Her brows went up. “And you remembered that while you were inside me?”
He grinned and whispered, “Sorry, love. My job is intense and when I say that I mean sometimes lives are at stake.”
She held his eyes a moment before she muttered, “At least whatever it is has to do with kids being murdered and lives being at stake. I suppose that’s more important than um…” she threw out a hand to indicate her bed and finished, “whatever.”
He liked that she understood, not many women would and he knew this because the few he’d tried to explain it to didn’t so he no longer bothered.
He liked it enough that his grin turned into a smile and he leaned in again, catching her at the back of her neck. He pulled her to him and kissed her, this time longer, deeper and wet.
She tasted great too and that night he discovered it wasn’t just her mouth that tasted good.
She was blinking at him and looking dazed when he let her go.
It was a good look but, also unfortunately, at that moment it wasn’t a look he could get lost in.
So Lach moved away, grabbed his socks and boots, sat on the bed and pulled them on.
He was swinging his leather jacket on and walking to the door when she called out, “Lachlan?”
He turned and looked at her.
“Aye?”
“Be careful,” she whispered.
He didn’t have time but the look on her face, the memory of her heart-shaped ass in his hands and tipped up for him to take, all that hair, her warm brown eyes soft on him and the sweet way she said that, he went back to the bed and kissed her again.
In the hall of her house, heading to her door, hearing the rain pouring down outside, he pulled out his phone to call Uncle Angus.
* * * * *
The Other
She stood beside the prone body of Angus McPherson on the floor in the corner of the room in the servants quarters where she’d lured him.
The blood dribbled from his forehead into his eye and off his red nose.
His phone rang.
She reached down, pulled it out of his limp hand and looked at the display.
Then she put it to the floor, lifted her foot and smashed it with her heel.
The other ones, she hadn’t smashed. In her time skulking about the house, she’d just collected them, turned them off and hidden them.
She didn’t know why she smashed that one.
But it felt good.
She turned the lights out when she left and was certain to lock the door.
* * * * *
Mickey
Mickey was grinning at the female bartender and lifting his new pint of lager to his lips when his phone rang.
He pulled it out of his back pocket and looked at the display.
He felt his brows draw together, his eyes went back to the bartender and he muttered, “A minute.”
She jerked up her chin and wandered down the bar.
Mickey took the call and put his phone to his ear.
“Dempsey,” he answered.
“Mr. Dempsey?” a woman asked.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. This is strange…” she trailed off.
When she didn’t speak for some time but didn’t disconnect, Mickey said into the phone, “Can I help you with something?”
“I, well, you’re going to think I’m all kinds of barmy but, well, I’ve spoken with Dr. Holmes and he gave me your number to call you.”
The minute she mentioned Holmes’s name, Holmes being a historian with a doctorate, a speciality in Cornwall and a sub-speciality in famous local crimes including the Bennett murders, Mickey’s back went straight and she had his complete attention.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Mercy. Mercy Richardson.”
“Ms. Richardson, why did Dr. Holmes tell you to speak with me?”
“He says the dreams I’m having are, well, he says you’d be interested in them.”
Dreams.
Bloody hell.
“And what dreams are you having, Ms. Richardson?” Mickey enquired.
“They’re very, erm, strange,” she whispered then said no more.
“Please tell me about them,” Mickey coaxed, not feeling good about this mostly because Bennett made it clear he didn’t feel good about the fact that nothing came of all the work and research Mickey and Bennett’s crew of whoever they were had done a month ago.
Mickey was convinced the spirit of Caleb Caldwell had been f**king with Bennett’s head. One last shot before, if all this lunacy was true, Caldwell was sent straight to hell.
Bennett was not convinced of the same.
With absolutely nothing left to find and nothing left to do, Bennett’s team had disbursed.
That didn’t mean Bennett had to like it. He didn’t and he made this clear.
He also had no choice and he made it even clearer he liked that even less.
“All right,” she said in his ear, taking him from his thoughts, “well, first, I’ve been having them for months. I tried to remember when they started, Dr. Holmes said that might be important, but I don’t know exact. But I do remember they started a few weeks before all that news hit with James Bennett, The Tiny Dynamo and James’s brother, Miles. I remember that.”
Blood hell.
“Right, so you started having the dreams, then…” Mickey prompted.
“I know you probably think it’s weird that I told you that about, well, Belle Abbot and James Bennett but, I don’t know. I think it’s important. Because, at the time, I thought I was dreaming about them. It felt weird because, you know, they were from another time and everything. Like, they didn’t look like them, really, but still… they were. Then, bang! They’re in the paper and they’re together. It really freaked me out.”
“As I suspect it would,” Mickey muttered, seeking patience. “What else? Most important, what did you dream?”
“Okay, now, I know this all sounds bizarre –”
“How about this,” he cut her off. “Just assume I won’t think it’s bizarre. All right? You don’t know me but rest assured, I’ve seen and heard a lot, Ms. Richardson, so just tell me your story and don’t worry what I think about it. Yes?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Then, well, okay, so you won’t think it’s bizarre when I say it isn’t like these dreams are dreams. It’s like they’re, well… memories.”
Bloody f**king hell.
“Go on,” he urged.
“The thing is, there’s another man.”
Good Christ.
“And…” Mickey prompted.