Highland Laddie Gone (8 page)

Marge smiled. “Colin, you old liar! I’ll bet you haven’t even met her.”

“Well, who says I have to? When a man of Walter’s age makes a fool of himself over a skinny teenager—”

“Oh, Colin, stop blustering. I’ll bet you’ve been at it all day.”

“Pretty well.” He grinned.

“Get anyone’s goat?”

“Fair to middling. That Maid of the Cat accused me of being in drag.”

“Served you right, you old bully! I’ll bet you liked her for it, too.”

“No respect for her elders,” he grunted.

“That’s my friend Elizabeth MacPherson, so you leave her alone. And what have you been after Walter about? Not his marital status, surely.”

“No. He’s trying to convene some lynch mob against me at the hospital, so I threatened to hit him where it hurts: in the pocketbook!”

“You’re going to sue him?”

“Nah! Then the lawyers get all the fun. I’m going to see that he loses a bundle on that lakefront property he bought. Get it zoned against condos.”

“Colin, you really are incorrigible.” Marge shook her head. “How is Walter doing in his investments, anyway?”

“How do you think? You were the only one with a grain of sense about it. Clever of you to hand them over to him. I doubt if he’ll be able to afford his childbride at the rate he’s going.”

“Well, I expect she has money of her own, if it isn’t tied up in Scotland.”

“Scotland?”

“See!” cried Marge triumphantly. “I knew you hadn’t met her! Colin, you really should behave so that people would invite you places. You’d learn so much more that way.”

“Scotland, eh? What’s he done, found Flora MacDonald?”

“Better than that, from what I hear. Walter says she’s the niece of a Scottish nobleman.”

Colin Campbell grunted. “Some of those lords are poorer than schoolteachers.”

“That’s what I said.” Marge nodded. “But Elizabeth is sure Walter said he was a duke.”

Colin Campbell snorted. “The only duke Walter knows is the university in Durham. Lousy basketball team!”

“Oh, leave poor Walter alone.” Marge sighed. “What’s done is done. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to? You still have that ugly brute of a bulldog?”

They walked off together down one of the Glencoe Mountain nature trails, too far from the festival grounds for the participants to be startled by the sound of Colin Campbell—laughing.

   “A
DOCTORATE
in biology is not required to keep ducks in a cardboard box,” said Cameron between clenched teeth.

“No, but in order to drive a car, one must remember which side of the road to drive on,” said Geoffrey sweetly. “How are the ducks?”

“They’re huddled in the box, saying cheep, cheep, cheep.”

“They’re lying, then. They cost me six bucks apiece. The problem is, how are we going to smuggle them into the herding box?”

Cameron raised his eyebrows. “We? I’m supposed to meet Elizabeth soon.”

“That’s true. I do want to make sure she’s distracted. You can take her the cat, too.”

“How do I explain that?”

“Tell her the truth. Tell her you’re giving me advice about
Brigadoon.
Just don’t mention ducks. Is this our turnoff—at the church?”

“Yes!” called Cameron. “First Assembly of God.” He laughed. “I suppose they put the chrome and wheels on elsewhere.”

Geoffrey nodded approvingly. “Elizabeth’s taste in men is improving.”

Cameron, who had heard his share of Southern feud stories and been warned about America’s tendency toward firearms, said uneasily, “Of course, my … um … intentions toward her are strictly honorable.”

Geoffrey hooted. “You’re on your own, then. I’m not vouching for Elizabeth.”

Lachlan Forsyth was straightening his rack of books on Scodand. No one ever put things back where they found them; but then the stall was so crowded, maybe they couldn’t reach the same spot twice. Jimmy’s parents had come and collected him for a dinner break, with wistful references to another party they’d been asked to, so Lachlan had offered to have the boy back through the Hill-Sing. He was a bright enough lad, and more help than trouble. Lachlan was that glad of the company, he might knock a bit off the hundred-per-cent profit he’d be making on the
skian dubh.

A beefy man in an old-style wrap kilt rested his leather shield on the scarf display. Lachlan, thinking he looked familiar, edged closer.

“Stands Scotland where it did?”
whispered the man.

“Alas, poor country!”
said Lachlan solemnly.
“Almost afraid to know itself!”
“Right,” said the bearded man with a sigh of relief. “I’m a Wylie of Clan Gunn. Are we having a meeting here at the games?”

“We’ll risk it, laddie. And there’ll be a sign.”

“Good. Listen, how’s it going? I keep scanning
Newsweek
for car-bombings in Edinburgh, but so far nothing’s happening.”

“Which is as it should be,” Lachlan assured him. “Do
you want a lot of commotion in the country like they have in Ireland, tipping the world off to what we’re planning? There’s nae strategy in that, is there? We’re stockpiling our weapons and waiting to do it all in one fell swoop.”

Wylie frowned. “How do you know the ordinary people will go along with it?”

“Ah, do you remember a few years ago when the Stone of Scone was stolen from Westminster Abbey?”

“Scone … That’s the thing you need at the coronation in order to be King of Scotland.” Lachlan nodded. “But they got it back.”

“Laddie, they
think
they got it back.”

Wylie of Gunn gasped. “So the Cause has the means to crown a Scottish king. Where is it? The Stone, I mean.”

Lachlan Forsyth hesitated. “At Tarbert,” he whispered. He was always afraid that sooner or later someone would point out that there were four places on the map of Scotland labeled Tarbert, but so far no one had caught on.

Wylie frowned. “I’ve been thinking about this earldom business, Mr. Forsyth. You know—getting a castle and all for helping to sponsor the revolution. And it seems to me that it would cost a pretty fair bit of money to keep up one of them things, wouldn’t it?”

Lachlan played his trump card. “Why, laddie, when we pull out of Great Britain and set up the republic—who do you think will get the North Sea oil rights?”

His co-conspirator grinned. “Outstanding! One last thing, though. You’re not letting any of these Campbells into this, are you?”

“What do you think?” said Lachlan slyly.

“Good. I reckon when we take over, we can pay them
back for the Glencoe Massacre, and Culloden, and all the rest of it.”

“Spot on!” murmured Lachlan. God, these Americans are a bloodthirsty lot, he thought as the man sauntered away. One of them had even offered him some back issues of
Mercenary Times
so that he could order grenade launchers. At moments like these, Lachlan found it easy to convince himself that he was a hero for taking people’s money. At least he saw that they did nae harm with it. “Wise men buy and sell, and fools are bought and sold,” he said aloud. It was his favorite line from Walter Scott.

Elizabeth, wearing a white sundress and sandals, looked considerably cooler and more self-possessed than she had before, but Cameron was too tired to care. He handed over Cluny’s leash, saying that he had run into Geoffrey and volunteered to take Cluny off his hands.

“Where is Geoffrey?” asked Elizabeth, looking around.

“Oh … he went off with some friends,” said Cameron vaguely. “He’ll catch up with us later, I expect.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Okay. Well, would you like to go to the Hutchesons’ party? His new wife is Scottish, so I thought you might like to meet her.”

“That might prove interesting,” said Cameron politely. And if she’s normal, he thought, then I can rule out the water-supply theory and assume that American insanity is genetic.

“Do you know that man over there?” asked Elizabeth. “The one in the red kilt with the leather shield. He seems to be staring at you.”

“I can’t think why,” murmured Cameron. “There are certainly enough oddities in this place without him—”

“Shhh! Here he comes!”

The husky warrior nodded to Elizabeth and, drawing close to Cameron, he hissed, “Couldn’t help noticing your accent as I went by, friend.”

Cameron winced. The man had a voice like an untuned banjo. “Oh, yes?” he murmured, edging away.

The stranger fixed him with a piercing stare. “Tell me,” he said hoarsely.
“Stands Scotland where it did?”
Another loony. And this one was wearing a sword the size of a horse’s leg. Cameron giggled nervously.

“Stands Scotland where it did!”
the man repeated in menacing tones.

“Ye—ees,” stammered Cameron. “Fifty-eight degrees north latitude, more or less. Go to Newcastle and turn left—”

“You’d better learn the right answer, buddy,” the stranger drawled. “It could save your life someday.”

Elizabeth watched him stalk off, the claymore swinging at his side. “What was that all about?” she whispered.

“I think it was a geography quiz,” said Cameron wonderingly.

Geoffrey took a roundabout way to the herding-practice meadow, reasoning that a quacking cardboard box might be hard to explain to the festival folks. There was no one in sight. With a last furtive glance toward the field path, Geoffrey scurried down the hill and set his container next to the wooden herding box.

“Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
” he muttered, scooping out bones and feathers. After a quick wipe with his only cotton handkerchief, he shoved the replacement ducks into
their new quarters and scooped the evidence of their predecessors into his cardboard box.

Voices—from the woodland nature trail. Geoffrey froze.

They would be rounding the bend at any moment. Too late to run. Geoffrey stashed the cardboard box behind the stack of boards and stood up.

“It still doesn’t sound quite right,” Colin Campbell was saying. “I think I’ll check on it.”

“Please yourself. I—here!” Marge thundered. “What are you doing by the herding props?”

“I thought I heard a noise,” said Geoffrey, brushing dried grass from his pants leg. “A rat after the duck food, perhaps.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Marge. “Aren’t any rats out here. Now run along.”

Geoffrey strolled away in the direction of the festival. He hoped that she wouldn’t be around when someone finally opened the cardboard box.

Elizabeth stole a glance at Cameron. So much for the myth that Scots were short and stocky. I could have worn my heels, she thought wistfully.

“So many tartans!” Cameron was saying. “Wars must have been confusing in the old days. Can you see a guy charging at someone on the battlefield, and he’s thumbing through a wee book, saying, ‘Blue plaid, one vertical white stripe and two green ones. Ah … here it is. He’s an enemy. Aiiii!’ ”

Elizabeth laughed. “Silly! How did they really do it?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. Never did much history. But if you want to know anything at all about seals—”

“No thanks. Not even to hear you trill your r’s. Anyway, we’re here. There’s the MacDonald banner.”

“Ummm. Must be half the bloody clan on the lawn, too. Now, who are these people again?”

“The Hutchesons. My friend Marge is our host’s ex-wife. And he wants you to meet his present wife, who’s from Scotland. Does that make sense?”

Cameron sighed. “It does today.”

They threaded their way through the crowd to a redwood picnic table laden with bottles and plastic cups. Behind it Walter Hutcheson was acting as impromptu bartender. He was still wearing his kilt, belted half plaid, and wool Prince Charlie coatee. The MacDonald clan badge on his Balmoral flashed in the lamplight. He eyed Cameron’s less formal attire with a superior smile, and Cameron grinned back.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said pleasantly. “You’re old enough to drink, aren’t you? … And you must be our visiting Scot. What can I get for you?”

“Straight Scotch—-no ice,” said Cameron.

The camper door opened, and a tiny blonde appeared, carrying a stack of napkins. She was easily the most elegant person there, in a long dress of white silk offset by a diamond pendant. “1 might as well be wearing a feed sack,” thought Elizabeth. The new wife looked very aristocratic indeed.

“Heather, dear, I’ve found you another Scot!” said Walter, helping her down. “Now don’t you bother with her title, young man. You’re in a democratic country now. My wife, Heather Hutcheson, this is …” Dr. Hutcheson’s voice trailed away. He was staring beyond them into
the crowd. “Well … good land. What’s he doing here? Excuse me.”

He edged through the throng and disappeared. After a few moments of awkward silence, Cameron introduced himself and Elizabeth.

“Batair didn’t tell me there was another Scot about,” said Heather, frowning. “Where’s your home?”

“Edinburgh.”

She smiled. “Aren’t Americans funny? They think just because we come from the same effing country, it ought to be straight in, cup o’tea, feet under the table—Ke-rist, what’s that?”

“He’s the Chattan mascot,” said Cameron, pointing to Cluny just as the bobcat rubbed his back against Heather’s legs.

“Eeee!” she cried. “What did you want to bring a sodding
animal
for? This party is dead posh! … Ooo, what a ming! Is it the cat or your bird there?”

Cameron’s jaw tightened. Elizabeth looked around for the bird. “So you have a title,” he said smoothly. “You know, I’ll bet you come from a dear green place in the west.”

Heather smiled. “And you’re Clan Sloane, of course.”

“Did you two go to school together?” asked Elizabeth, to whom the conversation made very little sense.

“I went to Fettes,” said Cameron. “How about you?”

“Park.”

“Oh. Bellahouston?”

Elizabeth, who was still lost, smiled and tried to look intelligent, despite no one’s paying her any mind. “Is Bella-what’s-it a college?”

“Been here long?” asked Heather, ignoring her.

“No. Just arrived.”

“Fast work. Shagged the scrubber yet, Jimmy?”

Elizabeth seized on a familiar word. “Jimmy? Is that your nickname, Cameron?”

“Sometimes,” said Cameron softly. “And her ladyship’s nickname is Senga.”