Out of the Shadows Page 21

  “Don’t stare. It’s not polite,” Devon said mildly.

  “I think they like each other,” I said.

  “Of course they do, but they haven’t decided to admit it.” One of the two military stewards came by, offering us water.

  “I think they’d make a good couple,” I mused. “I like her.”

  “She’s dangerous and a bit unpredictable,” Devon said. “Perhaps a bit too emotional.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Isn’t that a typical man? Anything a woman does means she’s ‘too emotional.’”

  His brows lifted. “It’s true,” he said. “Men can put emotion aside much more easily than women.”

  “And who decided that’s a good thing?” I asked. “Men did, that’s who.”

  “It’s obvious it’s a good thing,” he countered. “Decisions must be made on facts and logic. Not feelings.”

  “So you coming back for me, quitting the Shadow, that was logical?”

  “Of course not, but then again, I never said it was.”

  “So you are saying it was illogical.”

  Devon eyed me. “I’m not going to get into a semantics argument with you, darling. Love isn’t logical. It just is. It happens, sometimes in spite of all the many reasons why it shouldn’t. And there are many, many reasons why you and I should never be together. But despite them all, I wanted you. And you wanted me.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, not when every word of it was true.

  “So where are we going?” I asked. “London?”

  But Devon shook his head. “No. Edinburgh, actually.”

  I frowned. “Scotland? Why?”

  “Because that’s where Vega’s from,” Alexa interrupted. She’d walked over to us, sitting down in the row facing us. The leather chairs were plush and comfortable, though I saw her wince slightly as she sat down. She’d refused pain medication other than a local anesthetic for the stitches and some over-the-counter pills.

  “How do you know where she’s from?” I asked. Beau followed Alexa, looking slightly disgruntled, and settled in beside her.

  “It comes out in her accent,” Alexa said. “When she’s angry.”

  “And you’ve heard this?” Devon asked.

  “Oh, she’s been angry with me a lot. Usually, her accent is posh. But when she’s upset, when she’s absolutely livid, you can hear it. It’s indigenous to certain parts of Scotland the way a southern American accent can tell you if someone is from Alabama or the Carolinas. I knocked on a lot of doors, spoke to a lot of people, and eventually, I tracked her down to a small village in northern Scotland called Inverbervie.”

  “After we land in Edinburgh, we’ll drive there,” Devon said, his gaze on Alexa. “And you’ll show me what you won’t tell me.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  I didn’t understand what it was that she was so adamant Devon see, but I had a gut feeling that I wouldn’t like it.

  The drive from Edinburgh to Inverbervie was more boring than I thought it’d be. I was in Scotland, of all places, and the scenery looked exactly like Middle America. The only exception was that the cars drove on the opposite side of the road.

  “Stop here.” Alexa’s order to Devon took me by surprise. We were in the middle of a small village and I could see the ocean from where we’d parked.

  I got out of the car and followed Alexa to the top of the small hill. Tombstones marked our path and I lingered, reading the inscriptions. Cemeteries intrigued me, to read of men, women, and especially children, dead often before their time. The words of love and loss carved in stone were bittersweet and poignant.

  It was chilly and I wrapped my cardigan around me, wondering how I’d come to this place from where I’d been. A farm girl, born and raised in Kansas, meeting and falling in love with a man no woman should. A life filled with danger and uncertainty. Who wanted that? And yet, I couldn’t turn my back on Devon.

  “Here,” Alexa said. I glanced over at her, silhouetted against the setting sun.

  It was a beautiful cemetery, set high on a hill overlooking the water. The grass was green and the grounds well tended. It was peaceful and serene, though that’s not how I felt at the moment.

  Devon and I clasped hands, as though we knew something bad was coming.

  “This is what I wanted you to see,” Alexa said, pointing at a tombstone carved in granite.

  The words were hard to make out, the weather having worn some of the letters away. Dillon Clay McGewan. Beloved Son. b. Feb. 22, 1956 d. August 15, 1985.

  I stared, wondering at the name. I looked at Devon, who was also staring at the headstone.

  “What is this?” I asked Alexa. “Who is this?”

  “Dillon McGewan was my father,” Devon answered instead. “Vega thought it would be best to use my middle name—the same as my father’s—as my surname rather than McGewan. August 15th, 1985 . . . it was the day of the bombing.” He looked at Alexa. “How did you find this? Vega claimed she never knew where my parents were buried. And where is my mother’s headstone?”

  “Vega didn’t care about your mother,” she said. “Just your father.”

  “Why? Is this some kind of trick?”

  “No trick,” Alexa said, a little sadly. “I came here and found this grave. Then I went searching for exactly who Vega was. I think you should find out, too. Come with me.”

  Devon and I glanced at each other as Alexa walked away. His hand tightened on mine. Even if we were heading into the unknown, we were doing it together.

  We followed Alexa down the walkway to the sidewalk, then down the street. Beau followed at a discreet distance, but it felt surreal, as though our every move was preordained.

  Alexa finally came to a stop in front of a small home along King Street. She rapped her knuckles sharply against the door.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed. “Who are these people?”

  “Someone Devon needs to meet,” was Alexa’s cryptic reply.

  A woman answered the door, and she was as old and gray as I’d expect from someone who most likely lived in the same village from the day they were born until the day they died.

  “Yes?” she asked as she answered the door. “Can I dae somethin’ for ye?”

  Her accent was so thick, I had trouble understanding her. But Alexa didn’t seem to have the same issue.

  “Elva, it’s me. Alexa,” she said. “It’s been a while, do you remember?”

  The woman peered at her, then her face cleared. “Och aye, Alexa dear! It’s been a fair while. Whit are ye dain’ here?”

  “I brought some friends to meet you,” Alexa said. “This is Devon. He has some questions I thought you could answer.”

  “Hello,” Elva said, giving Devon a sweet smile. “I’d be fair chuffed to help if I can, though my mind is no’ as fleet as it used to be.”

  “I’m looking for some information,” Devon said. “About a woman named Vega. Would you happen to know anything about her?”

  “Vega?” the woman asked. “No, I’m sorry. I dinny ken anybody ca’ad that.”

  “He means Elizabeth Percy,” Alexa said. “Do you remember her family?”

  Elva’s face cleared at that. “Och, aye,” she said. “Elizabeth Percy. Such a sad tale. Aye, I ken the story well.”

  “Who are you again?” Elva asked Devon.

  “He’s a distant relation,” Alexa said. “He’d like to know what happened to the Percys. Elizabeth grew up here, remember?”

  I could see why Alexa might need to jog her memory. Elva had to be in her eighties.

  “Aye, aye she did,” Elva said. Whereas before she’d been eyeing Devon warily, now she seemed relieved to have something in common to talk about. “She was a sweet girl. It’s too bad how things turned out.”

  “What do you mean?” Devon asked.

  “Och it’s a long tale,” she said. “Come away in and I’ll pit on some tea. It’ll take a while to tell ye properly.”

  We followed her inside the tiny house and in
to a painstakingly neat parlor. Two cats lounged on a sofa covered in a busy floral upholstery.

  “Hae a seat and I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, bustling out of the room.

  Devon shooed the cats off the sofa, who didn’t look happy about that, then sat. I took the spot next to him with Alexa at my side. Beau sat in one of the two matching pink wingback chairs.

  “I’m going to have cat hair all over me,” Beau muttered.

  “Really, that should be the least of your worries,” Alexa said with a snort.

  “What do you know of my worries?” he snapped back.

  “I don’t. Nor do I care.”

  They continued to bicker, and after a while, seemed to notice we were staring at them.

  “What?” Beau asked.

  “Really?” Devon replied.

  Beau’s face flushed, but he didn’t argue further with Alexa.

  Elva returned, bustling about with a tea tray and table, setting out cups and saucers. It was obvious she’d gotten out her best, the delicate china probably a family heirloom. I wanted to help, but I knew nothing about how to properly pour tea from an English tea service.

  “Here, let me help you,” Alexa said, jumping to her feet.

  “Thank you, deary.” Elva handed her a cup.

  Before long, we all had matching cups and saucers. A platter of cookies sat in the center of the coffee table. Shortbread. Yum. I tried not to eye them too closely.

  “So you were going to tell us about the Percys,” Alexa prodded, taking a tiny sip of her tea.

  “Och aye, right enough.” Elva settled back in her chair. “They fowk have bin in the same hoose in the village fur as lang as ourselves. I used to see Elizabeth when she wis just a bairn. A sweet wee thing. I wis devastated when her dear mither passed.”

  “How did she die?” Devon asked.

  “Cancer,” Elva said. “Took her right quick. Neither Elizabeth nor her faether, William, e’er got ower it. Yid think faether and dauchter wid hiv foond comfort in one anither, but William changed whin dear Annette died. He drank mair than a Scotsman shid, which is a fair bit.

  “Elizabeth wis a proud wee girl, and though I think he might’ve beat her, she ne’er breathed a wird. She endured. Went to school and grew up. William kept a tight leash on her, sendin’ her tae St. Mary’s, though they could’ney afford it. Rarely let her hae friends as he thoucht most of ’em were scunners . . . Malarkey o’course.

  “Then one day, a new family moved to the village,” Elva continued. “And that’s when the trouble started . . .”

  Elizabeth watched through the break in the hedgerow as the truck was unloaded, several men carrying furniture into the small house next door. A woman was hurrying from inside to outside, looking harried as she directed them.

  New people in the neighborhood. That hadn’t happened since she’d been ten and the widower two streets over had passed away. It had taken six months for someone new to buy his house and move in, and they hadn’t been nearly as interesting as the people moving in next. Especially one particular lad . . .

  He was young, maybe only a year or two older than Elizabeth’s fifteen years, but he was extraordinarily handsome. The wind tousled his light brown hair and the smile he gave the other men as he chatted with them was a mixture of sheepish young boy and mischievous man. He was entrancing and Elizabeth couldn’t take her eyes off him.

  It wasn’t as though she’d never seen boys before. Certainly not at St. Mary’s, which was an all-girls school. But there were boys in the village, several of whom she’d grown up with. However, none of them looked like this particular boy.

  She watched until she heard her da calling.

  “Lizzie! Where are you?”

  To her mortification, the new neighbor boy heard and glanced to where she stood behind the hedge. Then he smiled.

  Elizabeth jumped back, a blush climbing in her cheeks. Turning, she ran up the small hill and around to her front door where her da stood waiting. She could feel the boy’s eyes on her the entire way.

  His name turned out to be Mark Clay and he was seventeen. Elizabeth found out that much just from the village gossip. His father was in the military and his mother stayed at home. She’d seen Mark outside occasionally when she walked home from the shop where she worked part-time, but had hurried by without saying anything. She wondered what he’d do if she stopped and said hello . . .

  “Is dinner done yet?”

  Elizabeth pulled herself out of her daydreaming to answer her da. He’d been drinking again, but when didn’t he?

  “It’s finished,” she said, hurriedly shoving the food onto two plates. Her father was in no mood to wait and she grabbed some silverware and set the plates on the table, sliding one in front of him.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked. “It’s burned.”

  “It’s not,” she said. “Just a little crispy perhaps.” She hadn’t been paying enough attention, instead watching out the window for Mark.

  “Bollocks,” he spat, shoving the plate onto the floor. “Lazy bitch. Don’t know why I put up with you.”

  Elizabeth knew what was coming, but wasn’t fast enough. He backhanded her hard enough to knock her to the ground, then tossed a plate of food on top of her. The ceramic plate hit the floor and shattered. She covered her face too late, feeling the sting of a cut on her cheek.

  “Clean this mess up.” The chair scraped as he got up. His boots were a heavy tread on the floor as he walked away.

  It took a minute for her head to clear and the throbbing pain in her jaw to subside enough before she got off the floor and cleaned up the mess with shaky hands. There was a warm trickle of blood on her cheek to match her tears, but she ignored it. Once everything was picked up and the broken shards thrown away, she grabbed her jacket and went out the back door.

  Getting away. It was always the goal when her da got like this. Too much drinking, too much heartbreak over her mum. Elizabeth had never been enough for him. His heart and soul had died with his wife. Tomorrow, she knew, he’d stand in the doorway of the kitchen while she prepared breakfast. He’d mutter an apology in a rough voice, to which she’d nod and reply, “It’s fine,” though really it wasn’t. But it was all she’d ever known.

  The night outside was chilly and dark as pitch. The sky was clear and the stars sparkled like diamonds tossed onto black velvet.

  Elizabeth walked down the hill to where the trees met the small creek that ran through the back of the small village. It was her favorite spot—a quiet spot—and she came here often when she needed to escape.

  The cold air felt good against her skin and eased the ache in her head. She settled down on the cool grass, pulling her knees to her chest and staring at the dark water.

  “I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”

  Elizabeth started at the voice, nearly jumping to her feet, but he spoke again.

  “Take it easy, it’s all right. It’s just me, your new neighbor.” He moved into the dim light cast from the moon, which filtered through the trees. “Mark.”

  Stunned, Elizabeth thought he looked even more perfect in the moonlight. To her amazement, he sat down beside her with a sigh, staring at the water as she had been.

  “So are you gonna tell me your name?” he asked. “Or shall I attempt to guess?”

  Her tongue didn’t seem to remember how to work, but she managed to croak out, “Lizzie.”

  “Lizzie?” he asked. She nodded. “Is that short for Elizabeth?” She nodded again. “Which do you prefer?”

  She’d always hated being called Lizzie, so she didn’t hesitate now that someone had actually asked. “Elizabeth.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth,” he said, extending a hand.

  She looked at it, then tentatively gave him her own. His hand closed around hers, warm and strong, yet gentle.

  “What are you doing out here this time of night?” he asked. “It’s a bit late for a stroll.”

  “I just needed some
air,” she said.

  He nodded, as though that was a perfectly good reason for her to be wandering in the dark.

  They sat there for a few minutes. She was no longer looking at the water, though. Her every focus was on the boy next to her. She fancied she could smell the slightly musky scent of his skin. It was invigorating and addicting.

  Too nervous to speak, she clutched her knees to her chest as he turned and looked at her. He was smiling slightly and she tentatively smiled back. But then his smile faded and his brows drew together in a frown.

  “What’s this?” he asked, reaching out to touch her cheek. “You’re bleeding. Did you hurt yourself?”

  She’d completely forgotten. So taken aback by his appearance, Elizabeth hadn’t given a thought as to how she must look. Reflexively, she jerked away.

  “A cut, that’s all,” she said, starting to panic. Most of the townspeople suspected her da’s temper, though she’d been careful to hide any evidence the best she could. Why she protected him, she didn’t know. Maybe it wasn’t so much protecting him as preserving her own self-respect.

  “Odd place to get cut,” he mused, leaning closer. “How’d it happen?”

  Elizabeth jumped to her feet. “I have to go,” she said, but Mark was on his feet as well.

  “Please stay,” he said. “I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.”

  “No, no. I need to go.” In a blink, she was off, hurrying away from him. She looked back once, only to see his body silhouetted in the moonlight, gazing after her.

  As she’d predicted, her da apologized the next morning, glancing at her bruised face once before quickly looking away. He left for the pub shortly after that, and Elizabeth knew he’d be there all day, which left her blissfully alone.

  It was tempting to go back to the creek from last night to see if Mark would show up again, but she resisted. If he found out about her father, she might just die of mortification. So instead, she was curled up reading a book when there came a knock on the door, and was taken aback to find Mark standing on the stoop.

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted.

  “Now that’s a fine way to greet a friend,” he said with an easy smile, though his gaze was shrewd as he took in her face. Belatedly, she stepped back into the shadows of the hallway.