Red Clover Inn

“She’s my second cousin, actually. Our grandfathers were brothers.”

“Both gone now?”

Charlotte nodded. “They died within eighteen months of each other, my grandfather Max first, then Harry. They were both predeceased by their wives. Harry was an explorer and adventurer. Max—well, Max wasn’t an explorer and adventurer. He managed Harry’s expeditions and such.”

“Younger brother?”

“By two years. They both lived into their nineties. They would be at the wedding if they were alive.” Charlotte picked up her wineglass, taking the opportunity to lower her gaze subtly to Greg’s middle. She still couldn’t see any evidence of a weapon. “The Bennetts will be well represented tomorrow.”

Greg leaned toward her. “I don’t mind you staring at me, but you can throttle back on the suspicions. I’m not going to shoot anyone and I’m not drunk.”

“The last words of countless drunks as they pass out under the table.”

He grinned, not the reaction she’d expected to her frank comment. “I knew I did right sitting next to you,” he said. “I saw you come in and decided you’re the prettiest, most uptight person here and needed cheering up.”

It was distraction she’d needed, not cheering up. “I only just arrived from Edinburgh.”

“Any idea why it’s pronounced Edinboro? Why isn’t burgh pronounced like it is in Pittsburgh?” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead grabbing his glass and polishing off his last sip of beer. He made a face. “I let it get warm. That’s bad. I’m off my game. Where do you suppose my fresh pint is?”

“Still in the tap, I hope,” Charlotte said.

“Going to tell me why you’re so uptight? Did you run into trouble getting here from Edinburgh?”

“No trouble. It was a long train ride.” She’d constantly fought the urge to jump off her train and return to Edinburgh. But she hadn’t, and now she was here, going tit-for-tat with Greg Rawlings. “I’m relaxing with a glass of wine and going to bed early.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know how that’s your business.”

He shrugged. “It’s not. Just making friendly conversation. I’m staying here at the pub. My room’s right up the stairs. Brody and Heather—that’s his wife—are staying at the wedding hotel. She’s in the wedding party tomorrow. But you know that, right?”

Wedding party. Charlotte inhaled, pushing back a surge of panic. “I haven’t met Heather, but yes, I know who she is, and that she’s one of Samantha’s bridesmaids.”

“You’re not in the wedding yourself, are you?”

She didn’t answer at once. She scanned the private-function room but didn’t see anyone she knew. The party was winding down now, only a handful of guests at the dozen tables and standing around with drinks. Samantha had assured her it would be a simple, informal gathering of friends and family who’d arrived for the destination wedding from New England, Florida, Scotland and London. There was no actual rehearsal. It wasn’t critical that Charlotte arrive early, or at all, provided she was on time for the wedding preparations and service tomorrow. She’d texted Samantha from the Oxford train station to let her know she’d arrived. She’d sensed her cousin’s relief. Charlotte understood. She didn’t have a good track record when it came to weddings.

Samantha had already gone back to the wedding hotel for an early night by the time Charlotte had arrived at the party. She shifted back to the man next to her at her table. “I’m Samantha’s maid of honor,” she said, hoping she sounded relaxed, matter-of-fact.

“There you go. Being in the wedding explains why you’re so uptight.”

“Actually, no, it doesn’t, because I’m not uptight.”

“Nervous? Being in front of a crowd can make people nervous.”

“I’m not nervous or uptight. But never mind.”

He eyed her as if he was debating asking a follow-up question. “Samantha’s a pirate expert and treasure hunter,” he said instead. “I’m going to guess that you’re not.”

“Marine archaeologists are sometimes involved in exploring sunken pirate ships, but you are right, I’m not.” She used a tone that she hoped signaled she didn’t want to answer more questions about herself. “I’ll go find your friend.”

“Don’t bother. I see him. He’s chatting up one of the groom’s brothers. Am I starting to annoy you, Charlotte?”

“Let’s say initially I felt somewhat protective of you but now I don’t.”

“Protective of me?” Another wide, amused grin. “I like that.”

“Protective only in the sense that I don’t want you to do anything to get yourself in trouble with your superiors or to cause trouble for anyone else, especially Samantha, since it’s her wedding tomorrow.”

“And you? Are you being protective of yourself? You don’t want me to cause trouble for you, right?” He leaned back on the bench. “Or do you?”

“I assure you, Agent Rawlings, I can handle whatever trouble you have in mind for me.”

He gave her a slow, easy, impossibly sexy grin. “I’ll bet you can.”

“I walked into that one, didn’t I?”

“No comment.” He blinked, plainly having difficulty keeping his eyes open. “So. You haven’t told me to shove off, because you’re protecting me and your cousin but not yourself. Got it.”

Charlotte didn’t quibble. Greg Rawlings was muscular and broad-shouldered but he wasn’t what she would call handsome. Instead he had a magnetic, arresting appeal that worked well with her need for a distraction and probably was a factor in her not sending him on his way.

“You are pretty, you know,” he said, catching her off guard. “Your brown eyes remind me of a golden retriever I had as a kid.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did I just say you have eyes like a dog? Damn, I did. He was a great dog, if that helps.”

“I love dogs,” Charlotte said, keeping her tone neutral.

“Me, too. And you do have pretty eyes.”

“Do you always dig holes this deep with people you’ve just met?”

“Usually deeper.”

She didn’t doubt him.

“And you?” he asked.

“I’ve dug a hole with you?” She smiled. “Ah, well.”

He laughed, looking less exhausted—and not at all drunk. “Fortunately, my job requires me to keep my mouth shut most of the time. Do you work with Samantha’s parents? Aren’t they exploring sunken U-boats off the coast of Scotland?”

“They were. That project ended recently. I did work with them, yes, on a contract basis.”

“Are you a diver?”

Charlotte hesitated only a fraction of a second. She doubted most people would have noticed her hesitation, but she could tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes that Greg Rawlings did. “I’m with the Institute of Maritime Archaeology based in Edinburgh,” she said, crisp, professional. “Diving is an important part of what I do.”