Page 80 of The Highland Heist
“Perfect.” Blake patted the counter, his charming grin firmly in place. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like you to keep my interest in meeting him to yourself, Mrs. MacIntosh. You know how businessmen can be—if they know they have an edge, they’ll take it.”
She sobered and nodded in commiseration with Blake’s statement. “I’ll do just that, Mr. Blake. Now, I can imagine you’re all tired and likely a wee bit peckish. I have some soup and bread I can have sent up to your rooms, if you’d like.”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Frederick said.
“And we only have a few pieces of luggage for tonight,” Blake added, “but more’s on the way from the dock. It should arrive tomorrow, assuming the men keep to schedule.”
“Very good, sir.” Mrs. MacIntosh tapped her temple with a knowing smile. “Me and my husband and our sons, Charlie and Rory, will keep a keek out for them.”
The narrow stairway creaked under their weight as they ascended to the rooms above. Tony disappeared into his shared room with little more than a grunt of acknowledgment, leaving Blake lingering in the hallway. He gestured toward Frederick and Grace’s door, then followed them and Zahra inside.
“I think we may have our culprits,” he said, once the door closed behind them.
“Malcolm and Moira Kane?” Frederick placed his and Grace’s bags on the bed.
“Indeed,” Blake answered.
The firelight cast a low glow across the room, where a large bed stood on one side near a wardrobe and washstand, and a couch and desk waited on the other beneath a long row of windows. Grace crossed the room, drawn to the view of Mosslea Castle perched on the rocky outcropping. The moon painted the loch in silver, its reflection shimmering like a second world below. She’d never been inside a castle. She’d imagined them aplenty—what reader wouldn’t? But the reality was both breathtaking and eerie. Especially at night. Especially haunted.
“Any signs of life?” Blake coughed. “Or death, as the case may be?”
Grace threw him an exasperated grin. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And yet, not wrong,” he quipped, grinning.
She returned her gaze to the castle. “Wouldn’t it be helpful if the ghost joined the search for the will? I’m sure that would speed things along.”
Frederick stepped up beside her. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she already has.”
Her husband’s comment sparked a connection. “Do you think she’s like the protagonist ofLady Audley’s Secret? That woman would do almost anything to gain or keep her social standing and money.”
“Or perhaps a variation,” he mused.
“Or perhaps,” Grace mused, “our naive Mrs. James, the ‘inexperienced’ housekeeper, is actually Moira Kane. And since Laird Blair’s death didn’t transfer the estate to her brother, they’ve concocted an elaborate scheme to claim the land another way.”
“Watson”—Blake moved to her other side and tapped his temple with a grin—”I believe you’ve cracked it.”
“You used the Sherlock reference for my benefit, didn’t you, dear Mr. Blake?” Grace teased.
“If the reference fits, my lady.” He tipped an imaginary hat to both Grace and Frederick before sobering. “All the same, I hope you’ll keep those sharp eyes and clever heads on high alert. If our deductions are correct, even if both Kanes do not appear to prefer choosing rather nasty ends to people in order to get what they want, they’re not against it. Finding the will may be one piece of the mystery.” He tipped his head toward the castle. “Staying alive may very well be the other.”
Chapter 20
Having traveled a great deal in various places over the last several months, Frederick had become accustomed to different accommodations to fit the culture and atmosphere of the places they’d visited, but nothing had hemmed him close as this Scottish village surrounded by mountains.
The room fit the same description. Close quarters, low ceiling beams, and mismatched furniture gave it an air of peculiar charm. For privacy, the room offered a small adjoining space with a single bed and dresser, which Zahra happily accepted as her own. Still, she’d joined them at the small table by the window, savoring the simple Scotch soup and freshly baked bread.
For a moment, Frederick imagined a simpler life, free from the grand halls and the expectations of titled gentry. He realized how drastically his perspective had shifted over the last seven months. His heart had found its home, not in the cold, calculated world his parents had tried to carve out for him with their harsh words and callous actions, but in this small, unassuming moment—here, with his family. And despite the looming uncertainty of Havensbrooke’s financial future or the weight of the Astley legacy, he knew his family would be enough.
“Do you ever feel like we’re living in the middle of a penny dreadful?” Grace asked, offering Zahra another piece of bread as though her words weren’t at all jarring. Not so much because of the statement, but because of how accurate it felt. She spoke with an ease that made the fantastical sound entirely plausible. “Grandfather used to collect them and kept them for ages. I read and reread many of them as a child, and now it feels as though we’ve landed right in the middle of one.”
“What is penny dreadful?” Zahra asked, looking up from her soup.
“Stories in magazines.” Grace answered, sending the little girl a smile filled with such love it gave him another glimpse into the mother Grace would become, even if he had to curb a little of her adventurous nature until their children were old enough to manage the excitement. Fortunately, Zahra’s history proved a well-suited match for Grace’s imagination and their current circumstances. “Usually about pirates, scoundrels, or highwaymen—and always with a bit of mystery and romance thrown in.”
“Andshabah?” Zahra looked over at Frederick, who, despite his still-roaming grasp of her native tongue, was often better at sorting it out than Grace.
“Ghosts?” he clarified, not missing the way Grace’s lips curled into the slightest smile at his response.
