Shadowy Horses by Susanna Kearsley Read Free Book Online

learned what Adrian had done. I wasn't pleased about it, ken, but since it didn't do much harm..."
    "Didn't do much harm?" I echoed, disbelieving. "How can you say that? Quinnell's digging for something he's not going to find."
    "You don't understand." He shook his head, and with a tight-lipped sigh he looked away. "You don't know Peter Quinnell. He'd dig anyway."
    "Why?"
    "Because of Robbie."
    It wasn't the first time I'd heard that name. Quinnell himself had mentioned it, last night, and I struggled to recall the context. Something about Schliemann having Homer to guide him to the ruins of Troy, while Quinnell had only ...
    "Robbie," I repeated, shaking my head slowly as I tried to comprehend. "But who is Robbie? And what does he have to do with this?"
    David Fortune took a long time answering. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. "Best come and see for yourself," he said, finally, and with that invitation he turned and went out.
    I was plainly expected to follow, though it was all I could do to keep up with his long, rolling strides. As we passed the big house, moving onto the drive, I mustered enough breath to speak. "Where are we going?"
    "Rose Cottage," he replied. "You'd have passed it last night, by the road."
    Even in daylight, the cottage looked warm and welcoming, built long and low of some blood-colored stone. The path leading around from the drive to the back door was lovingly trimmed and kept clear. Daffodils grew here, as well—an explosion of yellow in the deeper green of grass, and David Fortune took care not to trample them as he stooped to knock at the white-painted door.
    The woman who answered the summons was young, my own age, with short chestnut hair and a fresh cheerful face warmed by freckles. Her large brown eyes widened in mild surprise at the sight of us.
    "Davy!" she said, in an accent as rich as his own. "Is something wrong? Is Peter..."
    "Nothing's wrong. Is Robbie about?"
    "Aye." She pushed the door wider, her gaze sliding past him to me, and the surprise melted to a quieter interest. "It's Miss Grey, isn't it?" she greeted me, extending a firmly capable hand. "I heard you'd arrived. I'm Jeannie. Jeannie McMorran. I keep house for Peter." Before I could respond, she took a quick step backwards, shaking her head. "Och, I'm forgetting my manners. Come inside, the both of you."
    David Fortune ducked his head to squeeze through the narrow doorway. The kitchen was narrow, too, and long, and though the sunlight couldn't quite break through the small, old-fashioned windows, the lace curtains—so white it almost hurt the eyes to look at them—and gaily patterned china plates propped up along the old oak dresser, made the room homely and bright.
    David Fortune looked around, and sniffed the fragrant air. "Been baking, have you?"
    "Apple tart for Brian's tea."
    The big man's eyes flicked briefly to the closed door at the far end of the room. "He's back, then, is he?"
    "Aye. He came in late last night. No need to be quiet, though," she added. "He'll be sleeping it off for a few hours yet."
    Jeannie led us past the closed door and along a tiny passageway toward the front of the cottage. "Robbie'll be fair glad to see you. He's off school today with the smit." Then, suddenly remembering I wasn't Scottish, she rolled her eyes, smiled, and translated: "He has a cold. Nothing serious, ken, but I'll not send a son of mine to school when he's ill."
    Her words had only just sunk in when, after a confident knock and reply, I was ushered through a second low doorway and into the presence of Peter Quinnell's Homer.
    My first thought was that I'd been brought to the wrong room. The face that looked up from the bed in the corner was a child's face, around and questioning, sprayed with freckles and topped by a shock of unruly black hair.
    Robbie McMorran could not have been older than eight.
    "Heyah," David greeted the boy, glancing around as though something were missing. "Where's Kip?"
    "Out with