Murder Takes the High Road(26)

If I’d been hoping for a big drawing room reveal, I was doomed to disappointment. He said, “I always wanted to go to Scotland and this sounded like fun.”

“I see. Your great-grandmother on your mother’s side was Scottish.”

“Well, no. French.”

“Your great-grandfather on your father’s side was Scottish.”

“No. English. I’m not Scottish. I think maybe we’ve got some Welsh on my dad’s mother’s side, but everyone loves Scotland. Men in kilts. Bagpipes. Whisky. Those little bad-tempered Scottie dogs.”

I opened my mouth, but he rushed on. “And I like mysteries. Not in the way you people like mysteries, but I enjoy them. Agatha Christie. She’s great.”

I said severely, “Oh please. Agatha Christie is the automatic default for people who don’t know a lot about mysteries. You’re no mystery reader!”

His brows shot up. He said mildly, “That was a little Hercule Poirot-ish, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Okay, maybe you’ve read some Christie.”

“I’ve watched a few episodes on PBS. The truth is, I thought it would be fun to stay in a Scottish castle.” He shrugged. “What’s the suspicious look for?”

I tried to rearrange my features into something less openly incredulous, but I still had trouble with John’s explanation. For one thing, this was an expensive trip for someone just wanting to visit the land of his forefathers—and John didn’t even have Scottish forefathers. For another, the tour was designed for fans of Vanessa’s books, which meant we were bypassing a lot of the places most tourists would rightly want to see. And for a third, John didn’t seem particularly enamored of Scottish culture, Scottie dogs or no Scottie dogs.

“This tour was fully booked over a year ago. How did you get on at the last minute?”

“They had a couple of cancellations.”

Hmm. Possible, of course. Some people really were that lucky with reservations.

Another gust of rain rattled against the window. I shuddered at the idea of crawling between those damp, chilly sheets.

Observing me, John said. “Come on, Carter. I promise to be the perfect gentlemen while we’re bunking together.”

I liked the way he said my name.

“The gentleman and the scholar. Sounds like a romance title.”

“Now if you’re going to make fun of my taste in fiction...” But he was already climbing out of his bed with what I thought was suspicious alacrity.

It did not take us long to unplug the reading lamp, lift the nightstand out of the way, and shove the two beds together. We left the facing sides tucked in, which I thought was a good idea, though maybe, in the very back of my brain, I was a little disappointed. I guess I like the occasional romance novel myself.

I turned out the overhead light as John climbed back into bed. I felt my way across the floor, crawled into my own bunk and discovered the mattresses sloped down toward each other.

“Er...this is cozy,” I said, as I rolled into the dip beside John. My feet brushed his through the sheets and blankets. It should have been about as sexy as wool socks, but somehow the warm outline of his body inches from mine—even through the bedclothes—was unexpectedly exciting.

John’s laugh sounded a little funny. He sniffed in my direction. “I like your soap.”

“That’s actually the Ben Wyvis’s soap. It seems to be your soap too.”

We were both silent. The rain continued to pick, pick, pick against the window. The clock on the nightstand clicked over. It sounded loud in the darkness.

We could do this. We could shove off the blankets and see how we liked sharing warm, bare skin. Warm, bare everything. I could tell John was, er, up for it, and it had been such a long time since I’d had this. Well, not this, because I’d never had anything quite like this. But sex. Friendly, uncomplicated sex.

“Speaking of Vanessa,” John said suddenly.

I smothered a laugh at the change of subject—and at myself.

“What?” he asked.

Clearly the subject of sex was just on my own mind.

“Nothing. Go on,” I said.

“Is it true that she went to prison for killing her boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a little shocked. I have to admit.”

I said, “I’m used to the idea now, but yes. I remember being shocked when I found out.”

“Is there any question of her guilt?” His breath was warm and smelled of wintergreen toothpaste.

“No. She broke down and confessed under questioning.”

“What happened?” he asked.

I sighed. It wasn’t that I found the subject boring, more that I’d grown resigned to the reaction of non-fans. An understandable reaction, really. “Teenage angst? Adolescent jealousy? Vanessa—her name was Claire Sims back then—had been dating a boy by the name of Donald Kresley. He was a bit older than her, but not by much. He was a schoolmate. Anyway, one afternoon, the two of them walked into the woods and Vanessa hit him over the head with a rock.”

I was silent, thinking. That part of the story wasn’t the difficult bit because they’d both been kids and kids lash out when angry.

“And the blow killed him?” John asked, when I didn’t continue.