The Burning Glass by Lillian Stewart Carl Read Free Book Online Page A

slope
leading to the river, along a path that disappeared into the trees.
Through dappled shadow, Jean could just make out more gray
walls.
    She pulled in beside the bus. Its side was
painted with the words “Mystic Scotland” written in lavish
imitation-Celtic script. Was Ciara Macquarrie here as well as Keith
Bell? Fine. The more the merrier, she told herself briskly as she
climbed out of the car. She’d put on her reporter’s fedora and get
in some work before the castle closed at seven-thirty. Before she
and Alasdair were left alone together.
    First she had to get everything stowed in . .
. The cottage. There it was, not a free-standing building at all
but a flat tucked into the lower left corner of the castle. Its
modern wooden door, gleaming with white paint, and its two modern
windows, hung with lace curtains, seemed to huddle together,
compressed by the bulk of the keep looming beside and above.
    Now that, she had not anticipated. That,
Alasdair hadn’t bothered to mention to her either. Eating, talking,
sleeping with darkness gathered just on the other side of the wall,
ghosts eavesdropping on intimacies as though envious of warm
flesh.
    Get a grip . The castle was, and had
always been, a place of refuge. She and Alasdair had dealt with
ghosts before. Ghosts were emotional videos, without awareness or
even the will toward awareness. Alasdair was treating her with
respect by not thinking this was something she should be warned
about. What accessories did she need to set the scene, anyway? A
Jacuzzi shaped like a champagne glass, like in the tacky honeymoon
hotels by Niagara Falls? Give her—give them both—historical truth
as the strongest foundation for stories personal or public.
    Jean opened the back door of the car and
reached for the cooler. A breeze made the leafy branches above her
plunge and rustle and brushed cool kisses across her cheekbones.
Crows, the corbies of many a grim Scottish tale, called from the
stained black slate of the castle roof.
    Alasdair stepped out of the shop.
    His solid, compact body stood to attention,
head thrown back, as though he was a scout listening for voices and
watching for movements in a building under siege. How odd he looked
wearing not his detective’s uniform of suit and tie but canvas
pants and a light sweater over an open-collared shirt. How odd that
he’d stand there turned away from her. The man had eyes in the back
of his head and could hear a needle falling into a haystack. He had
to know she was there.
    He turned around. Oh yes, Jean
thought, her heart dropping like a cannonball. He knew she was
there. He’d been steeling himself to face her. His eyebrows were
drawn so tightly together a vertical crease ran between them. His
blue eyes were glints of sea-ice. His mouth was tightly closed,
crushing the elegant curve of his lips. She’d tasted those lips,
and knew them to be supple and sure.
    Jean straightened, bracing herself. Maybe she
should ask for a cigarette and a blindfold.
    Alasdair raised his hand toward her, palm
open, and then closed it into a fist that fell heavy as a
battle-axe back to his side. “Jean,” he said.
    “Alasdair,” she replied.
    Behind his back, in the main doorway of the
castle, appeared two people. The cadaverous young man with the long
dishwater brown hair, the stooped shoulders, and the somber, sallow
face was dressed in a polo shirt and khakis. The camera bag he
carried over his shoulder made him list to one side.
    The woman with the dazzling smile had that
gorgeous British complexion, all soft fair skin and rosy cheeks.
She might have been plump, but it was hard to tell—her flowing
skirt and top of many colors made her look like a piñata, an effect
enhanced by the scarf holding back her mop of red curls. Keith Bell
and Ciara Macquarrie, no doubt. Quite the odd couple.
    Jean tentatively returned Ciara’s jolly wave
and looked again at Alasdair. What?
    His body jerked as though a steel-tipped
arrow had just pierced the