Shadows in Scarlet (40 page)

"Yeah right,” she returned. “If you hadn't been a pest I wouldn't have gotten to come here, would I? You don't owe me your life, Wayne."

"Which you're puttin’ in my hands?” demanded Malcolm.

"That—that's very generous of you, Wayne,” Norah stammered, “but it's much too dangerous."

"Not if we do it right,” said Wayne, cool, composed, in control.

Malcolm's eyes brightened, polished by the reflected glow of the scheme. “It might work at that. We've wardrobes o’ old clothes, we could find Wayne a proper uniform."

"A kilt? Uh-uh. I'll wear knee breeches, but not a skirt."

Geez, Wayne,
Amanda thought.
Way to insult the natives!

Malcolm dismissed the heresy with a roll of his eyes. “What if James disna challenge you? I'm no so sure he's in a mood for talkin'."

"That's where I come in.” Amanda set her chin. Like getting a flu shot, it was painful but necessary. “To do it up right we'll need a Sally. That's me. Maybe I'd remind James of Isabel, too—there's a description of the dress she wore to their engagement party in one of her letters. Sally may have been the direct cause of the duel, but Isabel was sure an issue. Even if he realizes it's me, finally wearing what he thinks are normal clothes, it doesn't matter. Just as long as he's confused, or tired, or at least lets down his guard long enough for Malcolm to get the scabbard—and maybe even the sword—away from him."

Norah gulped, probably swallowing her maternal instincts. “I don't like this. Not one bit. But I like even less having Malcolm killed, or Amanda killed, or being turfed out of my home by a malevolant ghost. You're right, the plan might work. But I'm going to be there, too. The more hands the better. And you'll be needing someone with a clear head as well."

"But Lady Norah,” protested Wayne, probably knowing what would happen if
his
mother got her dainty little hands into the plan—she'd be arranging dance-studio-style footprints on the floor.

"Ah, Mum, you're a right Jenny Cameron. The Amazon o’ the ‘45,” Malcolm explained to the uninitiated, and sat back in his chair. His brilliant blue-gray eyes moved from face to face, compelling as a blood oath. He didn't have to say the words:
Either we work together or we lose.

Wayne threw his napkin down with a flourish. “Let's do it."

Amanda was impressed. If only Wayne survived long enough to show off his new persona back home. They could all play their parts, yeah, but James had to play his, too. Not that everyone wasn't thoroughly aware of that.

In a tight group they left the hotel, piled into the car, and started back toward Dundreggan.

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Amanda twirled in front of Norah's full-length mirror, flounces rustling. Her bodice was framed with pink and white muslin ruffles, like the ruffles that cascaded over a green satin underskirt. Her three-quarter length sleeves ended with linen frills. Sally would have sold her soul for this dress.

And it was just about Sally's size. The hemline hit well above Amanda's ankles, which Norah camouflaged with a long ruffled petticoat. And the waist was impossibly small, even after Amanda squeezed her rib cage into a Victorian-era corset.
Great.
If she hyperventilated and fainted somebody, possibly herself, might die. Maybe it was just as well the dress stank of mothballs. She was carrying smelling salts around with her.

Amanda poked at her tiny ribboned cap. It didn't quite hide her short hair, but the sausage-like fake curls hanging from it confused the issue. Which was the point of this drill anyway.

"What do you think?” Norah shoved one last pin into the frayed edge of a ruffle and sat back on her heels.

Amanda flicked open her fan and fluttered it back and forth. Its carved ivory had yellowed with age, but its bindings seemed sturdy enough for the evening's masquerade. “Fie, sir, would you have me credit such flatteries? Venus herself would blush to be so addressed.” She snapped the fan shut and tapped it flirtatiously against her reflection.

"Well done,” said Norah with a laugh. “That's similar to the dress Isabel described. But you know men, they don't remember that sort of detail. Especially after two hundred years.” She started piling pins and spools of thread back into her sewing basket. “Alex and I used to hold costume parties. That's why we still have the old clothes. I simply can't bring myself to throw them out.” She closed the basket and stood up. Her expression balanced on a razor's edge between fear and resolve.

Amanda gave her a hug. “It'll be all right."

"So it will,” Norah replied, and hugged her back.

Footsteps came down the hall. Margaret and Denis looked up from their nests on Norah's canopied bed, ears moving front to back to front again like furry radar dishes. “Mum? Amanda? Are you decent?” Malcolm peered around the door.

As one, Norah and Amanda exhaled.

"Lassie, you look a treat,” Malcolm said. “Pretty enough to raise the dead."

She curtsied. “Thank you, kind sir. But I must ask you to guard your tongue, as those japeries you might find amusing could well serve to dismay some members of our party."

"Don't worry yourself,” said Norah. “He'd make jokes on his way to..."

The gallows?
Amanda finished for her.
Thanks.

Norah grimaced. “You go on ahead, I'll catch you up."

"May I?” Malcolm offered Amanda his arm. She tucked her hand beneath the reassuring warmth of his sweater. Together they walked out into the lengthening shadows of the corridor. “It's getting on for sunset at last,” he said.

"I've never had a day last this long,” Amanda returned.

"Oh aye. I was expectin’ to hear doom crackin’ any moment.” He crushed her arm against his side. “I found the song you were quotin’ me on a CD. I thought I recognized it."

"Really? Is it sung in Gaelic?"

"That it is. A woman's voice, a cross between a siren and a banshee."

"Just the right sound effect, then.”
This is going to work. It is.

"Wayne's in the hall,” Malcolm went on. “He's a sight."

Whoa,
Amanda thought. It was deja vu all over again. Here she was walking through an old house with her waist encased in a cage, fabric floating at her ankles, hoping she wouldn't say something dumb. But instead of an elegant Georgian staircase she stepped carefully down a muscular medieval spiral stair. Instead of a wood-paneled parlor with spindly furniture she walked into a stone-walled great hall, its furnishings larger than life.

Darkness disguised the beams of the ceiling. The flags hung limp and lifeless. The lights made delicate glowing circles across the floor but left the corners dim. A fire burned in the fireplace, looking as puny as a match on the vast hearth. Shadows licked up the chimney and across the floor. An odor of smoke and mildew and mothballs hung on the air.

An apparition in a scarlet coat rose from behind the massive sideboard and its display of pewter. Amanda guffawed. “Wayne, that's enough to make George Washington spin in his grave."

Wayne struck a pose imitating the father of his country crossing the Delaware, although his scarlet coat, gold trim, white breeches, and black boots suited British commander Cornwallis, not the upstart Washington. As Amanda got closer she saw that the gold trim was tarnished brass, the boots were a spray-painted brown, and the scarlet coat was threadbare. But with a curled white wig around his ruddy face, Wayne did look vaguely like Archibald must have looked that fateful evening at Melrose. Well, without the kilt, but even if Wayne had agreed to wear one he probably would've gotten tangled up in it or it would've fallen off at a critical moment.

"It was like the ceremonial clothin’ o’ the matador,” Malcolm told Amanda.

"But a bull would have two sharp points instead of just one,” Wayne said. “The CD player's plugged in and set to the right track."

"Super. Where's the dog?"

"Oh. He needed to go outside. I left the front door open."

With a pat Malcolm released Amanda's hand and stepped to the door. “Cerberus! Here boy!” A distant woof replied. “Half a tick,” Malcolm said, and hurried off down the stairs.

Wayne and Amanda looked gravely at each other. “We've done this before,” she told him.

"Well, sort of. Did you see anything flying around today?"

"No. He's keeping a low profile."

"Probably hoarding his strength."

"Great."

Cerberus bounded into the room, Malcolm on his tail. Norah walked in carrying an indignant cat under each arm. She set them down on the floor. Malcolm beckoned her toward the sideboard and explained about switching on the CD player. She nodded. Not that you needed to explain anything to Norah. No wonder Malcolm was so bright.

The dog ambled sociably from person to person. The cats sat down, their expressions set in world-weary boredom. The humans paced back and forth, shifted and sighed.

The windows faded from gray to black. Dundreggan Castle was so silent Amanda wondered if she'd gone deaf. When the fire cracked, a log fell, and sparks flew, everyone jumped. Malcolm hefted another log behind the andirons, and with bellows and poker from the nearby rack teased it into flame.

"Come on, come on,” said Wayne under his breath.

The fire gleaming in his eyes, Malcolm climbed on a chair and detached a Lochaber axe from one of the displays. He propped the six-foot long pole with its wide, curved head, part axe, part spear, against the corner of the fireplace and melted into the shadows beside the mantel.

Amanda breathed out, breathed in, breathed out. Her ribs hurt. She felt like her forehead was bulging.
Contents under pressure.

"Let's get this over with,” Wayne muttered.

Amanda breathed in. “James,” she whispered into the silence, “when you're with me you're strong."

The words of the mantra hovered invisibly in the air. One heartbeat, two, and the glow of the lights dimmed, so slightly Amanda thought she'd imagined it except Wayne, too, looked up.

A cold draft sent smoke swirling through the air. The flags rippled. Denis and Margaret sat up, ears alert, whiskers flared. Cerberus barked, short and sharp.

Wayne straightened his shoulders and set his chin. Except this time his expression wasn't childishly stubborn but firm, tenacious, mature. So what if sweat was breaking out on his forehead. He sure got points for style.

In the shadows by the hearth Malcolm was standing very straight, hands on hips, jaw tight, in a bestriding-the-globe stance. In the shadows next to the sideboard, Norah folded her arms. Her blue eyes were a determined glitter.

A glitter like the one forming in the center of the room. Denis and Margaret hissed, clawed, yowled, and made tracks for the doorway. Barking furiously, Cerberus backed from the room. His barks echoed from the stairwell, faded to a distant whine, then stilled.

The lights dimmed further, shading to an odd tint of blue. “Ladies and gentlemen,” whispered Wayne, “start your engines."

The glitter solidified into the brass hilt of a sword. A sheathed sword, Amanda noted with relief. A sword sheathed in two scabbards, one transparent perfection, the other warped and corroded, like James's image of himself shadowed by the reality.

The shoulder belt with its silver fittings appeared out of nothingness. The draped kilt. The scarlet jacket. And finally James's face, looking suspiciously around him.
He knows we're up to something,
Amanda thought. Not that he was going to come rushing in, not after last night.

His eyes fell on Amanda and Wayne standing side by side. His brows tightened and his lips thinned. His hand grasped the hilt of the sword. But he showed no more uncertainty than that.

Let's do it.
Amanda curtsied and flipped open her fan. “Good evening, Captain Grant. Your cousin Lieutenant Grant has been acquainting me with your exploits upon the field of battle."

Wayne bowed. “James, my good man, you will be pleased to know I have omitted certain of those exploits from my account, those that would be unfit for the ear of a lady of good breeding."

James returned the bow, curtly. But his eyes were gleaming slits, like those of a cat in reflected light. “So, Archibald, that, too, was a lie. You are not gone. The words that fall from a woman's lips are like dew, quickly dried.” He frowned at Amanda. But he wasn't sure who she was—Sally? Isabel? Amanda herself?

She raised the fan coyly, hiding her mouth and chin. “Lieutenant Grant, your cousin's every aspect is one of courage and fortitude. I confess myself amazed by the glow of his appearance, like Phoebus overturned by Apollo's chariot. It is too much, I shall swoon, I place my trust in your hands.” She swayed, just enough to lean against Wayne's side, just enough so he had to put his arm around her to steady her.

"Now James,” said Wayne, with the perfect priggish inflection, “respecting the ladies you must take care, upon my word, weak as they are they cannot tolerate such advances as you make, but are obliged to find them improper. Allow me to acquaint you with the proper means of dealing with the fairer sex."

Scowling, James stepped forward, his steps ringing on the floor, metal clanking at his waist. “And what foolishness is this, that mewling and puking Archibald should know the whys and wherefores of womanhood? Unhand the lady, you dog, and stand away."

Over Wayne's shoulder Amanda saw Malcolm edging forward, the axe in his hand. Briskly she fanned her face, the fan creaking almost like the creaking of the floor beneath Malcolm's—well, he was wearing sneakers, wasn't he? “Captain Grant, I am undone by your potency, I beg you, be gentle with me.” She stepped away from Wayne and extended her hand limply toward James.

Shit!
He kept his left hand fixed on the sword, ready to boost its hilt into his right. He caught her fingers and pressed them, his grasp tenuous and yet so cold a shudder ran up her arm. Between her corset and the reek of decay Amanda's head spun. She batted her lashes, ordering herself to stay alert.

"So, then, Madame,” James said, “you show unwonted wisdom for a woman. But you must wait upon my return. I have unfinished business with this man, with whom I am so unfortunate as to share a name.” He edged her to the side—saving dessert for later—released her hand and took another step toward Wayne.