Shadows in Scarlet by Lillian Stewart Carl

Author:Lillian Stewart Carl [Carl, Lillian Stewart]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, cookie429
ISBN: 9781587153754
Publisher: Borgo Press
Published: 2001-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

Amanda's purse, carry-on, and the camera bag had been heavy enough in Richmond. By the time she'd lugged them through mile-long concourses in Newark and Glasgow—the latter at what seemed like two a.m. but which turned out to be seven—they'd shape-shifted into bags of bricks. Good old Wayne, always there when you didn't need him, never there when you did.

But now she was sitting in yet another window seat, staring out at a hypnotic scene of blue sky above and billows of gray and white cloud below. She might as well be flying over the Sahara.... No. The plane was descending. The clouds parted, revealing a glittering blue sea and hills so green and cool her heart leaped with joy. Scotland. It had taken comedy and tragedy both to bring her here, but here she was at last.

James had spent weeks, maybe even months, making the same trip. And she'd done it in a matter of hours. Of course the price for speed was jet lag. Amanda yawned and collected her stuff.

Inverness Dalcross read the sign on the terminal. Ceud Mille Failte. Inside the waiting crowd was a blur of sweaters and ruddy cheeks. There, a hand was holding up a piece of cardboard reading Williamsburg. Thank goodness for a native guide.

The hand belonged to a slightly built man of somewhere between forty and sixty. His head was a classic egg shape, silver hair angling across a broad brow, narrow chin disappearing into the houndstooth scarf tucked into his coat collar. His pale eyes searched the crowd with a benevolent curiosity that made Amanda smile. Malcolm Grant. Just about what she'd expected, once she'd pared away all the flights of fancy. “Hello,” she said. “I'm Amanda Witham from Williamsburg."

He tucked the sign under his arm and shook Amanda's hand. His hand was fragile, more suited to a pen than to either sword or plowshare. “How do you do, Miss Witham. I believe there's to be a gentleman as well?"

"Mr. Chancellor decided not to come. I'm alone. You haven't gotten a call from him or his mother or anyone?"

"Oh no, no one's rung me, sorry."

Amanda wondered just what was going on back at stately Chancellor manor. Then she decided she didn't care. “I have a suitcase and the crate with the—er—remains."

"Well then, we'd best be off to the luggage carousel.” Mr. Grant took her camera bag and tried to take her carry-on as well, but she hung onto that—the cameras alone made him sag visibly.

He led the way down a corridor, asking about her flight and whether she'd visited Britain before—all the usual courtesies. His accent was only mildly Scottish, the odd burred R and compressed vowel clinging to standard Oxbridge English. He'd probably spent years studying south of the border. Why Cynthia had made that snide remark about his accent Amanda couldn't fathom.

The wooden crate and the suitcase were there, much to Amanda's relief. She waved off Mr. Grant's help and wrestled them onto yet another luggage cart. He insisted on pushing.

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