Night of the Highland Dragon Read Free Page B

which went a good way toward arguing for the merciful nature of the universe. “And I asked did he want Mum, and did he want lodgings for a time, and he said he couldna’ imagine leaving soon now that he’d seen how lovely the place was.”
    Judith made a neutral sound. It didn’t sound, in fairness, as if Arundell had said anything outside the bounds of polite flattery. Not yet, at least.
    â€œAnd then I showed him into the parlor. Do you think he’ll stay for a while? Do you think he’ll be at the fair?” Claire caught her breath at this evidently new idea. “I’ll be having a new dress. Of course,” she added, suddenly downcast, “it’s bound to be out of style by now, and I’m sure he’s used to very fashionable ladies.”
    â€œI’m sure he’s used to older ones,” said Judith. “And if he isn’t, he should be, no matter how pretty you are. You’re old enough to know what I’m saying, aren’t you?”
    She hoped so. Pure human girls were so damnably fertile , and the world wasn’t kind to an unmarried woman with a baby. Loch Arach was small enough that everyone would talk, no matter what Judith did; bigger places had their own dangers.
    Claire was nodding now, chewing on her lip and looking about to go into a fit of sulks.
    â€œBesides, isn’t the Stewart lad chasing after you these days? And haven’t you been doing a good bit of chasing back?”
    â€œOh, aye,” said Claire again. If she wasn’t completely mollified, the mention of her beau did seem to keep her from sinking completely into the doldrums. “But he’s been all nervy lately. It’s tiring for a girl,” she added as the door to her mother’s private office opened and Arundell followed Agnes into the parlor. “Just because a beast killed one of his old cows.”
    And at that , of all things, Judith saw Arundell’s gaze sharpen.

Three
    Damn. Damn, damn, damn.
    Either the dead cow was completely irrelevant—which was likely enough insofar as cows were reasonably common in the country and did get killed for reasons other than their owners’ desire for a roast—or it was exactly the sort of thing William should hear more about—which was also likely, since animal sacrifice was a decent way to summon and bribe demons and thus relatively common among the smarter sort of cultists, the ones who’d worked out that people did eventually miss even street urchins in this modern day and age.
    He badly wanted to ask questions. He probably could have gotten answers if he’d just been talking to Claire, or to Claire and her mother. The girl clearly found him charming—the day William couldn’t charm a pastoral adolescent, he’d retire to a Spanish villa and fish for the rest of his life—and her mother was inclined to indulge paying customers, particularly strangers with potentially interesting stories. He could easily have gotten off a series of “Sounds dreadful. Do tell me more” questions without them thinking anything of it, and any suspicions they did develop would have been gone by morning.
    Lady MacAlasdair was a different kettle of fish—and not fat, harmless goldfish either. Swordfish, maybe. Or sharks.
    Meeting her, he’d understood the rumors. The lady’s eyes, her speech, and the way she carried herself belonged to a woman of at least his age, but everything else about her suggested that she might possibly have reached twenty-five at the most. Her hair, pinned in a simple coil at the base of her long neck, was glossy black shot through with strands of bronze. William couldn’t see a trace of gray there, nor any wrinkles at the corners of her wide mouth or her green-gold eyes. She wore a russet-colored walking dress with no frills or tight lacing to conceal her form, and the shape it revealed was straight and slim but, he noticed with a sinking