Page 35 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Fourteen

The man almost tumbled backwards, circled by a yapping Bronte.

‘Please! Miss! Call her off! Put her back on her lead! She’s going to go for me!’ His voice was a panicked but educated Scottish burr.

I hoped I could disguise the fear in my voice. ‘She won’t bite, unless I tell her to.’

That was a blatant lie, but he didn’t have to know that. Bronte was far more likely to lick him to death after a few minutes.

The man flinched. ‘Please. Miss. I’m not dangerous. Honestly!’

‘Yes, well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Do I look like a serial killer? I’m a pensioner with failing eyesight. Just please call your dog off.’

I studied the man from top to bottom. ‘Well, you tell me what a serial killer looks like.’

The man continued to recoil from Bronte, as though she were a foaming-at-the-mouth, ten-foot-tall creature from another planet. I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’

I stooped down and clipped Bronte’s lead back on. ‘Right. Now I’ve got my Rottweiler under control, the least you can do is tell me what you were doing the other day peering into my cottage window?’

The man looked like I’d slapped him across the face with a wet fish. ‘So, you live here now?’ His voice sounded flat, resigned.

Did I? I supposed I did. I found myself nodding, not sure of what the official answer was.

His brows gathered. He appeared thrown for a few moments, as he slowly dusted himself off.

I took in his layered, greying hair and heavy, dark coat. He wasn’t a journalist either, was he? Had he found out where I was and thought he could get an exclusive interview with the grieving wife? Or was he another journalist on Mitch’s trail? I was still curious about that and why Mitch had been so keen to see that journalist off. ‘Are you a reporter?’

‘What? No! What makes you ask that?’

I narrowed my eyes at him.

‘I’m telling you the truth. I’m not a journalist.’

‘Then who are you and why are you hanging around here?’

The man, I noticed, was studying my face with keen interest. A glimpse of a faraway smile flirted at the corners of his mouth. ‘Your hair,’ he faltered in his Scottish brogue. ‘It’s so like someone else’s I used to know when she was young.’

‘Sorry?’

He dragged himself back from wherever he was. ‘I’m rambling. Forgive me.’ He shot out one hand. I looked at it, bemused, before shaking it.

‘My name is Reece Stewart. I was a close friend of the lady who used to live here. I understand she passed away eight months ago.’ His eyes dimmed.

I angled my head at him, curious. ‘What was her name? The lady you’re looking for?’

‘Tilda Winters.’

I stared at him. ‘Tilda Winters?’ I repeated. ‘That’s who you were friends with?’

‘Aye. At least Winters was her maiden name.’ Reece Stewart studied the cottage. ‘This is her house, isn’t it?’ He swung back to look at me. ‘I was coming to visit her. Wanted to take her out for a slap-up lunch and catch up over old times.’ His voice grew softer. ‘But that day you spotted me at the window, I’d just learnt from one of the locals that she’d passed away.’ He shrugged. ‘So, I bought some flowers from the local florist and took them to her grave.’ He coloured. ‘Then I came up here to see her house. Probably sounds daft, but I wanted to see where she’d been living before she passed.’

I processed what he was saying. ‘No. It doesn’t sound daft at all.’

He gently appraised me again. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look very much like her when she was younger.’

Down by my feet, Bronte had hunkered down and was listening to the conversation.