The Scarlet Wench by Marni Graff Page B

grabbed her neck and pulled her toward him, kissing her firmly and letting go.
      “What was that for?” Her eyes shined.
      “Because you frustrate the hell out of me.” He continued down the stairs.
      “Then I should do that more often,” she said briskly as they entered the kitchen.
      Sean sat in a corner of the kitchen on an old rug and babbled away, hitting a pot with a wooden spoon, his back supported by a rounded cushion.
      “There you two are.” Agnes stood at the counter peeling a huge pile of carrots. “Simon sent Callie to the market.”
      “Upstairs is all done.” Nora tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear.
      Declan hoped his color wasn’t as high as Nora’s, but Agnes either didn’t notice or chose not to comment. Christ, he felt like a schoolboy with back-stairs stolen kisses. He pulled himself into professional mode.
      “I’ve spoken with Detective Sergeant Higgins in Kendal.”
      “We know him from last autumn,” Nora said.
      “He’s in charge with Ian away. Anyway, he feels I need to let everyone on premises know about the brakes to be on alert for any other kind of sabotage.”
      “What brakes?” Agnes’ eyes were as big as saucers.
      Declan filled her in on the cut cables.
      “And here’s me thinking he had too much to drink.” Agnes started viciously chopping the carrots.
      “That, too,” Nora murmured. “And I guess that blows your cover.”
      “I suppose,” Declan agreed.
      Nora frowned as she picked up Sean. “I’m going to put him down for his nap.”
      Declan watched her leave the kitchen, nuzzling Sean’s head, her brow furrowed in thought.
      Agnes put her hand on a plump hip. “You think this is more than pranks now, don’t you? I tried to tell Nora this would come to no good.”
      “My instinct tells me this person is deadly serious, Agnes. We should all be on our guard.”
    *

    10:15 AM

    “And so there was nothing for it but to obey the beckoning finger of adventure and take to the road again. … ”
      At least Helen Mochrie had her lines down pat. Gemma would give the old bat that. She stood outside the French door on the patio, waiting for her entrance cue. She didn’t appear until Scene 2 in Act I , and as the actors droned on through the first séance scene, she wrapped her shawl tighter around her. There was a breeze off the lake that kept the morning air cool, although she had to admit it looked pretty enough. Boats made her seasick, and Gemma was happier to be on dry land, enjoying from a distance.
      She yawned loudly. Not enough sleep last night after that stupid accident. Her neck felt a bit sore, but the Accident & Emergency doctor had assured her they hadn’t been going fast enough for her to have sustained serious whiplash and had been stingy with the pain pills. She could kill for a fag, but Grayson didn’t approve, and so she snuck them here and there when she could get away with it and could brush her teeth and use mouthwash. Those moments were more and more difficult to find, and soon she’d be a nonsmoker whether she wanted to give up cigarettes or not.
      “Filthy habit,” Grayson had pronounced soon after they’d met, and Gemma instinctively had known that if she wanted to wrest him away from Fiona, the smoking had to go. It was one of the many things she had done to suit him. Gemma wondered if this liaison would really further her career the way she’d hoped. Here she was, stuck in an old, musty house playing to the sheepherders, and Grayson acted like it was the West End.
      A far cry from her beginnings, though, and wouldn’t her old dad be chuffed to see her now, wearing fancy clothes and having men drool over her. Although he’d never laid a hand on her, Dad had always been a bit too much full of sex talk with her, especially when he’d had a few, which was fairly often. At least that had made her easy with her own body, although she used it more for attention than for actual sex.