If Books Could Kill Read online

  It sounded as if I had an addictive personality, and I was okay with that. The thing was, I could just as likely be swayed by a piece of chocolate or a beautiful book or a twice-baked potato as I was by a shot of good Scotch. The only obsession I didn’t seem to possess was the shopping gene, much to the dismay of my best friend, Robin Tully.

  Thinking of Robin made me smile, as I was reminded that she would be here tomorrow to lead a small group on a tour of Scotland. Besides being a talented sculptor, Robin owned a small travel company called Wisdom Quest. Most of her clients were Fellowship friends who sought out sacred places throughout the world where they could soak up the mysteries and magic while getting their auras polished and their portals tweaked.

  The Fellowship-officially, the Fellowship for Spiritual Enlightenment and Higher Artistic Consciousness-was the commune in Sonoma County where my parents had raised me and my five siblings. It was where I first met Robin. It wasn’t much of a commune anymore since its members had discovered capitalism and commerce in a big, fun way and become rich off the California wine boom. But everyone was still close and supported one another, as small town people tended to do.

  I reached the fork at the top of the Royal Mile and crossed the cobblestone street to head up to the castle. I stopped and took a deep breath of clean air to clear away the prickly feelings. I gazed back at the picturesque, mile-long High Street that meandered down to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the queen’s official summer residence.

  The city had changed in the three years since I’d been here. For one thing, there were more Starbucks now, including the one that shared the block with the venerable St. Giles’ Cathedral. And the Royal Thistle Hotel had expanded recently to include a luxurious health spa-not that I was complaining about that. I just hoped my favorite pubs were still in business. I had my priorities, after all.

  I took my time hiking up the last block toward the castle. Halfway there I stopped, distracted by one store window that displayed an astonishing jumble of tartan kilts and sporrans. For some reason, they reminded me of big, brash Abraham. The last time we’d attended the Edinburgh Book Fair together, he’d worn his full kilt ensemble to the Saturday-night gala. Much to the delight of the crowd, he’d danced the jig and felt so unfettered that he declared he was going to wear a skirt from then on.

  I chuckled at the memory, then realized my eyes were moist. I had to breathe in some air as the full force of jet lag hit me-or maybe it was simply the acceptance that Abraham was truly gone. Either way, it was time for that nap.

  Without warning I was grabbed from behind, lifted off the ground and twirled around.

  I screamed and swore loudly at my assailant. Then I realized who it was and swore even more.

  “Despite that mouth of yours, you’re more beautiful than ever,” he said.

  “Kyle McVee, you idiot!” I cried, and hugged him hard.

  “Ah, you’ve missed me,” he crowed as he held me snugly in his arms.

  “No, I didn’t miss you,” I said, burying my face in the crook of his delicious-smelling neck. “You’re a cad and a rat fink, remember? The Bad Boy Bookseller of Belgravia. I curse your name every morning.”

  “I love you, too, my sweet,” he said with a laugh. “Besides, I’ve mellowed.”

  “Really,” I said.

  “Yes, I’m quite housebroken these days, not a rat at all.” He kissed me full on the lips. “Mm, you’ve still got the sexiest mouth on four continents.”

  “Oh, stop it.” I stood back and looked at the man who’d broken my heart three-or was it four?-years ago. My breath almost caught as I stared. Kyle McVee was simply beautiful. Tall, elegant, with a wicked grin and dark eyes that sparkled with charm and humor, he had the look of an angel but was an unapologetic devil through and through. He was yet another living example of my pitiful taste in men.

  Maybe I did have a sad habit of picking the most unsuitable men, but I certainly chose the prettiest ones.

  “It’s wonderful to see you,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “Mmm, and you smell good enough to eat. Let’s go back to my hotel room, what do you say?”

  “In your dreams,” I said with a laugh. “How dare you proposition me in the middle of the street?”

  “Because you’re still a darling girl,” he said, then backed up and looked me over.

  I straightened my shirt and jacket and tried to find some trace of decorum, but it was useless. My cheeks heated up at his blatant perusal. I tried to remind myself that if I’d been so darling, why had he felt so compelled to cheat on me more than once during the six months we dated while I lived in London? A simple question.

  I knew the answer: He couldn’t help himself. Kyle came from money, lots of money. Among other things, his family owned a respected London book publishing company. He had a collection of rare books that matched any museum collection in the world. He enjoyed the business of buying and selling and trading, and especially enjoyed the bed-hopping and screwing around that came with being the prettiest, wealthiest man in a business that catered to smart, wealthy people.

  “What are you up to?” he asked.

  “I was enjoying a quiet walk to the castle.”

  “How boring,” he said, pulling me across the street. “Join me at the pub and we’ll have a snug chat.”

  “Hmm. Thanks, but no.”

  “Come on, babe. It’s been too long. We’ve got catching up to do.”

  “Don’t you have someone else to torment?”

  “There’s no one more fun to torment than you.”

  “Oh, don’t I feel special,” I said.

  He leaned closer. “Besides, I’ve something to show you that’ll knock your socks off.”

  “I’ve already seen it,” I said dryly.

  His eyes widened. “Minx! Damn it! I insist we skip the pub and go back to my room.”

  “You haven’t changed,” I said, reluctantly enjoying his silliness.

  “Why should I?” he said with a wink.

  I laughed again and realized I’d missed him. He’d always been a relentless charmer. It had been my mistake for thinking he’d taken our relationship seriously, my mistake to allow the pain to overwhelm me. I’d felt so betrayed, it had taken me months to get over it. And now, gazing up at him, trying to recall the pain and anger, I couldn’t. Truth be told, he was just too adorable to hate.

  “Come on, now,” he said, pulling me closer to the pub’s doorway. “I really do have something to show you. It’s fate that I stumbled upon you here.”

  “All right,” I said, as if it mattered what I thought, since we were halfway inside the Ensign Ewart pub.

  I’d been inside the pub before, three years ago. It was a serious drinking spot for locals who showed up to enjoy the traditional music the bar featured several nights a week. Despite its location directly next door to the castle, the pub didn’t cater to tourists, much to the dismay of anyone who might wander in after a day of sightseeing and expect a charming Scots welcome.

  The room was relatively small and cozy, with dark wood posts and beams across the low, flat ceiling. Kyle ordered two pints at the bar, and we found a quiet corner nook and sat side by side. Kyle removed his gray cashmere sports jacket and laid it on the bench next to him.

  I stared at the pint. “I should’ve had a Pepsi.”

  “Heresy,” he said.

  “Jet lag’s catching up to me,” I explained as I settled into the small space. “But you’re right. It would be a waste to drink anything but beer in a place like this.”

  “That’s my little soldier.”

  “So what did you want to show me?”

  “Straight to business then,” Kyle said, and pulled a small, wrapped parcel from his satchel. “I need your expertise.”

  He handed me the item and I held it, felt it, determining its size, weight and shape without opening it.

  “I’d say it’s a book.” I handed it back to him.

  “Brilliant, darling, but I’m serious. I want you to look a
t it.”

  I unwrapped the brown paper to find a small book covered in tissue. I peeled back the fragile paper and stared at the perfect little book. The leather cover was red goatskin, otherwise known as morocco, heavily gilded and well preserved. It felt warm in my hand as I weighed it, then turned it to study the words on the spine. Love Poems to a Flaxen’d Quean by Robert Burns.

  “Beautiful,” I murmured.

  The front cover was dominated by a gold Scottish wheel surrounded on four sides by Solomon’s seals, or pentagrams, thought to ward off the powers of evil. Gilded thistle, holly berries and rose vines made up the graceful border around the edges.

  “Cathcart?” I wondered aloud, turning the book in my hand.

  “Oh, well-done,” Kyle said, sitting back.

  It was an easy guess. The sheer overabundance of gilding, together with the combination of Scottish wheel, pentagrams, thistle and holly, were the distinctive markings of William Cathcart, an illustrious eighteenth-century Edinburgh publisher and bookbinder.

  I took a sip of beer, then put the glass on the table and returned to the book, carefully opening to the title page. It was hand-dated 1786. On the flyleaf was an inscription, faded and barely legible, but I could make out the words: Many thanks and cheers to my friend and comrade William. It was signed by Robert Burns.

  Robert Burns?

  I looked at Kyle. “Is this a joke?”

  “No,” he said lightly, but his lips had thinned and his eyes were narrow. “It’s not a joke. It’s real. But that’s not for me to say. I need you to authenticate it.”

  “Me? I can’t.”

  “Of course you can,” he said brusquely. “You’re a leading authority on book fraud. You uncovered that scam with the fake Steinbeck. Your reputation is-”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “I mean, I would need a laboratory to test the ink and the binding, the underpinnings. And my tools. I brought my travel tools but I don’t have everything here. I don’t think…”

  “I can set you up somewhere. Could you do it?”

  I stared at the book again. “Well, of course. Except for the signature. You’d need a lab to test the ink and a historian and a handwriting expert and-”

  “I’ll pay you, of course.”

  “Of course.” I nodded absently. My mind was already considering the practicalities of working in a strange lab in another country. I’d done it before. The details were no big deal. All that mattered was getting answers, and those could be found only inside this book. And oh, how I was tempted. Judging by his expression, the man sitting next to me knew it, too.

  Kyle sipped his beer in moody silence while I studied the rare treasure in my hand. Even without the inscription of possibly the most famous Scottish poet who ever lived, this book was an excellent example of William Cathcart’s genius. The condition was mint, although the outer joints were slightly rubbed and the gilding was pale along the spine.

  “If that signature is real, this should be in a museum,” I said, handing the book back to him.

  “No, no, you hold on to it,” he said. “Maybe you’ll have a chance to study it more.”

  I gladly held on to the book. “Where did you get it?”

  He exhaled heavily. “Cathcart is an ancestor. The book belongs to my family. Legend has it he created only ten copies of this edition, so it’s rare indeed.”

  “Indeed,” I echoed.

  “This is the only one inscribed, that I’m aware of.” He chewed on his bottom lip.

  “What else?”

  He eyed me, then admitted, “It’s not just the book itself that concerns me.”

  I sat back. “What do you mean?”

  He took the book from me and opened it to the text. “I told you only ten of this edition were published. The others have disappeared. Believe me, I’ve searched high and low, asked around, advertised.”

  “They probably went into private collections.”

  “Maybe.” He frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s the poems themselves.” He sighed. “There are poems in this book that I’ve never seen published anywhere else. And if you Google the book’s title, it doesn’t show up at all.”

  It was my turn to frown. “That can’t be true.”

  “Look.” He thumbed through to a particular page and held it open for me to see. “To this day, I can’t find a trace of this poem in any other edition. And you know as well as I that books of poetry by Robert Burns are ubiquitous in Britain. They’re everywhere. But not this one.”

  For the first time, I looked beyond the title page and found that although the spine was maybe an inch thick, there were only ten or twelve poems in the whole book. Each heavy page contained a few lines each. I began to read the first one, entitled “I’ve Loved a Flaxen’d Quean.” I’d read Robert Burns before and knew his words could get bawdy, but I was frankly surprised by the highly erotic images Burns inspired in this particular poem, seemingly devoted to a beauty named Sophie. At least, that was what I could glean from the heavy Scots dialect.

  “It’s a beautiful book,” I said. “But I’d need a glossary to understand all the words.”

  He chuckled. “It’s impossible to read without one.”

  “It’s all pretty stirring stuff, though. He must’ve loved her very much.”

  “Ah, yes, and that’s the problem.”

  “Why?” I snickered. “Was she really a queen?”

  “Funny you should ask.” He took a long sip of beer before continuing. “In this case, the word quean is old Scots dialect, meaning a pretty young girl. But there were rumors, frantically quashed, naturally, that Robbie Burns had a sizzling affair with Princess Augusta Sophia, the daughter of George the Third.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  “Doesn’t it just,” he said wryly. “According to some accounts, the princess spent the season in Edinburgh in 1785, then returned to London and, shortly thereafter, gave birth to a son.”

  “Okay, wait, jet lag must be catching up to me.” I took a sip of beer as though it would help me concentrate. “Are you seriously talking about George the Third, The Madness of King George George? That George?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You’re saying his daughter had an affair with Robert Burns?”

  “So it would seem.”

  I thought about it, then nodded. “So what’s the problem?”

  “What’s the-” he shouted, then hushed himself. “We’re talking about Robert Burns, for God’s sake. They called him Rab the Ranter. He was a poor farmer and a troublemaker, and he appealed to the same class of people. He wrote a poem called ‘The Fornicator.’ Another he devoted ‘To a Louse.’ He would’ve been booted out of Holyrood on his ass.”

  I waited for his rant to finish, then said, “So you’re saying he didn’t have an affair with the princess?”

  “No,” he whispered. “I’m saying he did and the news was squelched at the highest levels of power.”

  I squinted at him. “I admit I’m a little slow today, but are you implying that the monarchy frowned on the bad boy of Scotland diddling the pure English rose?”

  He laughed. “Exactly. It’s highly titillating stuff.”

  “Especially in that time.” I sat back. “The English must’ve hated that rumor.”

  “Oh, indeed, because they made sure there was never a whisper of controversy.”

  “Really?” I turned the book in my hand. “Well, that’s fun, isn’t it?”

  “That’s one way to put it.” He pointed to the book. “I’ll guarantee they won’t be happy to know this book is still in circulation.”

  “But that’s silly. Who cares?”

  He sat back with his pint. “Ah, my naive Yankee love.”

  “You’re saying they would care?”

  “Most greatly.”

  “Two hundred years later? Why?”

  “It’s a stain on the monarchy. If nothing else, it’s bad PR.”

  “Well, I unde
rstand that,” I said, nodding. “So you think they hushed it up? Paid Burns to stay away?”

  “At the very least.”

  “And at the most?”

  He ran his finger dramatically across his neck.

  I slapped his knee. “That’s ridiculous.” I opened the book, felt the paper. The pub was too dark to study it closely, so I couldn’t conclude much. And before I got too wrapped up in the book and the history, I had to remind myself that Kyle had been known to flirt with the truth in more than just his love life. He could flatter and cajole and twist the truth if it meant making an extra buck in bookselling, as well. I wanted more information before I would agree to work on the book.

  “So who’s ‘they’?” I asked finally.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “My guess would be Queen Charlotte, George’s wife. History has it that she watched those princesses like a mother hen.”

  “So God forbid one of her darlings might bring home a scruffy Scottish lad who called himself a poet.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And this book…”

  “Could blow the lid open.”

  I sighed. “And you figured I’m always up for bringing shame and embarrassment to the British royal family.”

  “It’s what makes you my favorite girl.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “Look, Kyle, I don’t know squat about Robert Burns or the history of that era. I can help you authenticate the book itself, verify that it’s a genuine Cathcart, maybe even find a way to validate the inscription. But you’re on your own as far as the content goes.”

  “I thought as much.” He downed the last of his pint, took the book from me and studied it. “I just wanted you to be aware of what you’re getting yourself into if you agree to help me with this project.”

  I rubbed my forehead, trying to brush away the fuzzies from my brain. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugged. “There may be some people who would rather the book weren’t authenticated.”

  I leaned back to look at him more carefully. “You’re saying they wouldn’t want the specific mythology of the book to be known.”