Rampant

“It’s been a beautiful day,” she commented, “was it good for work at the boatyard?”

“Aye, it draws the tourists and their cameras, too, which livens things up.” He grinned.

She walked alongside him as they climbed the hill toward the Silver Birch. He chatted on about the boatyard, and she tried to maintain polite interest, even though her mind raced with an internal dialogue that soon had her on edge. Grayson had put ideas in her head about Crawford, and they all came rushing back at her now. She remembered that strange encounter they’d had in Dundee. How had he known where she was? If he’d been following her all the way from Carbrey, as he’d suggested, he would have found her sooner.

Okay, so Annabel could have been causing mischief, but did her influence really reach that far? Zoë didn’t think so. Was Crawford—as Grayson had suggested—someone who practiced forbidden black magic? Was he in cahoots with Cain, who had left a murder investigation behind him in London?

Zoë was relieved to see the pub up ahead. The place was centuries old, and ivy grew up the side of the stone building. The painted sign overhanging the doorway showed a forest of trees, a silver birch at the foreground, its outline glowing. Cars were parked bumper to bumper along the street outside. At the far end of the building she saw a pub garden with activities for the kids, and beyond that, the forest.

Crawford led the way up the old stone steps and through the oak door. The steps dipped in the middle, worn from the many visitors who had walked up them over the years. She rested her hand on the door as she passed by. It was heavy with ironware, its hinges on the outside. Inside the pub was packed and noisy. The ceiling of the main bar was low, making it feel even more crowded. The sounds of bagpipes reached them as they moved through the crowd.

Stone slabs on the floor and simple, rough wood tables and benches added to the rustic charm. A fire burned in a large open fireplace, offering a welcome, even though it was warm. Half the village seemed to be there, along with the entire caravan site full of tourists. Excited children ran back and forth to the swings in the garden outside.

There was a small snug off to the left that seemed to be packed with locals, older men who looked rather grumpy about the festivities going on in their local. It was four deep at the bar.

“What can I get you?” Crawford asked.

“Whatever you suggest, something local?”

“You’re on.” He headed off into the scrum at the bar.

Zoë stood by waiting for him to return but soon found herself drawn toward the hall, a large extension tacked onto the back of the pub. Double doors were folded open and tartan streamers hung over the entrance. Tartan, for the tourists, she mused, smiling to herself.

A banner welcomed visitors to the monthly jig, and she stepped under it to look inside. Tables and chairs lined each side of the room, leaving th

e majority of the space in the middle for the dancing. The band was playing from a raised stage area. In the center of the room, on the worn parquet flooring, a man and woman in traditional kilts and buckled dance shoes were leading enthusiastic—if rather inept—tourists through the dance routine. The man wore a cute knitted hat—a tam-o’-shanter, she guessed—making him easy to spot in the crowd, and he carried a microphone, issuing instructions as he went. The atmosphere was filled with merriment and Zoë found herself tapping along as she tried to observe the steps.

“Here you go,” Crawford said, arriving back with two large tumblers. Amber liquid glowed in them, a large amount, too.

“Scotch?”

He nodded and smiled.

Moving the glass around in her hand, she breathed in the rich, peaty aroma. Taking a sip, she held it in her mouth, savoring the distinctive, almost buttery taste, but when she swallowed it hit with a slow burn, flaring in her chest. “Oh, yes, that’s good.”

The man with the tam-o’-shanter deemed it time to give the dancers a rest, and announced a sword dance.

A lone dancer emerged onto the parquet dance floor, a tall muscular man in a kilt. He crossed two swords at his feet and when the piper began to play, he defied his size by dancing most nimbly. The crowd were mesmerized, and even the youngsters quieted to watch.

Crawford stood close by her, resting his hand up against the wall behind her. She was very aware of his presence as she watched the performance, her thoughts occasionally flitting back to that more intimate, private moment between them the day before. Once again it made her uncomfortable, because of Grayson, there was no denying it.

When the dance ended and the audience clapped, the man with the tam-o’-shanter was back on his feet, working the crowd. “Couples come forward, please, for a reel.”

Crawford nodded at the dance floor and encouraged her to knock back the whiskey.

They joined the other couples, men down one side facing their partners across the dance floor. Zoë counted sixteen couples. The dance began, and she soon found out what hard work it was, trying to learn the movements and keep up at the same time. Giddy with laughter she grinned at Crawford when they met in the next circuit. “This is hard work.”

“You’ll soon get the hang of it,” he replied, and slapped her on the arse when they parted, making her laugh. Happy that she’d come, she tried to push away those negative doubts that hovered nearby.

During the second dance, she found herself partnered with a different man, but she was having so much fun she didn’t think about where Crawford had gone, not for a little while. Then she began to watch the crowd as she turned on the dance floor, looking for him with a growing feeling of unease.

Grayson picked up the piece of paper that was lying on his doormat and unfolded it.

Latest from Annabel—involved with another man. Not sure yet, but I think she likes this one better. Knows it’s going to cause trouble. Zoë

The irony of the message did nothing to quell Grayson’s bad mood. For a moment he wondered if it was a cruel jest. He hadn’t known Zoë for very long, but he didn’t think so. That type of barb was more like something his ex, Fenella the bitchy mathematician, would say.

“Idiot,” he berated himself over again as he walked back down the hallway into the kitchen and put the kettle on the hob. He needed coffee. Badly. It was his intention to go up there and keep watch, whether she liked it or not. Coffee would steady him. He stared at the piece of paper in his hand again, teeth grinding. The last couple of hours had gone by in a flash while he nursed a furious mood. Then he’d sensed her leaving the house next door, and that didn’t help one iota.