Highland Laddie Gone

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?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“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 oregano, 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.”

“Apparenuy 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.