the spot where I last saw her.

“She was right here,” I say.

“Are you certain?” He peers across the street and answers his own question. “Yes, that is the town house.” He straightens. “Do not panic. She has simply gone home. She saw us round the corner—or heard our voices—and fled, and we shall find her at home, slightly out of breath, acting as if she has been there all along. Yes, no need for panic.”

I don’t point out that he’s said that twice. The reassurance is for himself as he paces, scouring the street and frowning.

“Unless she heard our skirmish in the apartment,” he says. “She may have come to your aid. Perhaps she went the other way around.” He squints down the street. “Blast it. We shall be running in circles trying to find her, while she will be at home. I know she will be.”