“That looks a little better, don’t you think?”
The boys both shrug. But at least the spotlight isn’t shining on nothing.
Between the three of us, we managed to stash the remains in my bedroom, and both boys leave me to get dressed. As Hugh closes my bedroom door, he’s still offering profuse thanks.
The journey to school is . . . interesting. Committing our conversation’s words to paper would make anyone think we were mobsters as we discussed the body hidden under my bed and the other body parts stored throughout my room.
“Don’t worry, Holly.” At the boy’s school, Hugh pauses mid climb from the car. “Kilblair Castle has seen much worse things than a decapitation.”
“Much worse things we agreed should never be spoken of?” I reply with a wry smile. So much for what happens in Kilblair Castle stays in Kilblair Castle. Though I can’t help but wonder if his assurance is, at least in part, for himself.
“Oh, yes. Much worse. That’s how Uncle Sandy has a ghost.”
“Get out of here.” I roll my eyes, then wiggle the shift stick of Isla’s Range Rover—which I just love driving—readying myself to pull away from the school drop-off zone. “Seriously, get out of here. You’ll be soaked before you make it to class.” Although, according to Chrissy, there’s no such thing as bad weather. Just the wrong clothes.
“It’s true,” Hugh protests. “My great-great-great-grandmother was pushed down her stairs by my great-great-great-grandfather when he wanted to marry someone else.”
“Did she lose her head?” I continue in the same tone.
“No. She broke her neck and then became a ghost.”
Wait, what?
16
Holly
I park the car at the back of the house. Sorry, castle. Given today is Monday, we’re closed to the public, but that’s not to say there aren’t other things to do in the education centre. I’m running through my list of tasks today as I hop down from the Range Rover, planting my feet (and my pristine sneakers) in a puddle of muddy rain.
“Ah, for fudge sakes!”
“You need wellies.”
I look up from my soggy feet at the familiar voice. “Do you think Gucci makes them?”
“I’m not at all sure what a Gucci is,” Cameron answers with a totally cute-looking smile.
“Now that I believe.” As I belatedly step from the puddle, I cast my eyes over him in an over-the-top and thoroughly fashion. His head dips, following my gaze, as though examining his own clothing now. Wellies, sorry, rain boots, a Kilblair Castle branded hoodie, and jeans. And, of course, his ever-present tweed flat cap.
“Something tells me you’re insulting my clothing choices,” he replies.
“If you don’t know what a Gucci—I mean, what Gucci is, how do you know we’re talking about clothes? And while we’re on the subject of appearances, I’m not even sure you have any hair under that thing permanently attached to your head.” I circle my forefinger in the air, ignoring the deliberate falsehood. I know he has a full head of unruly reddish-blond hair. Sex hair, my mind unhelpfully supplies. Hair that looks fresh from a quick roll around a bed. Or a potting shed.
Okay brain, enough of your imaginings. You are not Lady Chatterley and Cameron is a friend. And friends you need more than you need a roll around a bed. Or shed.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yep. Totally. I just zoned out for a minute.” Maybe he’ll think my cheeks are flushed because of the weather. I suddenly realise how close Cameron is. He has brown eyes. Why do I find that disappointing? And why is he holding a cut flower in his hand?
“Maybe I dazzled you. You’ve obviously a thing for men in tweed.”
My gaze lifts from the flower, tracing up his arm and solid, broad shoulder. He’s teasing me, I realise, and I should feel charmed. A cute man is showing me some interest. Instead, it feels . . . not wrong exactly. But not right, either.
“I thought there was no such thing as bad weather.” Chrissy’s words tumble out of my mouth. “Just the wrong clothes.”
“Come again?” And now, judging by the grin he’s trying to rein in, he thinks he’s got me all twitterpated.
“It’s wet out.” For a change. “How come you never seem to wear a jacket?”
Argh! And now he’ll think I’ve been perving on him!
“This isn’t rain,” he answers, holding up the flower between us. “It’s just a wee bit o’ smirr.”
“I don’t know what that is.” My words are soft as my gaze rises to his.
“It’s fine,” he murmurs, reaching out to smooth his finger lightly over my brow. “Soft.” He clears his throat, his next words a little more strident. “But I’m no’ in need of a jacket. We’re bred hardy up here. This is for you, by the way. It’s one of the early roses. From the garden, like.”
“It’s beautiful,” I answer, ducking my head. Should it be as awkward as this? Shouldn’t I feel flattered? “Thank you.”
“Well, I better be getting back.” He throws his thumb in the direction he’d come.
“Yeah.” I thread a hunk of my hair behind my ear. “Me, too.”
His upper body twists, though his feet don’t seem to be going anywhere as he swings back to face me again. “Fancy coming to the pub on Friday?”
I should say no. Except I don’t want to. I can’t keep dwelling on the past and what will never be. He deserves more than the brush-off, and I deserve someone who brings me flowers. Or a flower, I silently correct, bringing it to my nose.
“As friends?” I repeat his own words from that first night back to him.
“Aye.” My heart dips a little. “Maybe to start.” He grins, and I find myself joining in.
I’m really overdue for a coffee as I make my way into the basement kitchen. I’d parked at the back of the castle, as I usually do, because coffee. Although Isla had insisted I make use of the family kitchen, given it’s closer to my room, I feel a little weird being there for any other reason than preparing the boys an afternoon snack. Besides, the castle kitchen has the coffee I like, plus I know where the French press is kept. The fancy coffee machine in the family kitchen looks like it needs an engineer to work it.
“Here she is!” Chrissy’s voice precedes my entrance. “I thought we were going to have to send out a search party.”
“Or not,” I’m pretty sure Mari just said. Or whispered. Maybe mouthed the words? Whatever, the sentiment was, as usual, unpleasant.
“Good morning, all. Morning, Mari,” I say, super perky as I swing to face her. “Did you manage to get the glitter cleaned up?” We had a bunch of six-year-old’s in for a recent session, and we made ducal crowns. Sorry, ducal coronets. Who knew there was such a thing? And who knew glitter was the herpes of the craft community?
Me. That’s who. And that shizz was sprinkled everywhere. Including Mari’s hair. But I can’t take credit for that piece of genius.
“I’m finding the stuff everywhere,” she utters, glaring at me.