Highland Laddie Gone (10 page)

“I found another one of the higher-ups,” said the stocky man, pointing to Geoffrey. “He’s an American, too. Don’t it beat all? I ran across a real Scotsman at the clan tents today, and he didn’t know jackshit about any of this.”

“No, you mustn’t mention this to him,” said Geoffrey quickly. “He’s M15—British secret service.” He was most gratified by his audience’s startled gasps. This is like improvisational drama, Geoffrey thought cheerfully. I wonder what I’ll say next.

“Should we get him out of the way?” asked one of the men in carefully neutral tones.

Whoops—dangerous ad-libbing, thought Geoffrey. I don’t want to get Cameron mugged by this bunch of … whatever they are. “Absolutely not,” he said solemnly. “That would attract too much attention. It’s
best to ignore him. Do you suppose I could have a drink?”

“Well … we usually wait for the boss, but seeing as how you’re obviously somebody important …” He indicated Geoffrey’s Royal Stewart necktie.

One of the men got out plastic cups and a bottle of Drambuie, while another set a small bowl of water in the center of the table. When the cups had been filled, the men held them above the water bowl. A little nervously, Geoffrey followed suit.

“To the king over the water!” they intoned.

Geoffrey, who had spent the last few moments contemplating his necktie and reading the back of the Drambuie bottle, had begun to make sense of things. Charles Stuart again, he thought, noting that the Bonnie Prince was credited with the original recipe of the liqueur. A man of many talents, Geoffrey decided: bootlegger, female impersonator—it seemed churlish to quibble about his generalship. Besides, he had been dead for nearly two centuries; but not, apparently, resting in peace. Surely these clowns couldn’t be contemplating the overthrow of the British government.

“And success to the Scottish Republican Army!” cried the man in the cowboy hat.

Or could they?

Lachlan Forsyth appeared in the doorway, his genial smile fading a bit when he noticed Geoffrey among the kilted conspirators. “Evening, lads,” he said softly.

“Hello,” said Geoffrey quickly. “I think you’ve done a splendid job with the recruits here.”

Lachlan looked at him speculatively. “Oh, aye?”

“Even so, I haven’t disclosed any of the military strategy. I feel that the fewer people who know, the better, don’t you?”

Lachlan nodded. “Perhaps we might have a wee talk later,” he murmured, easing into a chair.

“Oh, absolutely. How about a drink? A little Scotch, perhaps?” Geoffrey was particularly good at parties.

The Hill-Sing bonfire had burned low, and many of the festival participants had picked up their blankets and straggled off toward the campgrounds. Elizabeth, who did not want the evening to end, was giving her best imitation of someone who was still awake.

She sighed. “I love Scottish folk music.”

Since the last song had been “Home on the Range,” Cameron was at a loss for a reply. “It’s after midnight,” he said softly. “Do you think your cousin will be worried about you?”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “But having them drag the river for my body would be his idea of a joke. Perhaps we’d better get back.”

“The stars are very nice up here,” Cameron remarked as they walked along the trail. “You can see a lot more of them here than you can in Edinburgh.”

Elizabeth stifled a yawn. “I’d rather see them in Edinburgh.”

“Just don’t expect it to be anything like this,” Cameron warned her. “Over there, if you see someone walking down Princes Street in a full kilt, it’s bound to be an American.”

“So, what is a Scot?” mused Elizabeth sleepily. “Someone with a pedigree back to the Duke of Some
body or someone who knows all the dances and songs and customs? Or somebody like you, who doesn’t know any of it, but who has a passport to prove he’s Scottish?” She looked up at him for an answer and promptly tripped over a rock.

“I don’t know,” said Cameron, catching her. “But people who get philosophical at one in the morning while stumbling over rocks are always assumed to be Irish.”

“Close enough,” murmured Elizabeth, suiting her actions to the words; and Cameron had one brief flash of anxiety before he discovered that, despite their other cultural aberrations, Americans were perfectly sound in the matter of kissing.

Some time later, they reached the porch of Elizabeth’s cabin; all was dark. “Good night,” said Cameron, kissing the Maid of the Cat. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Be thankful I remembered where the rock was.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” laughed Cameron as he started down the steps. “I’d better—good God!”

“What’s wrong, Cameron?”

“I haven’t seen the Carsons since four o’clock. I have no idea where I’m going.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “You can stay here,” she said in a small voice.

Cameron hesitated. “Well, I suppose I could, if you wouldn’t mind. Is there a couch or something?” he asked, following her in.

Quite amazingly dim, thought Elizabeth. I wonder, do unicorns follow him at a respectful distance?

Cameron flipped on the light. “No couch. Ah, is that Geoffrey’s room? Perhaps he wouldn’t mind?” Before Elizabeth could phrase her opinion that Cameron would be safer with her, he had tried the bedroom door and found it locked. “Should we try to wake him?”

Elizabeth picked up an empty Drambuie bottle from under the chair. “Not a hope,” she said cheerfully.

“Oh! Well, there’s always the floor. Do you have an extra blanket?”

“I don’t take up much room,” said Elizabeth softly, pointing to the double bed.

Steady on, Cameron told himself. This country was getting more interesting by the minute. “Right,” he said aloud. “Is that the bathroom? I’m going to take a shower, Be right back.”

“I think there are towels in there,” Elizabeth said.

I’ll probably be shaking too hard to need one, Cameron thought, closing the door behind him. Twenty minutes later he emerged from the bathroom wearing his khaki shorts (discretion being the better part of valor) to find the bedroom dark. The light from the bathroom illuminated the bed, though, so that he could see Elizabeth snuggled against her pillow, still dressed, sound asleep. On the other side of the bed sprawled Cluny the bobcat, watching Cameron with unblinking yellow eyes. Cameron didn’t feel like making its day: he was too tired. He picked up the small tartan blanket they’d used at the Hill-Sing, flipped out the bathroom light, and curled up in the armchair beside the dresser. Considering how the day had gone, he didn’t know why he’d expected anything else. Selkies, sea serpents, loonies asking where Scot
land stood. This wasn’t a country, it was a bloody roller-coaster.

From the darkness a drowsy voice said, “Are you going to stay in that damned chair all night?”

   
“O where and o where is your Highland laddie gone?”

Elizabeth opened her eyes. There it was again. “The Bluebells of Scotland” being sung by … Geoffrey? She squinted at the sunlight streaming through the window. Impossible. Geoffrey would never sing a Scottish folk song; tunes from
Threepenny Opera
were more his style. And where was Cameron? She looked around. Cluny was curled on a blanket in the armchair, still asleep; of Cameron there was no sign.

“ … is your Highland laddie gone …”

Elizabeth, now wide awake, finally got the message. Scrunching down under the covers, she called out, “Yes, Geoffrey! My Highland laddie is gone! You can come out now!”

A blue-robed form sped past and slammed the bathroom door. “And don’t use all the hot water!” Elizabeth called after him.

Some time later, Elizabeth, in a strapless yellow sundress, was towel-drying her hair while Geoffrey made coffee in the electric percolator.

“How was your evening, cousin?” he asked pleasantly.

Elizabeth looked up suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“Just making conversation, dear. I am a notoriously sound sleeper, you know. Nothing disturbs me.”

“Then what prompted you to ask if my Highland laddie were gone?” she demanded. “You were asleep when we got back.”

“Call of nature about four
A.M.
,” Geoffrey murmured. “Do you want any of this powdered stuff in your coffee?”

“Cameron forgot to find out where his hosts were staying,” said Elizabeth, blushing.

“I wish I had the sort of mooncalf manner that could pull off a line like that,” said Geoffrey wistfully. “People always seem to suspect me of ulterior motives, no matter how subtle I’ve been.”

“And I know how you spent your evening,” said Elizabeth, pointing to the empty bottle in the wastebasket. “Up to no good, as usual.”

“On the contrary,” Geoffrey retorted. “I was made the Earl of Strathclyde last night.”

As Walter Hutcheson turned the corner with sausage rolls and coffee balanced on a cardboard tray, he nearly collided with his wife. Heather was not looking particularly Scottish in her gold metallic Chinese sheath with the slit sides, but she thought that the sexiness of the outfit more than compensated; the stiletto heels gave her much-needed extra height and complemented her legs, as well.

“Up early, aren’t you?” she said.

“Thought I’d get us some breakfast. I was looking for Colin, too. He said something about wanting a committee meeting this morning.”

Heather scowled. “What a tiresome old bampot he is. You’re not going to go off all day, are you?”

“No. I just thought I might see him. Shall we go and sit down?”

Heather followed him to one of the picnic tables under the refreshment tent without noticeable enthusiasm. She made a face at the sausage rolls and reached for one of the coffees.

Walter glanced uneasily at his wife’s diamond earrings and pendant, then returned his gaze to his own cup. Was it Scott Fitzgerald who said “The rich are different from you and me”? So was the aristocracy, he thought with a heavy heart. He imagined people taking Heather’s costume at face value—and of course assuming that the diamonds were rhinestones, which they most certainly were not.

“That’s not very … ethnic,” he said gently.

Heather’s eyes widened. “Not
ethnic?
Chinese is about as bloody ethnic as it comes.”

“But, honey, you’re not Chinese.”

“Well, there’s not many Scots about up here, is there? But you don’t see it stopping them from wearing kilts.”

“That reminds me. One of the folks running a souvenir booth is a Scotsman, and he’d like very much to meet you.”

Heather frowned. “And why is that?”

“I believe I may have mentioned your family connections.”

“Oh, Batair, sod off.”

“He’s a nice old fellow. White hair and a beard, bit red in the face. Has hypertension, I wouldn’t doubt,” he said, lapsing into his professional manner. “I bought that tartan scarf from him, and he was most helpful.”

“I know who you mean. Perhaps I’ll stop and have a natter with him later.”

“That’s my girl.” Walter smiled. “Well, it’s nearly time for the sheepdog events. I think I’ll go over and take a look at them. Want to come?”

“I’ll join you in a bit,” said Heather. She had not forgotten that the principal exhibitor in the dog trials was Batair’s former wife.

Lachlan Forsyth smiled at the blushing young lady in the yellow sundress. “Now what would you be wanting to know a thing like that for? ‘I love you’ in Gaelic, is it? Fancy!”

“Oh … I was just interested,” murmured Elizabeth, turning a deeper shade of red. “Don’t you know how to say it?”

“Oh, aye. But it’ll no do you any good tae learn it.” Seeing her stricken look, he said gently, “I mean because of your young man, lassie. He’s from Edinburgh. He doesna know Gaelic from orégano, and doesn’t care to learn. If you really want to impress him, forget about that Celtic rubbish and learn to hold your fork in your left hand—so you don’t have to switch the cutlery round when you’re using the knife. Look out now, company’s coming.”

Elizabeth turned and saw Geoffrey and Cameron heading toward the stall. She wondered if she was still blushing.

“Ah,” said Geoffrey. “I see you’ve met my friend, the Thane of Cawdor, Elizabeth. And look who I found. He was at the refreshment tent, trying to order a hot dog with lettuce and tomato. Said he wanted to try American food.”

“Apparenüy I still need a guide,” said Cameron to
Elizabeth. “Are you still available?” Elizabeth nodded, with an expression best described as simpering.

“Run along now, children!” said Geoffrey briskly. “All this honey and pancake syrup is making Uncle Geoffie queasy.”

“Let’s go and see the sheepdog trials,” murmured Elizabeth.

“What are they charged with?” asked Cameron.

“Dog trials! Perhaps I’d better go with you,” said Geoffrey. “Got to run, Lachlan. Catch you later!”

“Don’t be too sure of that, lad,” muttered Lachlan when they were gone.

“Is everything okay?” asked James Stuart, at his elbow. “You been acting kind of funny today.”

“Oh, fine, lad!” said Lachlan absently. “How are you coming along with your sales percentage?”

“I’m about two-thirds of the way there,” said Jimmy.

“Well, what do you say I let you have it for that, then?”

“And I’d be through working then? I could go back to my parents?”

“That’s right.”

“No way,” said Jimmy, turning back to the rack of clan ties.

“A-weel …” Lachlan straightened up suddenly. “Jimmy, why don’t you slip round to the refreshment tent and get us a shandy, if they have any left?”

Jimmy took money and hurried off through the crowd, wondering vaguely if Lachlan’s ESP was troubling him again. He glanced back and saw the old man talking to a blonde in an oriental outfit. He would have given a lot to know what clan Lachlan would contrive for
that.

*  *  *

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Glencoe Mountain Highland Games herding competition …” Over the scratchy loudspeaker, it sounded like
hernia composition.
Three black and white border collies were crouched at the sidelines beside their respective owners waiting for the signal to begin. The announcer explained that because of space limitations and—he paused—other considerations (“Sheep shit,” said Geoffrey), the dogs would be herding ducks instead of sheep. “Our first contestant is a five-year-old border collie, Somerled of Skye Laird, owned and trained by Marjorie Carter Hutcheson. Somerled won the competition last year.”