Highland Laddie Gone

“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