Roses in Moonlight (32 page)

“Am I going to be staying long enough to get a UK driver’s license?”

“I don’t know,” he said carefully. “Are you?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “That, good sir, does not sound anything like a proposal of, well, anything. And I want to know why you made me drive all the way up here instead of you coming down to get me.”

He took her hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it. Then he looked at her seriously. “Because, my dearest Samantha, I wanted you to have a damned long time to think about where you were coming and have an equal number of times to change your mind.”

She frowned. “Are you bossing me again?”

“Once I get the ring on your finger, I thought I might try.”

“Every other day.”

“Well, aye, I suppose I’ll be limited to that.”

“Still not much of a proposal.”

“Then how about this?” He knelt down right there on the uncomfortable pebbles in front of her. “Would you like to take driving lessons and get your UK license?”

She pursed her lips. “Am I going to need it?”

“Our children might be happy if you could drive them to school. Which you won’t be doing in that death trap, by the way. I’ll buy you something safer tomorrow.”

She considered. “We’re not sending our kids to boarding school, are we?”

“Hell, no.”

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”

He pulled something out of his pocket and held it up. “Would this bridge the gap, do you think?”

She laughed a little. “You just can’t bring yourself to ask the question, can you?”

“I checked my pockets for holes.”

“Well, there is that.”

“As for the other, I’m not afraid.”

“Of course you aren’t,” she said dryly.

He paused, then took a deep breath. Then he looked at her, the single most unsure expression she had ever seen on his face.

“Samantha Josephine Drummond,” he said slowly, “will you marry me?”

“How did you know my middle—never mind.” There was no point in asking that question. The man knew because he had the ability to hack into things she didn’t want to think about. She smiled. “Yes, I will.”

He put the ring onto her finger, looked at it for a moment or two, then bent his head and kissed her hand. Then he looked at her. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Are you kidding?” she said. “I’m getting the good end of the deal. A great car and an empty house.”

“It’s not entirely empty.”

“Are you going to show me?”

“In a minute.” He stood up and pulled her up to her feet. “After I’ve said hello.”

It was indeed several minutes later that she was walking into his front door with him, his ring on her finger, and his arm around her shoulders. Once they were inside, she turned and put her arms around him.

“Still looks pretty empty to me.”

“You haven’t looked over the fireplace.” He tilted his head in that direction. “Go have a look.”

She hesitated, then released him and walked into the other room. She stopped in front of the fireplace and stared at what was hanging over the mantel.

The picture she had given him.

She looked up at him as he came to stand next to her. “I thought Gavin sold this.”

“He did. To Cameron, as it happens.”

She smiled. “And he gave it to you?”

“Housewarming gift.”

“Very generous.”

“He wants you to do something for him.”

She felt a little faint. “Can life improve?”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “That depends on what you think of maybe spending a fortnight or two at Stratford starting later this month.”

She blinked, then felt her mouth fall open. “I don’t know. Do I get good seats?”

He smiled uneasily. “You tell me where you want to sit and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Are you going to give me details?”

He shook his head. “I thought I would just turn you loose with your sketchbook. You should see Anne Hathaway’s house. Not to be missed.”

“You said that before.”

“You didn’t get to go look.”

“What are
you
doing at Stratford?”

He took a deep breath. “A brief run of
Hamlet.
”

She laughed and threw her arms around his neck. She hugged him tightly, then pulled back and looked at him. “Who’s directing?”

“Edmund Cooke.”

“Finally,” she said. She considered then looked at him. “Are you happy about this?”

He shrugged. “I’ve worked for worse.” He smiled down at her. “You should ask me about the cast.”

“Should I?”

“Claudius is an actor of particularly important stature.”

She fought her smile. “You’re not going to tell me that Sir Richard Drummond is making an appearance.”

“He has volunteered to play the ghost,” Derrick admitted, “when last he visited me in the flat in London. But nay, it isn’t him.”

She considered, then felt her mouth fall open. “My father?”

He nodded.

“You’re kidding.”

“I never kid about future fathers-in-law.”

She pulled away, walked around the room, then came to a stop in front of him. “Wow.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at her carefully. “Why
wow
?”

“
Wow
because my father just gave up Hamlet and settled for Claudius,” she said. “I don’t think he would have done that for Sir Laurence himself.”

He didn’t move. “And is that a good thing as far as you’re concerned?”

She walked over to him and put her arms around his waist. She waited until she felt his arms come around her before she leaned up and kissed him.

“Personally, I couldn’t care less,” she murmured against his mouth. “I love you because you’re just Derrick William Cameron—”

“Who told you my middle name?” he interrupted, smiling.

“The guy who schlepped my luggage inside that delightful bed-and-breakfast on Day Two of the great journey north. He thought I should know.”

Derrick smiled. “I think you have a tale or two to tell, but I want to hear more about the other first. You were saying that you loved me . . .”

“Yes, not that I’ve heard the same from y—”

And that was as far as she got for a bit. She wasn’t sure if he was rewarding her for not caring that her father had not only agreed to be in a play with him but had exerted absolutely no influence on the selection of Hamlet himself—which she was sure Derrick would appreciate later—or if he had missed her, or if he just loved her.

“I missed you,” he said simply. “And I love you.”

She looked at him blearily. “Was I talking out loud?”

He laughed a little. “You were distracted.”

“You have that effect on me.”

He pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her, and held her tightly.

“Marry me,” he whispered against her ear. “Please.”

“Yes. When?”

“You decide.”

“After
Hamlet
,” she said without hesitation. “I don’t want to be distracted by you while I’m watching you.”

“When I figure out what that means, I’m sure I’ll agree,” he said dryly. “Your aunt Mary left you a wedding dress back at the keep.”

She turned her head and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “She’s got to stop poaching things from the past. She’s going to get herself in big trouble.”

“It’s actually from the present. She jetted over to Paris with Emily earlier in the week. Actually, they brought you samples so you could decide what you wanted.”

“My mother will have a fit.”

“Probably,” he agreed, “but your father thoroughly approves. He signed off on an entire trousseau and not a damned thing in it will be polyester.”

She pulled back and looked at him seriously. “I was too nice to them, probably.”

He shook his head. “It says a great deal about you, doesn’t it? I believe
I Like That You’re Kind to People Who Don’t Deserve It
was number ten on that list I made you, wasn’t it?”

She took a deep breath. “It was. It was number eleven on yours, wasn’t it?”

“Wonder why I got bumped like that?” he asked innocently.

“Because number ten had to do with your being lovely to old women who do deserve it.” She smiled. “I’m not very original, but it was heartfelt.”

“I think you’re remarkably original and I love your lists. Let’s go buy a round for the lads, then we’ll make a list of all the lovely things they say about you. Then we’ll go home.”

“Home?”

He smiled. “We’ll figure that out, too.”

She let him take her hand, but she didn’t move. He stopped and looked at her in surprise. “What?”

“One condition.”

He studied her thoughtfully. “You get two days’ bossing to my one?”

“It’s about time traveling.”

“Nay, I will not take you to Elizabethan England for our honeymoon.”

“I think I’m serious,” she said, finding that she was very serious indeed. “I don’t want to tell you what to do, but—”

He shook his head before she could finish. “I’ve already hung up my skates, as it were, and Oliver and Peter have already paid a social call to the laird down the way. I don’t think he’ll lack for company.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you.”

He slid her a look. “Don’t want to change your mind and give me my freedom?”

“Derrick?”

“Aye, love.”

“Go to—” She took a deep breath. “You know the rest.”

He laughed, pulled her into his arms, then swung her around a couple of times before he set her on her feet, kissed her soundly, then pulled her toward the door. “Let’s go, then we’ll figure out when to marry, then where we’ll live.”

“Do you mind?” she asked. “Letting Jamie go on his jaunts without you?”

He ushered her out the door, then pulled it shut and locked it behind them. Then he looked at her and his expression was suddenly serious.

“It is an activity for a single man,” he said, “or a laird who can’t seem to find any extreme sport mad enough to satisfy his need for massive adrenaline rushes. I think I can safely say that James MacLeod will never find himself in need of a rescue, but he was born in a different time and has a different skill set than most men. And a wife who sighs a lot and knows he’ll be home for dinner, eventually. Actually, I think he just does it to provide her with authentic period details for her novels, but I’ll deny it if you repeat that.”

She smiled. “Then what will you do?”

“I don’t know. What will
you
do?”

“Paint your view.”

“Paint
our
view.”

“Yes,” she said happily. “Our view.”

He kissed her for her trouble, then took her hand and walked over to her car. He opened the driver’s side, helped her in, then walked around and got in on the passenger side. He pulled out his phone, sent a text, then leaned back and smiled.

“Lots of legroom,” he said contentedly.

“Who’d you text?”

“Oliver, to come get the Rover.”

“Does he have a key?”

“He doesn’t need one, unfortunately.”

“Interesting skill.”

“He can pick any lock invented,” Derrick said with a smile. “It might serve him in good stead one of these days. Richard Drummond,
Sir
Richard Drummond, was certainly grateful for that several hundred years ago.”

“No one would believe it,” she said. “I can hardly believe it and I was there. I wish I’d had pictures of that bedroom.”

“Oliver took some.”

“Well, he did have a camera.”

“Bragging rights,” Derrick agreed.

She would have to get copies, because there were bed hangings that she had wanted to examine more closely but had never had the chance. She sighed. Perhaps she was never going to get history out of her blood, but perhaps now it didn’t matter as much.

She backed out of her slot next to the house, turned around, then headed toward the village. She looked down at the ring on her finger briefly—it was rather hard to miss, actually—then at Derrick. He was simply watching her, a small smile on his face.

“What?” she asked.

“Thank you for saying yes.”

“Like I would have said no.”

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “You might have.”

“Come on, didn’t you do more research than that?”

He took her hand, kissed it, then put it back on the wheel. “You give me too much credit. That’s why I was pacing like a caged animal for the past two hours wondering if you would change your mind at the last minute and drive somewhere else. The fact that you didn’t hurry led to my anguish.”

She smiled. “Had to keep you guessing somehow.”

“Heaven help me.”

She laughed a little because she was happy for him, happy for herself, and their lives were stretching out in front of them with treasures to be found and procured. So many good things already in their lives and so many wonderful things to look forward to.

She could hardly wait to make a list.

D
errick
paced along the hallway on the bottom level of his flat, from the front door to the kitchen and back again. Nervousness wasn’t in his nature, not truly, but then again, this was something big. Very big. Very important to someone he loved very much.

He heard her coming just as he’d touched the door again. He turned and watched as his wife came down the stairs. It should have been less gobsmacking than it was, that sight. He’d been married to her for six months, after all, and should have been accustomed enough to the sight of her.

Fresh-faced Yank that she was, a girl who had to spend a certain amount of time in Scotland every fortnight or she began to wilt.

He wasn’t sure he was equal to telling her just how much he loved her.

So he decided he would take matters into his own hands and show her—

He ran into her hand as she stood on the bottom step.

“Not on your life.”

He frowned. “I was just going to kiss you.”

“No, you weren’t just going to kiss me and, no, you can’t hug me, either. You’ll wrinkle my suit.”

“It could be put back on the hanger temporarily.”

She blew her hair out of her eyes. “Derrick, really. I’m close to throwing up.”

“That’s why I’m here to distract you,” he said. He smiled pleasantly. “Altruistic, as usual.”

“Self-serving, as usual,” she said, but she smiled as she said it. “If I get through this evening without puking all over his gallery floor, then we’ll talk. Right now, I just need to go get this over with.”

“All right,” he said with a sigh. He pulled his earbud out of his pocket, taped a mic to his cheek, then leaned forward and carefully kissed her on the cheek before he turned his phone on.

“Got you,” Oliver said.

“Here as well,” Peter said. “Rufus in front in three.”

Derrick looked at Samantha to find she was gaping at him. “What?” he asked in surprise.

“Are you taking the lads with us?”

“Of course. Where’s the sport otherwise?”

“Sport,” she said, with hardly any sound to her voice.
“Sport?”

“Samantha, my love, you’re about to go to a gallery opening featuring your art. Your brother has knelt in front of you and begged you to give him exclusive rights to sell your paintings and we forced him to reduce his fee to an obscenely low ten percent. I’m in a suit. What more do you want?”

“What are Oliver and Peter planning on doing?” she wheezed.

“Making sure no one fingers anything hanging on the wall and taking copious notes of all the compliments heaped upon your lovely head. What else?”

“Laxatives in Gavin’s foie gras?”

“Caught that,” Oliver said. “Brilliant idea.”

Derrick smiled. “I’m sure they’ll be on their best behavior. You look lovely. I imagine Rufus is outside.”

She stopped him with her hand on his arm. “Do I really look okay?”

“Lovely,” Oliver chimed in.

“Gorgeous,” Peter agreed.

“Shut up, the both of you,” Derrick suggested. He looked at Samantha. “You’re stunning and your carriage awaits. Shall we?”

She took a deep breath, took his arm, then nodded. He locked up behind them, then opened the door for her to get in the back of Cameron’s black Mercedes. Rufus congratulated her on her upcoming success, then got them out into traffic with a minimum of fuss.

Derrick held her hand, then shifted so he could look at her. She was still looking a little green, but he supposed that couldn’t be helped. He took her hand in both his own, then stroked the back of it because he knew it soothed her. Heaven knew it as the least he could do in return for all the ways she’d run interference for him over the past seven months, though he would have done it anyway simply because he loved her.

They had spent the month they’d been engaged in Stratford in a large manor house with several bedrooms. He’d tried to send Oliver and Peter off to actually do some business, but they’d insisted they needed to lounge about uselessly on the off chance that some theretofore undiscovered ruffian appeared and tried to vex Samantha. Him, they cared much less about. He had apparently been all on his own.

Well, all on his own except for his future father-in-law, who had seemingly been delighted to accept an invitation to take up residence in one of the bedrooms—the one between Derrick’s and Samantha’s, as it happened—an invitation Derrick couldn’t quite remember having extended.

It had been surprisingly pleasant. He had offered Richard the keys to the Vanquish, Richard had complimented him on his performance during rehearsals, and father and daughter had occasionally gone for long walks together. Derrick had happily accepted the occasional invitation to come along. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that perhaps it had been Louise McKinnon to be the fly in the soup. Samantha had come to terms with that without fuss, but she had seemingly enjoyed her time with her father who had accepted a sketch of the original Globe—looking particularly authentic, it had to be noted—with a brisk nod and a rough clearing of his throat. Relationship healed.

And when it came to him, Samantha had been ferociously protective. She had more often than not been the one to poach his earpiece and mic and work out with Oliver and Peter peace and quiet for him to rehearse. It had been a novel sensation, that of being looked after for a change. And she had sat through every one of his performances with tears streaming down her face.

They had married quietly in the village chapel the week after the show closed, with only his family and hers in attendance. Well, he supposed he counted the lads and the MacLeods in his family and she counted Gideon and Megan de Piaget, her great-aunt Mary, and her father in hers.

Cameron had thrown an enormous party for them at the keep, then done them the very great favor of taking his family and camping in Derrick’s boyhood home for a few nights, leaving them the castle itself.

Because he was a Cameron himself, after all.

He had thanked his laird very kindly for the concession a couple of days later, then taken his bride and gotten on with their lives.

Well, they’d spent a month backpacking through the Continent, looking at old things and famous art, but perhaps that was beside the point. Samantha wanted to be in Scotland when they weren’t in London and he had loved her for it.

And so they had set up shop in his flat until they could find something more suitable, he had gone back to work, and she had gotten to arting—along, of course, with agreeing to dispense her expertise in antique textiles. She had been given her own earphone and mic and proved to be very adept at distracting buyers with discussions of how best to display their new treasure whilst secretaries wrote out eye-watering cheques to Cameron Antiquities, Ltd.

The other half of their life they spent in Scotland in the house by the sea that had slowly accumulated first the necessities, then the comforts. Samantha’s flawless Gaelic had helped pave her way into the hearts of the villagers, along with periodic visits by her father, who had apparently over the years taken very seriously his own Scottish roots and the need to keep the mother tongue alive. Derrick supposed what had cemented things for them had been a visit from Samantha’s mother who had swept in like a banshee, offended everyone within earshot, then swept back out again, trailing shards of sharp things in her wake. Perhaps pity wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

“And here we are,” Rufus said brightly. “Ah, and someone to come get the door.” He looked at Samantha in the rearview mirror. “Break a leg, ducks.”

She smiled sickly and thanked him. Derrick got out first, then held down his hand to help her out. He put his arm around her shoulders very carefully so as not to muss either her suit or her hair, then took her hand and kissed it.

“Surviving?”

“I’ve been popping those antinausea things Sunny gave me all day and they’re just not working.” She looked up. “This isn’t just morning sickness, this is terror.”

“What do you have to be afraid of?” he asked.

She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

He shook his head. “Sam, whilst I think your brother is a git of the first water, I must admit that he has an uncanny knack for spotting talent, either in this century or those gone by. Would it ease you any to know I never go after paintings when he’s anywhere in the area?”

“You’ve already told me that,” she said, sounding rather ill. “Five times today.”

“There was six. He knows talent when he sees it, damn him anyway. He had no idea until yesterday that you were the artist. If he’d thought you had no talent, he wouldn’t have insisted on the show in the first place. If learning the artist was his sister had made him uneasy, he would have canceled the show without a second’s hesitation.”

She looked up at him. “Think so?”

“I know so,” Derrick said with feeling. “I’ve watched him do it before. He once called off a deal as the cheque was being smoothed out in preparation for the signature. He’s ruthless.”

“And I’m only giving him ten percent?”

“Aye,” Derrick said with satisfaction. “Which he agreed to almost without clenching his fists.”

He offered her his arm, then led her to the gallery doors that opened to reveal her brother standing there, looking extremely relieved.

“I was almost afraid you wouldn’t come,” he said.

“Really?” she asked in surprise. “Why not?”

“Better offer,” he said sourly, shooting Derrick a glare. He held open the door and allowed her to proceed inside.

Derrick found himself almost running into Gavin’s forearm.

“You ruthless . . .” Gavin seemed to be struggling to find just the right insult.

Derrick only smiled, ducked under his arm, and walked into the gallery. He patted Gavin on the shoulder when the man caught up to him, then elbowed him out of the way so he could get to the guest of honor. Derrick exchanged a brief glance with his wife, lifted an eyebrow, then watched her walk onstage, as it were.

She was marvelous.

After a pair of hours spent either trailing discreetly behind her or positioning himself near important people to listen to their praise, he found himself sitting on a bench, flanked by Oliver and Peter.

“What’d we ever do without her?” Peter said with a sigh.

“Don’t know,” Oliver answered. “She’s a right proper lad, isn’t she?”

Derrick scowled at them both in turn. “Don’t you two have anything better to do than moon over my wife?”

Oliver sat up suddenly. “Oy, that bloke is getting awfully too close, wouldn’t you say?”

“That bloke, Oliver my lad, is the Duke of Clarence,” Derrick said dryly. “You might want to leave him alone.”

“He’s still standing a mite too close,” Oliver said, rising effortlessly to his feet. “I’ll just go be a presence.”

Derrick imagined he would. He lost Peter a few minutes afterward only to be soon joined by Cameron himself and Samantha’s father, Richard. He looked first at his father-in-law.

“What do you think?”

“I think she’s wonderful,” Richard said frankly. “And she deserves every bit of success she’s having tonight.”

Derrick had to agree. He looked at his cousin. “Thank you.”

Cameron shrugged, but he was smiling. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You married your wife who is keeping my wife from sicking up her supper on the Duke of Clarence’s well-polished shoes.”

Cameron laughed a little. “There is that, I suppose.” He shook his head. “You two are quite a pair. Why do I have the feeling you’re not only going to be buying a bigger flat here in London, but one in Stratford as well?”

“One show a year,” Derrick said. “Samantha insisted.”

“And you stomped your little foot and refused until she insisted, is that it?”

Derrick looked at his cousin coolly. “You’re about to lose your good seats, you know.”

Cameron only laughed a little. “I want you to feel properly abused over that mighty secret you kept for so long. And nay, you needn’t return the favor, though I am curious why you’re only doing one a year.”

“I don’t think I can stand being in the same ten square miles with Connor more often than that.”

“He behaved himself this summer,” Cameron pointed out.

“Aye, because a ghost or two I know paid him a visit or two,” Derrick said with a snort. He looked at Cameron, then shook his head. “How I got mixed up in anything of a paranormal nature, I don’t know.”

“Has it been worth it?” Cameron asked with a faint smile.

“Of course.”

Derrick found himself soon abandoned by his companions. Aye, he would have to make another list and add it to the Cameron-Drummond Book of Lists that Samantha tended religiously. Because his wife was a maker of lists and he liked making lists of the things he loved about her as often as possible.

He stood up when he saw her walking toward him, then sighed lightly as she walked into his embrace.

“Well?” he asked quietly.

“Gavin’s chortling. I think that means it was a success.”

“He’s glaring daggers at me, which tells me it was a huge success.” He pulled back only far enough to look at her. “Are you finished with being feted, or shall we stay?”

She paused, then took his hand. “Just one more thing.”

He followed her across the gallery, then around a corner to a hallway he hadn’t been down before. He frowned at the pictures hanging on the walls because they weren’t paintings, they were photographs.

“Is your brother stealing photographers now?” he asked with a half laugh.

“You’ll see.”

He continued with her to the end of the wall, then jumped a little when she simply pulled a picture off the wall.

“Sam, I’m not sure he’ll be able to live with this,” he warned.

She took a deep breath, turned, then handed him the framed photograph.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Oh, just something I Photoshopped,” she said dismissively. “I’m not a good photographer, but they were images I thought you might like.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Just a little thank-you for tonight.”

He looked at the photograph and shook his head slowly. There was the Globe—something he would lay money on Oliver having taken in the past—then their house in Scotland, then the sea washing up to both. Roses bloomed between the theater and the house, just as they did in their favorite garden in Stratford. He started to compliment her, then looked more closely. He could have been wrong, perhaps, but he was just certain in front of the Globe was the faint imagine of a man dressed in an Elizabethan doublet and hose. He looked at Samantha.