Murder in the Highlands by Debbie Young

Author:Debbie Young [Young, Debbie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books

22

TARTAN DREAMS

Mum and Dad had allocated us one of the bedrooms that still bore the former hotel’s full-on tartan look – carpet, curtains, bedspread, wallpaper.

‘It must have been hell trying to line this lot up,’ said Hector, running his hand appreciatively over a perfectly matched join on the wallpaper by the door.

I sat at the dressing table and began to take off my earrings.

‘Did you get very badly bitten by those midges, Hector?’

He ran his fingertips cautiously over his forehead and cheeks, and delved beneath his collar.

‘I can feel a few bites starting to itch now, but I suppose it could have been worse. How about you?’

He came over to stand behind me, stroking my hair as he watched me in the mirror. I opened a jar of moisturiser and began to massage a thin layer into my nose and cheeks.

‘I got off Scot free.’ Catching his eye in his reflection in the mirror, I forced a laugh at my bad joke. ‘Funnily enough, they don’t much go for me. I guess the midges round here prefer foreign food.’

He chuckled as he picked up a section of my hair from my crown and began to plait it. I suppose with his head of natural curls, my dead straight locks must hold a certain fascination for him, or at least novelty value.

‘What are we going to do tomorrow? Should I wear body armour this time to guard against any further assaults on my person?’

I wasn’t sure whether he was just trying to be funny, or whether he was starting to believe that someone might be after him.

‘I’d have liked to take you to a Highland Games,’ I replied, ‘but the season’s over.’

I was genuinely disappointed.

‘Ha! That’s a shame, with all the possibilities those would bring for further violence, what with all those beefy men tossing cabers about, and dancing the Highland Fling over crossed swords. Plus don’t they tuck daggers into their long woollen socks, ready to stab at a moment's notice? No, thank you, Sophie!’

‘They’re not daggers, they’re sgian-dubhs,’ I corrected him testily. I loved Highland dress and all the associated traditions.

‘Not to mention death by a thousand bagpipes,’ he continued, cringing at the thought. Then he stepped back to admire his handiwork on my hair, before sitting down on the tartan bedspread.

‘Seriously, though, Sophie, could it really be that someone has got it in for me up here? I mean who would even know me unless,’ his eyes widened, ‘there’s some insanely jealous ex of yours lurking up here, waiting to finish me off and shove me in the Ness, clearing his way back to your heart.’

I rolled my eyes.

‘You don’t write romantic novels for nothing, do you?’

He gave me a lopsided grin as I swung round on the dressing table stool to face him.

‘Hector, I can’t imagine why anyone would attack you. Maybe I am overreacting. Just because you’re usually sure-footed doesn’t make you immune to occasionally slipping on a shiny spiral staircase. You heard what Mr McNab said about Morag’s zeal for floor polish.

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