Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [453]
“No,” Claire said, ignoring his tone. “I think you and Greg Edgars together may succeed where I couldn’t, in convincing Bree that Gillian Edgars is the woman I knew as Geillis Duncan. She won’t listen to me. She likely won’t listen to you, either, if you try to tell her what we found at the Institute today. But she’ll listen to Greg Edgars.” Her tone was flat and grim, and Roger felt his annoyance ebbing slightly. He started the car once more, and pulled out into the stream of traffic.
“All right, I’ll try,” he said grudgingly, not looking at her. “And just where are you going to be, while I do this?”
There was a small, shuffling movement alongside as she groped in her pocket again. Then she drew out her hand and opened it. His eye caught the silvery gleam of a small object in the darkness of her palm. A key.
“I’m going to burgle the Institute,” she said calmly. “I want that notebook.”
* * *
After Claire excused herself to run her unspecified “errand”—making Roger shudder only slightly—he and Brianna had driven to the pub, but then decided to wait for their supper, since the evening was unexpectedly fine. They strolled down the narrow walk by the River Ness, and he had forgotten his misgivings about the evening in the pleasure of Brianna’s company.
They talked carefully at first, avoiding anything controversial. Then the chat turned to Roger’s work, and grew gradually more animated.
“And how do you know so much about it, anyway?” Roger demanded, breaking off in the middle of a sentence.
“My father taught me,” she replied. At the word “father,” she stiffened a bit, and drew back, as though expecting him to say something. “My real father,” she added pointedly.
“Well, he certainly knew,” Roger replied mildly, leaving the challenge strictly alone. Plenty of time for that later, my girl, he thought cynically. But it isn’t going to be me that springs the trap.
Just down the street, Roger could see a light in the window of the Edgars’s house. The quarry was denned, then. He felt an unexpected surge of adrenaline at the thought of the coming confrontation.
Adrenaline lost out to the surge of gastric juices that resulted when they stepped into the pub’s savory atmosphere, redolent of shepherd’s pie. Conversation was general and friendly, with an unspoken agreement to avoid any reference to the scene at the manse the day before. Roger had noticed the coolness between Claire and her daughter, before he had left her at the cab stand on their way to the pub. Seated side by side in the backseat, they had reminded him of two strange cats, ears laid flat and tails twitching, but both avoiding the eye-locking stare that would lead to claws and flying fur.
After dinner, Brianna fetched their coats while he paid the bill.
“What’s that for?” she asked, noticing the bottle of whisky in his hand. “Planning a rave-up for later on?”
“Rave-up?” he said, grinning at her. “You are getting on, aren’t you? And what else have you picked up in your linguistic studies?”
She cast her eyes down in exaggerated demureness.
“Oh, well. There’s a dance in the States, called the Shag. I gather I shouldn’t ask you to do it with me here, though.”
“Not unless you mean it,” he said. They both laughed, but he thought the flush on her cheeks had deepened, and he was conscious of a certain stirring at the suggestion that made him keep his coat hung over one arm instead of putting it on.
“Well, after enough of that stuff, anything’s possible,” she said, indicating the whisky bottle with a mildly malicious smile. “Terrible taste, though.”
“It’s acquired, lassie,” Roger informed her, letting his accent broaden. “Only Scots are born wi’ it. I’ll buy ye a bottle of your own to practice with. This one’s a gift, though—something I promised to leave off. Want to come along, or shall I do it later?” he asked. He didn’t know whether he wanted her to come or not, but felt a surge of happiness