Page 59 of Highland Getaway
‘I am,’ I reply, with a confidence I don’t particularly feel. ‘No one’s going to post anything about turnips. Well, other than me, obviously, and I took that video from yesterday down. And tonight we’re going to the village fair, so that’ll definitely distract them all. They’ll be too busy taking photos of Ferris wheels and carousels, and whatever else there is there, to think about who might have stolen my clothes for a few hours.’
‘Aye. You’re probably right,’ he says, still sounding unsure. ‘I was planning to take Hannah to the fair tonight, myself, as a matter of fact,’ he adds, looking at me almost shyly. ‘She’s been bugging me about going ever since she heard about it.’
‘Oh. Right. So I guess I might see you there, then?’
I grin, unable to ignore the prickling of excitement that’s started up in my stomach at the thought of getting to see him again – and hopefully without the accompaniment of an angry mob this time.
Much to my relief, though, Hunter responds with a smile. A small one, true, but still – a smile.
‘Aye, you might,’ he says, a familiar twinkle in his eye, then looks at his watch. ‘I have to do some more work on the maze before the grand opening. I’ll, er, maybe see you later?’
I nod, not quite trusting myself to speak. I watch him stride off towards the stairs, then, realising I’ve left my phone in the library, I turn and duck quickly back into the room, stopping short when I find Dante still standing there, flicking through a book he’s taken from one of the shelves.
‘Whoops, sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here,’ I mutter, darting forward to snatch up my phone, not exactly relishing the thought of being alone with Suspect #1.
‘I was just leaving,’ Dante says stiffly, quickly putting the book he’s holding back. He pauses for a second, as if he’s considering saying something else.
‘I know you’re enjoying your little game of Cluedo,’ he says at last. ‘But this isn’t a game to us, Rosie. Me, Hunter, the rest of the staff. You’ll be going home in a couple of days, but we have to stay here and make this place work. You might want to think about that before you start accusing people of being out to get you all the time.’
I swallow nervously, hot tears prickling the backs of my eyes; tears of guilt, shame, and .?.?. is thatanger?
‘It’s not a game to me either, Dante,’ I reply, confirming that the emotion lurking behind the others is, in fact, anger. ‘It’s actuallyhappening. Someone’s been trying to scare me. I’m not imagining it, or making it up. And you can’t seriously expect me to pretend nothing’s going on, can you?’
Dante looks at me as if that’s exactly what he expects. Then he gives an almost imperceptible shrug.
‘I’ll speak to the staff,’ he says. ‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for .?.?.’
‘The goings-on?’ I supply helpfully.
Dante doesn’t bother to dignify this with an answer. Instead, he just gives a small nod, then goes stalking out of the room, looking like a man with the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. Or the weight of the hotel, at least.
I wait for a moment to make sure he’s not coming back, then quickly cross the room to the bookshelf he was standing next to. One of the books is sticking out from the rest slightly, as if whoever read it last didn’t take the time to replace it properly, and I slide it out, looking at it curiously.
A History of Glenmuir Castle, says the title on the hardback cover, above an old black-and-white photo of the castle, looking much the same as it does today, only without any of the cars that are normally parked outside it.
The book was published in 1950, according to the flyleaf, so it doesn’t go up to the present day, but I flick through it anyway, pausing to look at some of the sepia-toned photos, which show a selection of people in old-fashioned clothes, posed around the castle and grounds, their faces bleached to a ghostly pallor thanks to the age of the paper and low-quality photography.
It’s kind of creepy, actually.
I’m just about to put the book back again, when my eye falls on a photo of a group of young men, all standing in front of the castle, wearing clothes that look stiff and uncomfortable to my modern eyes.
‘Glenmuir Castle, 1925’ says the caption underneath. It’s not theyearthis photo was taken I’m interested in, though; it’s the tall man standing in the middle of the group, with his pale face and shiny black hair.
Dante.
He looksexactlylike Dante.
Which means one of two things: either Dante actuallyisa vampire, who’s lived here for hundreds of years, or .?.?.
.?.?. he’s somehow related to the Glenmuirs.
Which is a far more likely explanation, really.
I scroll frantically back through my memory, trying to recall everything I’ve found out about the hotel manager since I arrived here. His mother came from Italy, Hunter said; and fell in love with a Scotsman. It obviously wasn’t the man in this photo (Well, not unless we’re going back to the ‘vampire’ theory, which is a stretch even for me), but maybe one of his descendants?
Dante and the Laird are as thick as thieves, Izzie’s voice says in my head.Ideas above his station, that one.
Oh, my God. CouldDantebe the Laird’s nephew?
