The Winter Sea (Slains, #1)(63)

I only knew that it was morning, and I hadn’t been to bed, and all I wanted was a piece of toast, a glass of juice, and several hours of sleep. So when the shadow of a person passed my window, my first impulse was to let the knocking go unanswered and pretend I wasn’t home. But curiosity won out.

‘I’ve brought you lunch,’ said Stuart, standing on my doorstep with a winning smile and something wrapped in newspaper that smelled so good my stomach flipped. It wasn’t exactly a peace offering, since Stuart, I felt certain, didn’t realize he’d done anything to warrant one—but in return for fresh-made fish and chips, I might forgive him for the trouble he had caused me.

‘Come on in.’ I pushed the door wide. ‘Your timing’s amazingly good, by the way. But it’s breakfast, for me.’

Stuart arched a dark eyebrow. ‘It’s nearly twelve-thirty.’

‘That late?’

‘D’ye never go to bed?’

I took the fish and chips from him and crossed to the kitchen while he shrugged off his coat by the door. As I parceled the food out on plates, I explained, ‘I got into the flow last night. I didn’t want to stop.’

His eyes danced as though I’d just made a dirty joke. ‘That happens to me sometimes. Not with writing,’ he admitted, with a Casanova smile, ‘but it does happen.’

Indulging him, I let the double meaning slide and handed him his plate. ‘You’ll either have to eat it standing up, or sitting by the fireplace,’ I apologized. ‘There’s no room on the table.’

‘So I see.’ He chose an armchair, settling back and nodding pointedly towards the mess of papers that was covering my writing table. ‘How far along are you, then?’

‘Maybe a third of the way, I don’t know. I never know how long a book will be until I’ve finished it.’

‘Don’t you work to a plan?’

‘No. I’ve tried, but I’m no good at it.’ My characters refused to be contained by any outline. They were happiest when charting their own course across the page.

Stuart grinned. ‘I’m not much good at planning either. Graham’s the organized one of the family.’ He glanced at me. ‘What did you think of him?’

‘Graham?’ I opened the door of the Aga and prodded the coals with a bit too much force before saying, ‘I thought he was nice.’

‘Aye, he is that.’ My bland choice of words had apparently satisfied Stuart. ‘The only time I ever saw him lose his manners, to be honest, was when he played rugby. And even then I don’t doubt he apologized to everyone he stomped on.’

I’d been right, then, thinking Graham was an athlete. ‘He played rugby?’

‘Oh, aye, he almost went professional.’

Clanging the Aga door shut, I crossed to join Stuart, my plate in my hand. ‘Really?’

‘Aye, he was recruited, had the papers nearly signed, but then Mum died, and Dad…well, Dad, he didn’t do so well. And rugby would have meant that Graham had to live away, so he just turned the offer down,’ he said, ‘and stayed at university until they took him on there as a lecturer. I’d not say that it would have been his choice, but then, you’d never hear him moan. He’s too responsible. He sees his job as taking care of Dad, that’s all. He comes up every weekend to look in on him.’ A sideways glance, and smile. ‘He’s given up on taking care of me.’

I could have told him no, he hadn’t, but I kept my concentration on my plate. ‘He’s never been married, I take it?’

‘Who, Graham? He’s never come close.’ His initial amusement changed, slowly, to something approaching suspicion. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I just wondered.’ To soothe his pricked ego, I asked, ‘What about yourself ? Ever been married?’

Back on his own favorite subject, he shook his head. ‘No, not yet.’ And unable to pass up the chance for a play, he said, catching my gaze with his own, ‘I’ve been waiting to find the right woman.’

I didn’t swing at that pitch either. ‘How was London?’

‘Murder. It’s a busy time for us. I’ll be off again tomorrow night, to Amsterdam, and then from there to Italy.’

In scheduling at least he seemed to match my novel’s Captain Gordon, turning up just long enough to have an impact on the plot before he dashed away.

He started telling me about what he’d been up to in London, but I was only half-listening, trying to hold back a yawn that brought blood drumming loudly inside my ears. Stuart, not noticing, carried on talking, and although I tried from politeness to follow along, I was fading, and fast, as my long night of no sleep caught up with me. Resting my head on the chair back, I nodded at something that Stuart was saying.

And that was the last thing I really remembered.

The next thing I knew I was waking up, still in my chair, and the armchair that faced me was empty. The daylight had faded to dusk. As I moved, I discovered that Stuart was more of a gentleman than he would likely have cared to admit—he had taken a spare blanket out of the cupboard and covered me with it, to make me more comfortable. And when I made my way into the kitchen and opened the fridge, I discovered my half eaten fish and chips still on the plate, sealed with cling film, and waiting for me to reheat them for supper.