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One moment, Laura felt hands on her
shoulders, pushing her toward the stairs, and she KNEW she was
going to fall, then the next, those hands were pulling her back
to relative safety. "Careful, Laura," Quinn warned.
"'Twould be a pity for you to break such a lovely neck,"
he said.
Laura looked around into those grey eyes, moving away from the
stairs, toward the gallery. "Thank you," she responded,
putting more than an arm's reach between herself and Remington's
cousin. She knew that he'd been drinking- even though it wasn't
yet noon- but she could see little outward sign of intoxication.
"I didn't realize how close to the edge I was," she
told him.
Quinn glanced to the entry below. "Where's your husband?"
"He walked Constable O'Malley to his car," she explained.
"The man is an idiot," he pronounced.
Laura frowned. "Remington?" she asked.
"I haven't known my cousin long enough to make that determination.
No, I was speaking of O'Malley. He hasn't the brains to catch
stray dogs. The only reason he's the Constable is that he bows
to Aunt Margaret's every whim." His gaze fell on the portrait
of Margaret Harrison. "All she has to do is tell him to jump,
and he doesn't even bother to ask how high."
Laura looked at the line of portraits. "I don't see your
portrait here," she commented.
"That's because I'm not a Harrison," he reminded her.
"I'm an O'Riley. Your husband is the last of the Harrisons."
Laura shook her head. "But he's not. He's a . . ."
"Chalmers?" Quinn finished. "Steele? Doesn't matter
what he calls himself. He's a Harrison." He indicated the
portraits. "The family resemblance is too strong for even
me to deny it." Laura had to agree. It wasn't only Liam's
portrait that Remington looked like. Most of the Harrison men
seemed to have been alike, with dark hair and blue eyes. Pretending
an interest in the gallery, Quinn asked, "Tell me, Laura,
do you and he intend to make your home here at the Manor?"
"No. We've got a business in Los Angeles," she reminded
him.
"So why even bother to lay claim to the estate? Why come
here at all if he's not intending to live here?"
"Because family is important to Remington," she told
him.
"Family? From what I understand, he's never had a family,"
Quinn commented.
"You're right. Which makes finding it now all the more important.
He wants what's best for the family."
"And he thinks it's best to keep this old barn standing?
I could make him a very good profit on the place, should he decide
to sell it," he told her.
"What would happen to Margaret?" Laura asked him. "Or
John? Or Bridget, for that matter?"
"Bridget needs to be locked up somewhere," Quinn said.
"She's a danger to everyone in this house. It's only a matter
of time before we all end up the way Brian and Mary did."
Forgetting that she herself had just been thinking along the same
lines, Laura said, "You sound very sure that Bridget's responsible,
Quinn. Care to tell me why?"
"You've seen her. Are her actions those of a sane woman?"
"I'll admit that she needs some help professional help, but
. . ."
"Which she'll never get here. And as long as this house is
standing, John won't hear of her leaving. So he becomes as much
of a prisoner here as his sister."
"What about Margaret?" she asked again. "If the
Manor weren't here, where would she go?"
"Margaret Harrison is more than capable of taking care of
herself, Laura. Don't let her frail act fool you. That woman can
be the devil herself when she wants to be."
The front doors opened, and Remington entered the house, pausing
as he saw Laura and Quinn in the gallery. "Is everything
all right, Laura?" he asked, climbing the stairs to join
them, his eyes on Quinn.
Laura put her arm around him. "Quinn and I were just talking
about the Manor," she told him. "He's willing to buy
it if you decide you want to sell."
Remington's eyes narrowed. "Is that so? Sorry to disappoint
you, Quinn, but I'm not planning on selling."
"Rather a problem, maintaining two households, don't you
think?" Quinn suggested. "One here, one in Los Angeles?"
"The place has done nicely these last ten years- I see no
reason to change things," Remington pointed out.
Quinn laughed mirthlessly and shook his head. "You have no
idea how much like Uncle Liam you sounded just now. He was stuck
in the past- refused to see how change could help the people around
here. Jobs are what's needed not this old museum with foundering
farms around it."
"Foundering?" Remington questioned. "The report
I read . . ."
"Check it for yourself," Quinn suggested. "Oh,
the tenants will assure you that everything is fine. But you're
a detective. Look beneath the surface. There are a lot of cracks
in the system. Those people are hiding from the truth, from the
reality of the situation. Most of their children leave to find
work. The productivity of the farms has fallen for the last twenty
years and things aren't getting any better."
"And your answer is to tear the Manor down and put up a factory,"
Remington said. "There have to be other alternatives, Quinn.
Other places to build to build your bloody factory, man. I think
you just want the satisfaction of destroying something that you
can't have."
"Maybe you're right, Cousin. But you do as I say. Look around.
You'll see that I'm right." He nodded at Laura and then turned
to go back downstairs, closing the salon doors behind him.
Remington's eyes were locked on the portrait of his grandfather,
his hand at the back of his neck. "Remington?" she said
gently. When he didn't respond, she touched his arm. "Harry."
He looked down at her. "Why don't we go back to our room
until lunch?" she suggested. "And you can tell me what
Constable O'Malley had to say while I try to loosen up those neck
muscles," she told him.
Remington smiled. "Now THAT, Mrs. Steele, is an idea of which
I heartily approve."
Laura led the way to their suite, slipping his coat from his shoulders
and dropping it onto the sofa. Remington grabbed her arm and turned
her back into his arms. "What else did you and Quinn discuss?"
he asked as she loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top buttons
of his shirt.
"Oh, nothing much. He's accepted that you're who you claim
to be says he can't deny it since you look so much like all the
other Harrison men." She pushed him into a chair and bent
to kiss him before moving to stand behind him, her hands gently
kneading the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders.
"Hmm," he said, his eyes closed. "That feels good.
I hadn't realized I was so tense."
"What did O'Malley have to say?"
"Nothing much, really. Seems a bit," he winced as she
hit a particularly sensitive spot, "nervous. As if he wasn't
sure how much he should say without . . ."
"Without your Aunt's permission?" she suggested.
"Umm," he confirmed. "You caught that as well,
eh?"
"I couldn't help but notice," Laura told him. "And
Quinn told me that the only reason O'Malley got the job was because
he never questions anything she says. I wonder if he was Constable
when Brian died?"
"He was. I asked him about that. He's been constable since
just after my grandfather died. A little to the left," he
said. "That's it. Oh, you have magic fingers, Laura, my love."
"I found something on the stairs before Quinn came up,"
she told him, pulling the button from her pocket and handing it
to him.
Remington studied it. "Looks like a button from the robe
that Bridget was wearing," he commented.
Laura continued her massage. "Mary might have pulled it loose before she died."
"Or, it could have been there
for sometime," Remington pointed out. "Bridget DOES
live here, remember." As he studied the item, he looked troubled.
"Laura, I have a problem with accusing one of my own family
of murder- even if she isn't fully responsible."
"I know," Laura said, coming around to kneel beside
his chair, her hands on his arm. "But if Bridget DID kill
Brian and Mary, she needs help. She's not getting it here."
"You heard them say that she's been seen by some of the best
doctors in London," he reminded her.
"But if she wasn't having one of her `seizures', then they
wouldn't know what they were dealing with," Laura pointed
out. "I don't like to think that Bridget could have killed
either of those people either, but we have to be realistic."
"I suppose you're right," he said with a sigh. "What's
the old saying? Be careful what you wish for because you might
get it?"
"What do you mean?" Laura asked, pulling him to his
feet and in the direction of the bedroom.
"I wished for a family all of my life. Now that I've got
one, I'm finding that it's not as easy as I always dreamed it
would be." He smiled as he pulled her close, shutting the
bedroom door with his foot. "Except for you, of course. You're
the only bright spot in my life at the moment."
"Really, Mr. Steele?" she asked, returning his smile
as she finished unbuttoning his shirt. "Well let's see what
we can do about making it even brighter, shall we?"
Remington surprised her by lifting her into his arms and carrying
her to the bed. "A bit on the, uh, excited side, aren't we,
love?" he asked between kisses.
"I don't know what's come over me. Maybe this place just
reminds me of another football field sized bedroom," she
suggested, thinking about Ashford Castle, where they had finally,
after four years of insanity, made love for the first time.
"And here I thought it was because I'm so irresistible,"
he said, pretending to pout.
Laura slid her hands up his chest and around his neck. "Oh,
you are, Remington. You ARE." And she proceeded to prove
just HOW irresistible he was.
To Be Continued . . .