Where All the Dead Lie Page 9

  He stared into her eyes for a few moments, as if trying to ascertain if she was trying to get him to push harder, or if she really wanted him to back away and distract her. Apparently deciding on the latter, he filled her in.

  “All right, then. At best, we have a trio of girls who’ve run away, joined a cult or some such nonsense. At worst, we’ll start finding bodies. The pattern is quite evident, and the victimology is coming together nicely. They all attended different schools, didn’t work together, but all three had gone to a ‘church’ over on the East End. For one it was in her neighborhood, for the others, a tube ride. Out of their way.

  “They call it a church, but they don’t ascribe to any God I’ve ever heard of. It’s run by a very charismatic young man who is known as Urq. His father is quite rich. I think he’s probably a schizophrenic, but seems to be much beloved amongst his flock.

  “It’s probably a serial, but if that were the case, I’d expect to see bodies by now. I just don’t have a handle on it yet. Give me a stabbing in a Mayfair pub any day.”

  You should talk to Baldwin. He might have an idea of how to approach it. He’s good at that sort of thing.

  The moment she turned the screen around and saw Memphis’s eyebrow rise in response, she realized how it must look. She pulled the computer back and tried again.

  I didn’t mean it like that. You and I, we’re the same. We understand crime. We understand how criminals think. But serial killers have a different mind-set, and Baldwin knows them. Their motivations aren’t the same. I keep telling him he needs to write a book, something that investigators like us can use as a handbook of sorts.

  Memphis drummed his fingers on the table. “I might just do that. Speak with him, that is. I’m not above asking for help when lives are at stake. Because something isn’t right with this case. I just can’t put my finger— Oh, look.”

  Memphis directed her gaze to the window, and the North Sea appeared, rough and choppy even in the relatively calm weather. Taylor could swear she smelled the salt in the air.

  “We’re getting close now,” he said.

  And then suddenly they were in Edinburgh, the Waverly station welcoming in its homely concreteness. They disembarked, her legs wobbly on the pavement, the wine adding to her discomfiture, like she was trying to balance atop a very angry rocking chair.

  Memphis took her arm and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, holding her upright. She was suddenly exhausted. It was just morning in Nashville, but the time difference, the overnight flight, the wine, the stress of being with Memphis, waiting for the next volley of flirtations, all of it was catching up to her.

  Memphis used one hand to wrangle Taylor’s bag and the other to steer her around to the stairs. They were met at the bottom by a homely man, mid-thirties, hair longer than his collar and swept back with some sort of gel. He stood in front of a battered Range Rover. Memphis introduced him as Jacques, who promptly showered Taylor in a transformative smile showing hugely white Chiclet teeth that had to be dentures, and spoke a few flowery sentences in rapid French that she translated to “Welcome, I’m your driver, if there’s anything you need let me know.”

  “Merci,” she managed to say, in a pretty little croak, which earned her another heavenly smile. She watched him turn to open the door, noticed the small lump under his arm. Driver and bodyguard? Why in the world would Memphis have an armed driver? It wouldn’t be unheard of among public figures and high royals, but it seemed like overkill. Memphis was New Scotland Yard, after all. Another of the strange things she would get to ask him about eventually.

  She climbed into the back of the truck, happy they weren’t in a fancy car, but again struck by the similarities to her mother’s escapades. Traveling all over Europe, chauffeured by servants. Hypocrisy had its claws in Taylor’s back.

  As they pulled out of Waverly and started the trek out of Edinburgh, Taylor was struck by the differences, and the similarities, to her Tennessee hometown. On the surface it was so different: Nashville was slower, a languorous little hamlet in comparison to the hustle and bustle of Edinburgh. Constant slowing at roundabouts and signs that needed a moment’s mental translations, dual carriageways and pull-offs for take-away curry and crisps, tiny one-laned streets that gave way to superhighways: these were all foreign.

  But the trees, and the hills, the smiles and the sense of purpose, all reminded her of home.

  She knew Memphis was watching her. Watching her take measure of her surroundings. Imagining her driving these roads, shopping in these stores, eating in these restaurants. Hoping she liked what she saw.

  Fitting in.

  She was never so glad to be mute as this moment. Her voice would have betrayed her.

  She saw water up ahead, a wide river. The bridge looked like the Golden Gate, with a huge railroad trestle off to the right.

  “We’re fording the Firth of Forth now,” Memphis said.

  Say that three times fast.

  He laughed.

  “Live here long enough and it becomes second nature.”

  The thought brought her up short. Is that was she was doing? Testing the waters to see which parts of her were comfortable with Scotland, and all that it held, and which weren’t? Riding along in the car with Memphis by her side instead of Baldwin, and not minding?

  The car was warm, and she was suddenly exhausted. Before she could delve too deeply into those thoughts, her eyes closed of their own volition, and she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Memphis watched Taylor sleep. She was an angel in repose, cheeks rosily flushed, her mouth slightly open. He wanted to take his thumb and run it along the bottom of her lip, just where it was full to the point of spilling over. He had to sit on his hand to stop the urge. He wanted to wake her and watch those mismatched gray eyes focus fully on him, the pupils dilating in welcome. He wanted to crawl into her hair and pull it around him like a blanket. He wanted to shower her with roses, whisper words that would make her laugh. He wanted to feel her skin warm to his touch. The thought of taking her to his bed, flushed with desire, nearly drove him mad.

  God, he wanted to rut with her until his balls ached.

  He hadn’t felt so strongly about a woman since he met Evan, and being forced to compare the two, to seek out the sameness and the differences, almost made him ill. He was certainly not over Evan. Her death left a gaping hole inside him. The only thing that seemed to fill in the edges was thoughts of Taylor. Having her so near was intoxicating.

  But to win her away from her chap was proving more difficult than he ever expected. He hoped that showing her how accommodating he could be, how much freedom she would have with him, no pressure, no fighting, would show her it wouldn’t be so bad being the wife of a viscount. He hoped that her outings with his friend Maddee would help Taylor find herself again.

  He knew he shouldn’t be thinking this way. Taylor wasn’t his to take. If he could whip out a knife and cut her away from the uptight Fed, that would make life easier. Or he could just give up, find someone else. Maddee had been encouraging him to find another, more suitable woman for months, ever since he came back from his trip to the States heart-struck.

  He’d gotten the feeling that Maddee would like for him to move on with her, but that would never happen. Not only was she married to one of his oldest friends, she wasn’t his type. Too dark-complected, too brash and forward. Too American. She’d made a move on him once at a party in Inverness, before Evan’s death. They’d been seated around a formal dining table and he’d felt a small, creeping hand slide up his leg and settle onto his cock. Maddee, resplendent in a low-cut emerald dress, kept up her conversation with the gentleman on her right while she fondled Memphis.

  At first he was too surprised to stop her, and for a moment, he gave in to the pleasure of her illicit dexterity, but a quick glance across the table at his lovely bride had finished the matter. He’d delicately removed her hand and they’d never spoken of it.

  That lapse didn’t dimin
ish her abilities as a doctor, nor as a friend. Since then, she’d kept her physical distance, and their friendship continued unabated.

  She’d been with him when he got the news about Evan.

  Maddee and Roland had come up to London that day, were staying at his flat in Chelsea. The three of them went shopping, saw a show. Went to dinner. And all the while, Evan had been dead, her car plunged into the icy waters, the baby…

  Oh, he had to stop this. Evan was gone. Gone forever. He wasn’t to blame. He knew that. Maddee had reassured him, over and over, that he wasn’t to blame. But he carried the guilt with him anyway. If he hadn’t left her alone…

  Taylor shifted a bit in her sleep, pulling Memphis back to the now, and he glanced out the window to see they were at the Killicrankie roundabout, which exited to the grounds of the estate.

  He roused Taylor from her slumber. She came awake immediately, eyes wide and distant.

  “Nightmare?” he asked.

  She cleared her throat and whispered, “Yes.” Honest and simple, which made him feel more connected to her than before. If she wouldn’t let him in, he didn’t have a chance; by admitting her fears, showing him her weakness, she was opening the door a bit.

  She yawned and her jaw cracked. She opened her ever-present notebook to a fresh page.

  Where are we?

  “Almost there. We’ve just taken the roundabout into Dulsie.”

  She looked around and smiled, and he could tell she was charmed. The farmland turned into rolling hills of heather, then a sudden forest, huge fir trees placed so closely together that getting a hand between the trunks would be a challenge. When things spread out a bit, larches, transplanted sequoias, oak, birch and aspen abounded.

  The road twisted into the woods for thirteen miles before it opened into a glen, tucked into the base of the mountains, with a small loch that fed the burns throughout the estate. The entry was stone, forty feet high, a massive archway with steel gates that could be closed against entrants.

  A chicken, flushed from the heather on the side of the road, burst across the drive. Taylor giggled. Memphis did his best not to cringe at the sound; it wasn’t the open, carefree laugh he was used to hearing from her.

  It’s huge. I’ve never seen such a big chicken.

  “They’re Buff Orpingtons. Free-range, at that. Heavenly eating.”

  The car drove on, the span of three more heartbeats. He watched her face as the house came into view, almost laughed aloud at the surprise he saw there. She turned to him, eyes shining in delight, and he simply placed his arm around her shoulder and squeezed.

  “Welcome home,” he said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Taylor knew her jaw was on the floor, but she couldn’t help herself. Memphis had assured her that the house in Scotland was “a cobwebby old thing.” Impossible to heat. That’s what she’d quoted Sam, too, thinking he was telling at least part of the truth. He’d always downplayed his status in the aristocracy, and she’d felt a connection to him because of that—the desire to make it on your own, to alter your past, to force your parents’ aspirations away and lead your own life, free of the encumbrances that came with wealth.

  What a lying sack of shit he was. Freaking viscount.

  The “house” was a full-fledged castle, right out of her wildest imagination. Complete with towers and turrets and crenellations, and what used to be a moat, now filled with grass and gravel. There was even a portcullis, topped with leering gargoyles. It was almost as if Memphis had a checklist and was mining about in her head, looking for all the things she dreamed about as a girl, then making sure they were incorporated into his home. The exterior was whitewashed stucco instead of stone, with dark brown timbers and a gray slate roof that gave it the look of a Tudor mansion mated with a French château. It was monstrous.

  Just how big is this place?

  He scuffed his foot in the gravel of the forecourt like a little boy, obviously uncomfortable. She knew the British didn’t approach things like size and luxury the way Americans did.

  “Well, you know, Dulsie Castle is no bigger than most country houses of this period. We’ve added on this century, a public tearoom and expanded banquet hall, so it can be used for tours and weddings and such. And the grounds are extensive. There’s a great deal of sport round here, history, that lot. People come caravanning, or stay in the village below.”

  Come on. Spill.

  He ducked his head, she didn’t know if it was shame or sheer pleasure in surprising her. “It’s not that large, truly. We only have seventeen bedrooms.”

  She did some mental calculating based on her own parents’ home, with its six bedrooms and eight baths, and came up with something in the range of about 50,000 square feet. She tried to be nonchalant.

  I can see why it would be hard to heat.

  He barked out a laugh and she felt absurdly pleased for amusing him.

  “I wasn’t kidding, you know. It is hard to heat, and the taxes truly are crippling. That’s why we offset with public tours. But they only get into the first two floors, and access to the attics on Samhain for ghost stories, and we close from the fifteenth of November until the Ides of March. The top floors are all private quarters, and the grounds are segmented as well. Plenty of privacy. And plenty of places to lounge about, if you choose. Or, if you’re feeling up to it, you can get your hands dirty. This is a working estate—you saw the chickens. We also have sheep, Highland cattle, gardens and a deer park. Whatever my princess wants, my princess shall have.”

  She rolled her eyes, but inside couldn’t help but feel excited. In addition to the crazy-fabulous castle, she was surrounded by natural beauty, and itched to start exploring.

  They exited the Range Rover, Jacques holding the door and bestowing another happy smile, and she could smell the unique scents that went along with a mountain farm. Clean, cool air and sparkling water, fallen leaves, manure and hay, the vanilla and chocolate scents of the evergreen trees, the softly aromatic heather. Cinnamon and yeast and garlic, too. Her stomach growled unceremoniously.

  Memphis could smell it as well. She watched his nose twitching.

  “Cook’s gone and outdone herself now, that smells like venison stew. And there will be apple frushie for pudding.” He looked like an eight-year-old boy who’d just found out he gets to eat with the adults for the first time.

  She wondered briefly if he’d brought other women here, to charm and shock with his largesse, but decided against it. Memphis may be a cad, but she couldn’t imagine him dragging just anyone home. She got the distinct impression that this display was uniquely for her benefit.

  “Let me show you round, get you settled. You can freshen up and rest before we eat.”

  She craned her neck to look up at the tower above the keep, framed in dark storm clouds, the sky coated in amber from the sun setting early this far north, all the while cursing herself. This was Memphis’s plan all along, letting her see just what she might have a chance to be a part of. And like Elizabeth Bennet, upon seeing Mr. Darcy’s Pemberley for the first time and realizing what she passed up, she felt momentarily foolish.

  She heard Sam’s disgusted snort in her ear, like she was sitting on the good angel side of things, and nearly laughed aloud. Even from four thousand miles away, her best friend had sway. Taylor could just hear her now: This isn’t your life. This isn’t your world. This is just an escape. You don’t belong here. You’d do best to remember that.

  Practical Sam. Who’d been in love with the same man since she was fifteen.

  Memphis was standing at the top of the stairs, waiting for her. She mentally shoved Sam off her shoulder, tossed him a smile, blushing slightly because she knew he’d been watching the awed thoughts scroll across her face. It took a lot to surprise her, and she was quite surprised.

  The inside of the castle was as opulent and impressive as she could expect, all done up for Christmas: fresh wreaths and trees and garlands everywhere, with centuries-old furniture, weapons, dec
or, impossibly thick stone walls and wide stairwells lined with elegant polished wood balustrades. Chandeliers and antlers and rugs and priceless oils; oversize family portraits showed the ancestral facial structure that was clearly stamped on Memphis’s features, an echo of his past. He belonged here. It was actually the first time she’d ever seen him so very much at home.

  An older woman met them in the open hallway. Memphis introduced her to Taylor. “This is Trixie. She’s been with the family longer than I have. She’s mistress of this domain, make no doubt.”

  Her name was ridiculously incongruous with her being. The woman didn’t smile, just turned the corners of her mouth up like she was used to Memphis’s teasing and found it very boring indeed. Her hair was iron-gray and pulled back into a severe bun, her eyes a weak blue. She wore a thick wool skirt and a plain wool sweater, and, oddly, men’s laced brogues on her feet. Taylor assumed she was in her sixties at least. Her carriage was remarkable for a woman her age: her back was straight, neck long and elegant.

  She nodded to Taylor and spoke, her voice higher and softer than Taylor expected. “It’s nice to meet you, mum. I’m head housekeeper for the castle. If you’re needin’ anything, you ring the bell.” She pointed out a small doorbell on the wall near the banister. Next to it was a silver bell attached to a pulley. “You’ll find ’em throughout the house.” Her accent was patently Scots; house came out hoose.

  Memphis saw her looking at the two systems, one new, one antiquated. “We left behind the old pull bells some time ago. The electronic system works wonderfully. Every room is wired to its own ringer on the board downstairs. Yes, Trixie can handle anything you might need when I leave. She’s good company, aren’t you, old girl?”