“That was capital!” Toby exclaimed, his gaze darting from Gillian to Ross and back again. “You weren’t afraid, Mother?”
She managed a smile for him, excluding Ross. “Not in the least. I found it quite delightful.”
Toby gave Ross a pointed look, as if he were trying to convey some secret message. Ross found himself at a loss, and Toby turned away.
“May we try the Aerial Swing?” he asked.
They made their way to the Aerial Swing, which consisted of four large gondolas suspended from the ends of crossbeams projecting from a tall, narrow tower. The crossbeams rotated around the tower as they moved up and down, swinging the gondolas in a wide circle far above the earth.
This time Gillian maneuvered herself so that she and Toby shared the same seat and Ross was relegated to the one behind them, wedged in next to a portly gentleman with a very red face. The man giggled during the entire ride. Ross was deeply grateful when it was over.
Gillian was a little gray when she stepped out of the gondola, but she didn’t complain.
“I suggest we head for Steeplechase Park,” Ross said. “They opened the Thunderbolt roller coaster there two years ago. It’s the tallest one on Coney Island, famous all over the world.”
He half expected Gillian to balk, but she allowed him to usher her and Toby across the esplanade and through a knot of parkgoers clustered around the carousel. “We can grab one of the streetcars on Surf Avenue,” he said.
Gillian maintained her silence, absorbed in her own thoughts, as if she were pretending she was somewhere else. It wasn’t possible for Ross to talk to Toby privately once they were packed into the streetcar, but he kept the kid entertained by pointing out the various attractions along Surf Avenue as the vehicle carried them toward Steeplechase Park.
“You’ve been here lots of times,” Toby commented, a wistful note in his voice.
“Not when I was a kid. I lived too far away, and my family didn’t do much traveling.”
“Where did you live?”
Obviously that was something Gillian hadn’t written down in her diary. And why should she? “We had a ranch in southern Arizona, near the Castillo Mountains.”
“I know where Arizona is,” Toby said with a touch of pride. “Did you rope cattle and fight outlaws?”
“Lots of roping, but most of the outlaws and cattle rustlers were gone by the time I was born.”
“At least you had plenty of bad guys to fight in New York.” He kicked his heels against the bottom of the seat. “What made you decide to become a policeman?”
“It seemed like it might be something I’d be good at,” he said.
“Yes,” Toby said. “You could do all sorts of useful things, like smelling the criminals before they could see you coming, or just being a lot better at fighting.” He paused as if a thought had just popped into his head. “Are there lots of werewolves in New York, Father?”
It wasn’t an unexpected question, but Ross knew he had to tread carefully. “Maybe a hundred,” he said.
“Truly? We haven’t nearly so many in England. Are any of them policemen like you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“All the European werewolves Mother told me about live in big houses in the countryside, where they don’t have much to do with regular people. Is it the same in America?”
Ross realized that Toby had given him an opening to learn more about how Gillian lived. “I don’t know how it is other places in the States,” he said, “but in Manhattan, most werewolves belong to one pack.”
“A hundred in one pack?” Toby frowned. “It isn’t like that with us at all. We have families instead.”
“Are there other werewolf families living near you?”
“There are some in Northumberland, Lancashire and Yorkshire, but we don’t see them very often.”
“But there must be other houses nearby, even if they aren’t occupied by werewolves.”
“Oh, yes. Uncle Ethan lives at Highwick, which is right next door to Snowfell. And there are farmers all around the fells, and people in the village.”
“Then you have other kids to play with.”
Toby glanced at his mother, who was gazing at the passing scene. “I’m much too old to play children’s games.”
“You must have friends.”
“Of course. I—” He squirmed, scuffing his feet on the floor, and then seemed to reach a decision. “I talk to the servants all the time.”
The servants. Fuming, Ross reminded himself that he was talking to a boy, not a man. “If you don’t play with anyone,” he said, “what do you do to have fun?”
“There are lots of things to do at Snowfell. Mother and I read a great deal. She orders books from London. We play chess nearly every day. And we’ve even found some old Roman ruins, where soldiers used to guard the border against the barbarians.” He beamed. “I’ve begun a collection of ancient coins.”
“That sounds…very interesting. Do you ever take trips away from Snowfell?”
“I’ve been to Kendal, of course, and Carlisle and Penrith, and once to London.”
“What do you do there?”
“Sometimes we go to museums or visit the park. But we don’t go very often.”
“And your mother? Does she go out alone sometimes?”
“Mother? Oh, no. Only when she takes me.”
“Does anyone come to see her?”
Toby’s speculative glance was keen enough for a kid half again his age. “No one comes to Snowfell. Not even Uncle Ethan. But sometimes Mother meets him where Snowfell borders Highwick.”
Warbrick again. Ross hid his scowl, but he needn’t have bothered, because Toby’s interest had been caught by the structure towering over the streetcar as it began to slow. “Is that the Thunderbolt?”
The boy craned his neck, peering up at the steel struts and towers, the sweeping curves of the massive roller coaster that projected above the fence running alongside Surf Avenue. He might have jumped off the still-moving vehicle if Ross hadn’t grabbed his arm.
“Stay right here,” he warned Toby, and turned back to help Gillian, who had already stepped down to the street. The day was growing warmer by the minute, but somehow Ross knew that the perspiration gathering on Gillian’s forehead had nothing to do with the temperature. She gazed at the vast structure before them.
“Toby,” she said quietly.
The boy obviously heard a world of warning in those two syllables. “It’s not as dangerous as it looks,” he assured her. “I’ll ride with Father. You stay here.”
Gillian continued to stare at the roller coaster. Ross sensed that it wasn’t so much the potential danger of the ride that worried her as much as Coney Island itself, this vast and very human place. She dropped her gaze to the unruly line winding around the base of the coaster, then looked around like a wild animal surrounded by hidden hunters, seeking the source of danger in an ever-changing, faceless crowd.
Toby had said she never went out and that no one came to Snowfell. How long had it been since Gillian was engaged with the world, as she’d been in London? What kind of life had she led before he’d met her? She’d said her family had welcomed her back after Delvaux’s death, but what exactly had she gone back to?
Was it possible that he’d never really known her, that he’d been mistaking arrogance for fear all along? Had she been battling demons of her own from the very beginning?
Hell, no. Not Jill. Upset that she’d let herself fall for a guy who was mostly human, sure. And worried about betraying her high-flown principles, concerned about Toby and his attachment to Ross, less than enamored with crowds of noisy, malodorous humans. That was the sum total of it. The rest was sheer fantasy.
He emerged from his thoughts to find her staring at him, the uncertainty in her eyes vanishing behind a wall of determination.
“We must go,” she said. She grabbed Toby’s hand. “Please show us to the exit, Mr. Kavanagh.”
“But we’ve hardly done anything, Mother!” Toby protested. He looked at Ross for support. “It isn’t fair.” Before Ross could respond, Toby tried another tack. “Mother, why don’t you go back to the hotel and rest? Father and I will go on alone.”
“Certainly not,” she said. “We have done quite enough for one day. I am certain that Mr. Kavanagh will understand.”
“Mr. Kavanagh doesn’t,” Ross said. “We had a deal. I’ll take you back to the hotel, and then Toby and I—”
But Gillian was already walking away, dragging Toby behind her, body tensed as if she were about to break into an all-out run. Ross caught up with her.
“For God’s sake, Gillian.”
She spun. Her lips curled back from her teeth, wolflike. “Where?” she demanded. “Where is the way out?”
Ross was on the verge of another argument when he noticed that Gillian had suddenly gone still. He turned to follow her stare. Behind him, a crowd had gathered at the base of the platform where the coaster’s cars came to rest after each circuit.
Gillian pushed Toby toward Ross and set off for the platform at a run. By the time Ross and Toby caught up with her, she had shoved her way through the circle of gaping observers and crouched beside the boy who lay on the ground, flopping like a fish thrown onto dry land. A cut on his forehead was bleeding profusely, and Ross guessed that he had somehow fallen from the platform.
“What’s wrong?” someone asked. “What’s wrong with him?”
Gillian didn’t answer. She had rolled the boy onto his side and placed a wadded piece of cloth under his head, watching him intently as the muscles of his body contracted violently and then released. When a man from the crowd tried to help by restraining the child, she warned him off. He persisted. Ross told Toby to stay put, told the guy to back off and crouched beside Gillian.
“It’s a Grand Mal seizure,” she said, in a tone meant only for werewolf ears. “Either he’s an epileptic, or he’s dangerously ill.”
As she spoke, the boy’s convulsions grew weaker and gradually ceased. Gillian produced another strip of fabric—torn, he presumed, from some part of her clothing—and pressed it to the child’s wound. Ross glanced at Gillian’s profile. She hardly seemed to realize that she was the center of attention; the boy was all that mattered.
“Someone ring for an ambulance,” she said. “I’m only a nurse. Someone needs to find a doctor, if one is available.”
After a brief hesitation, several men huddled together and ran off in different directions. A shriek silenced the murmurs of the observers, and a woman stumbled into the center of the circle.
“Bobby!” she cried, dropping to her knees. “Bobby!”
“It will be all right,” Gillian said, nothing but compassion and understanding in her voice. “Ross, please watch Bobby and hold this cloth in place. He should regain consciousness presently. I must speak to his mother.”
Ross moved so that he was level with Bobby’s head, listening to Gillian as he waited for the boy to wake up. Gillian began to ask the sobbing mother a series of questions, each spoken so calmly that their rhythm slowly eased the woman’s hysteria. She squeezed the woman’s trembling arm gently and turned back to Ross.
“This has never happened to him before,” she said. “It’s possible for children to develop epilepsy at any time, but Bobby must have a full medical examination to rule out an infection. It’s fortunate that he wasn’t more badly injured in the fall.” She passed the back of her hand across her forehead. “We must move him to a cool, quiet place.”
Ross knew that she didn’t have to explain anything to him, but the fact that she was doing so, and asking for his help, meant a lot more to him than he was willing to admit even to himself. He lifted the boy in his arms while Gillian assisted the mother to stand and gave her an arm to lean on. Ross made sure that Toby was following and aimed for a vendor whose booth was fitted out with a wide awning.
Not long after they’d made Bobby comfortable on a blanket provided by the vendor, he began to regain consciousness. Gillian smiled at him and asked him how he was feeling. The boy, obviously confused, tried to answer, but his mother’s weeping distracted him, and Gillian left them alone.
One of the observers returned a few minutes later with a harried, bespectacled man whose day’s amusements had obviously been interrupted. He introduced himself as a doctor and spoke briefly with Gillian, examined the boy and assured himself that someone had summoned an ambulance. As soon as he’d taken charge, Gillian faded into the background.
But she was not to be allowed to resume her anonymity. Several of the men and women who’d followed them to the vendor’s booth gathered around her, exclaiming and congratulating her. She answered rigidly, all the ease she’d shown with the boy instantly gone. Ross wedged himself between her and the man closest to her.
“Give the lady a little room,” he said gruffly. The people retreated, responding to the quiet authority he’d honed to near perfection during his years on the job. Gillian seemed to breathe more easily, though she was much too pale for Ross’s liking.
“Are you all right?” he asked, taking her elbow.
She stared in the direction of the vendor’s stall. “Where is Toby?”
“Here, Mother.” Toby joined them, clutching his bag and grinning up at his mother with obvious pride. “That was smashing, wasn’t it, Father?”
“Yes.” Ross heard the wail of a distant siren. “The ambulance is coming. I think it’s time for us to leave.”
“But there’s a man who wants to talk to Mother. He says he’s a reporter for a newspaper.”
Ross’s neck prickled. “Not today, Toby.”
“But he wants to know about the lady who saved the little boy’s life!”
“I did not save him,” Gillian said faintly. “I merely made him comfortable until he emerged from the seizure.”
“But he could have hurt himself,” Toby said, pugnacious in defense of his mother’s expertise. “Isn’t that right, Father?”
That was probably true, and by the end of the day a lot of people on Coney Island would probably regard the mysterious English lady as a heroine. But one look at Gillian’s face told Ross that she didn’t want anything to do with newspapers or the notoriety they could bring.
He gazed over the heads of the people still hovering nearby. A man was striding toward them at a fast pace, his hat jammed down on his forehead and a notepad clutched in one hand.
His name was O’Grady, and he’d been a gadfly biting at Ross’s heels all during the hearings and even after Ross had been released for lack of evidence. Once he’d recognized his victim, any chance of keeping Gillian and Toby ignorant of the scandal would be over.
“No reporters,” Ross growled. “We’re leaving.”
Toby’s face fell, then brightened again.
“Will we take the subway?” he asked.
The last thing Gillian would want now was to be sandwiched into a subway car jammed with weekend revelers. “We’ll find a taxi,” he said.
But before he got Gillian and Toby moving, O’Grady had caught up with them.
“So this is your mother?” the reporter said loudly, striding alongside Toby while he simultaneously noted Ross’s presence and tipped his hat in Gillian’s direction. “Morning, ma’am. Miles O’Grady, New York Sentinel.”
“The lady’s got nothing to say to you, O’Grady,” Ross said, keeping his hand firmly on Toby’s shoulder as he hurried Gillian toward a waiting cab. “Get lost.”
O’Grady wasn’t put off. “What’s the lady to you, Kavanagh?” he asked. “Mrs. Delvaux, your boy said.”
Toby was smart enough to recognize the edge of hostility in the reporter’s tone. “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” he said belligerently. “And my—Mr. Kavanagh doesn’t want to talk to you, either.”
Ross cursed under his breath. “Toby,” he said without breaking stride, “you tell the cabbie to take you and your mother to the place where we started. Go back exactly the way we came, okay?”
In answer, Toby hurried to Gillian’s other side and took her hand. Gillian was moving like a sleepwalker, in spite of Toby’s urgent tugging. Ross came to a stop and grabbed O’Grady by the arm to keep him from following.
O’Grady grinned. “Same old Kavanagh,” he said. “Better let me go, or I’ll see you arrested for assault.”
Ross snorted with disgust and released the reporter. “You may think you have friends on the force,” he said, “but they don’t like you any better than they like me.”
“Why not? We’re all on the same side. Trying to bring a killer to justice.” He watched Gillian and Toby as they climbed into the cab. “You know, I didn’t think this would be much of a story. Now…”
“You stay away from them,” Ross snarled.
“Why? I’d be doing her a favor by sticking around. She’s pretty, slender, blond…just like the other one, but with a lot more class. You grazing in richer pastures, Kavanagh?”
Ross could have had the bastard on the ground in two seconds flat, but he knew what would happen if he so much as waved a fist in O’ Grady’s direction.
“I was cleared,” he said. “And when I find the real killer, I’ll make you choke on your newspaper.”
The reporter laughed, but he wasn’t quite as immune to Ross’s anger as he wanted to believe. “Cleared?” he repeated. “You were released for lack of evidence. Not quite the same thing, is it? But who knows? Maybe I can find something nice to say about you if you cooperate.” He slipped a thoroughly chewed pencil from behind his ear and held it poised over the notepad. “Who is she? She’s from England, right? What’s your relationship with her and the kid? Does she realize—”
He grunted in surprise as Ross tore the notepad and pencil from his hands and threw them to the ground. “If you get anywhere near her, I may have to do something stupid,” Ross said.
O’Grady stared at the notebook, its pages splayed and fluttering in the light breeze. “You already have, Kavanagh.”
Ross leaned toward the reporter, his breath stirring O’Grady’s thin reddish hair. “You’re right,” he said softly. “I’d have to have been pretty crazy to murder that girl. And if I’m crazy, why should I stop with her? Why not try something different this time?”
As if compelled by forces beyond his control, O’Grady met Ross’s gaze. He opened his mouth. No sound came out. He took a step backward. He kept up his retreat until he was well out of Ross’s reach.
“I know where you live, Kavanagh!” he said, all bluster again. “I’ll get my story.”
“Leave us alone.”
Gillian had returned. Her voice was clear, sharp and startling, ringing with such natural authority that everyone within hearing distance stopped and stared. She ignored her audience, her attention completely focused on O’Grady.
“No more questions,” she said. “I must take my son home.”
O’Grady made the mistake of thinking he’d found a new opening. “Sure, I understand. Just tell me where you can be reached, and I’ll…”
He trailed off, his bravado crushed by Gillian’s withering stare. When she moved, he jumped like a rabbit. He stayed put as she stalked away, a muscle under his eye twitching frantically.
“What the hell…?” he breathed.
Ross couldn’t have put it better himself. What had he just seen? One minute Gillian was calm and confident, the next nervous and uncertain, then aggressive and strong. How many different women lived inside that sleek, graceful body?
He fell into step beside her. “I don’t think you should go directly back to the hotel.”
She glanced at him without breaking stride, her hand still clamped around Toby’s, conflicting emotions passing behind her eyes.
“Why?” she asked. “Will that man follow us?”
“I know the guy. He’s a persistent bas—He won’t give up easily. And he knows your name.”
“I’m sorry,” Toby said, abashed. “I didn’t think there would be any harm…”
“It’s okay,” Ross said. “O’Grady could get a clam to confess. But I think it would be a good idea to throw him off the scent.”
“How do you propose to do that?” Gillian asked.
Her tone held the same conflicting emotions as her eyes, anxious and angry at the same time, but Ross had seen how much she detested the kind of attention she’d attracted as a result of her good deed. She would probably do just about anything to avoid answering the reporter’s questions, no matter how benign they might seem.
Ross certainly didn’t want to tell her that O’Grady held a grudge against him and was likely to be even more obnoxious than usual in trying to uncover the nature of their relationship.
“I’ve got a friend who lives over on Long Island,” he said. “Grif and his wife have been out of the country for months, so the place is vacant. They won’t mind if we stay there until O’Grady finds a more interesting story. Shouldn’t take more than a few days.”
“A few days? That is impossible.”
“I think you’ll find Oak Hollow comfortable, even if Grif isn’t as big on the luxuries you’re used to.”
Gillian opened her mouth, hesitated, and closed it again, clearly torn. Then she saw or smelled something that worried her, because she moved a little closer to Toby and drew herself into a defensive posture.
“How will you make certain that the reporter doesn’t follow us to Long Island?” she asked.
“I’m going to give you instructions on how to take the subway back to Penn Station, where you’ll catch the train to Long Island. While you’re doing that, I’m going to lure O’Grady in another direction. I’ll join you as soon as I can. Once we’re at Oak Hollow, you can call Hugh and arrange to have some of your things sent over.”
Gillian nodded with obvious reluctance. He could sense that she wanted to say something else, but was finding it difficult to spit out the words.
“Thank you,” she said at last. “Thank you, Ross.”
“It’s nothing,” he said curtly. “Listen carefully. This is what you do…”
He gave her the promised instructions and accompanied her to the Coney Island station, keeping an eye out for O’Grady all the while. When the reporter appeared as expected—obviously having convinced himself that he’d followed them without being detected—Ross managed to distract him while Gillian and Toby boarded their train. By the time the reporter realized he’d been had, his intended victims were long gone and he settled for his secondary target.
After a couple of hours of following Ross around Manhattan, O’Grady finally surrendered to the inevitable and gave up. Even so, Ross waited another hour until he was sure the reporter had called it quits before he caught the train to Long Island.
The Bridgehampton railroad station was well-lit and relatively clean, reflecting the money and taste of the local residents. Nevertheless, Ross had advised Gillian and Toby to wait for him at one of the local hotels, where he found them eating supper in the attached restaurant. He tipped the hotel’s concierge to call a taxi, which carried them the three miles to Oak Hollow.
The wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the estate were locked, but Ross knew where Griffin kept a spare key under a rock nearby. He opened the gates and waved the taxi through, following on foot. The cobbled, tree-lined road led up to a carriage circle in front of the columned entrance of a Georgianstyle manor house, where the cabbie let Gillian and Toby off.
It was obvious right away that someone had been keeping up the place in Griffin’s and Allie’s absence. The lawn was cut, the hedges neatly trimmed and the flower beds to either side of the porch filled with new plantings. Gillian stood gazing at the portico. Whatever she thought of the place didn’t show on her face, but Toby had his own opinions.
“It’s not nearly as big as Snowfell,” he pronounced, “but it looks much nicer.”
“What’s not nice about Snowfell?” Ross asked, unlocking the front door.
“Oh, I don’t know. It was built in the sixteenth century, but most of it burnt down, and then they rebuilt it, and then it burnt down again, so my great-grandfather had it rebuilt. Some of the old parts are still standing. It ended up a patchwork, not very pretty.” He sniffed. “There must be lots of servants here.”
“Only two, as far as I know.”
