Highland Laddie Gone

over there on the table.”

Often people would recognize his burr and want to know where he was from, in which case a glance at their tartan was always helpful. He told the MacDonalds that he was from Kintyre, while the Campbells were led to believe that he hailed from Argyll; no one ever knew the difference.

Occasionally a well-traveled soul would try to chat him up about various places in Scotland, but Lachlan, well- traveled himself, could field questions indefinitely. He could always recommend a pub or a bed-and-breakfast anywhere between Orkney and the Borders. He could, with equal ease, recite Burns, tell instantly which tartan went with which surname, and settle arguments about the minutiae of Scottish history. It was all part of his job as a professional Scot. The least agreeable part of this lucrative business was having to suffer fools gladly; but he always managed with a straight face to find a tartan for an Olaffson (MacDonald of the Isles: Viking intermarriage), dredge up a family ghost for any family at all, and listen sympathetically to one more “direct descendant of Flora MacDonald and Bonnie Price Charlie.”

Lachlan began to dust off his Highland games coffee mugs and straighten his tartan scarfs and ties. The new blue and beige ones should go like hotcakes-the Princess Diana tartan, that was. And the Royal Stewart was always a big seller. Never mind that none of the purchasers had the least right in the world to wear the colors of the royal family. It was pretty, easy to find, and usually cheaper than special-ordering the tartan of a lesser-known clan, so it always did well at Scottish gatherings. Lachlan always laid in a generous supply before the festival, and he had never failed to sell out. Between the ignorant and the deluded “descendants” of the Prince, business was always brisk.

“Excuse me,” said a woman at his elbow, “could you tell me what tartan my family should wear? We’re kin to Mary, Queen of Scots, on my mother’s side.”

Lachlan Forsyth smiled. Let the games begin.

CHAPTER THREE

THE Western Virginia Scottish Festival was held each year on privately owned Glencoe Mountain, a high- altitude tourist attraction a few miles outside the tiny community of Meadow Creek. For most of the year, Glencoe offered (for a modest admission fee) nature trails, camping facilities, hang-gliding exhibitions, and a habitat zoo; but on Labor Day weekend, the mountain was packed with kilted visitors, and the overflow was lodged in motels from Blacksburg to Pulaski. The mountain’s owner, Margaret Duff-Hamilton (of Hamilton textile mills), presided over the event as honorary games chairman, and welcomed all the clan chiefs at a sherry party in her summer home. Out of earshot, in the campground, lesser folk had tailgate picnics to the accompaniment of pipe-band practice.

“We’re not staying here, are we?” asked Geoffrey, recoiling from the sound of an untuned bagpipe. “I would have nightmares of moose in labor.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Elizabeth assured him. “We’re staying in one of those tourist cabins on the creek. The clan reserves one every year for the Maid of the Cat.”

“If you have to clean up after him, you will earn the title,” said Geoffrey, frowning at Cluny. “What do we do now?”

Elizabeth stopped the car beside a whitewashed cabin with a tartan ribbon tied around a porch railing. “Chattan colors. We’re in here,” she announced. “Let’s take in our suitcases, and then go to the meadow and register. We’ll get a schedule of events, then decide.”

“Is he coming?”

“Cluny?” Elizabeth smiled. “He’s the guest of honor!”

The tourist cabin was sparsely furnished but clean, and its pine beds and dressers smelled of lemon oil. Geoffrey wandered over to the picture above the table and began to study it with interest. In it a kilted young man was bending over the hand of a pretty woman in green.

“Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” said Geoffrey cheerfully. “I’d always thought of Lady Macbeth as older somehow.”

Elizabeth set down the ice chest beside the small refrigerator. “Let me see that.”

“I wonder if it’s unlucky to have Macbeth pictures in your room? Of course, I just quoted from it, so we’re doomed anyhow.”

“Except for your theatre superstitions, you are practically illiterate,” Elizabeth informed him. “That woman is in an eighteenth-century costume. How could it be from Macbeth?” “David Garrick production, I expect.”

“That,” said Elizabeth, tapping the painting with her forefinger, “is a print of a Joy painting of Bonnie Prince Charlie bidding farewell to Flora MacDonald.”

“Who is…?”

“After Culloden, the British were searching the Highlands for Bonnie Prince Charlie, so he hid out on the Isle of Skye. Flora MacDonald helped him to escape from Scotland by disguising him as her maid and smuggling him across the inlet in a rowboat.”

“I suppose that involved putting him in a longer skirt,” murmured Geoffrey. “He seems to be back in full kilt for the farewell scene, though. Say, are you sure this is supposed to be the prince?”

“Of course I’m sure. Why?”

Geoffrey pressed his tie against the kilted figure in the painting. “Because he’s not wearing the Royal Stewart tartan!”

Elizabeth sighed. “Clans have more than one plaid, Geoffrey. There are patterns for dress, for hunting, for-Well, never mind. I don’t have time to explain it to you because I have to change into my kilt. Which bedroom do you want?”

“Whichever one he doesn’t sleep in.”

“I thought I’d put him in the bathroom.”

“Not unless you brought a bedpan.”

“All right, I’ll keep him in the room with me. He’ll be good protection.”

“Protection from whom? If you’re referring to me, cousin dear, the dust bunnies under the bed are all the protection you need. More than enough.”

Elizabeth smiled sweetly. “I know.”

The Highland festival was held in a large meadow several hundred feet below the peak of Glencoe Mountain. Already the well-mowed field was ringed with open tents, each bearing the standard of a different clan. Early arrivals were strolling about, visiting the hosts at the various tents and studying clan displays. Others gathered around the wooden dance platforms to watch the costumed dancers practice, or inspected the wares at the souvenir stalls. By far the largest crowd had collected around the refreshment tent, a testimony to the effect of ninety-two degree weather on persons in wool outfits.

“How do you stand it?” asked Geoffrey, fanning himself with his program. “You look like a stewed sheep.”

Elizabeth dabbed at her forehead. “Well, perhaps this velvet jacket is a bit much, but since I’ve got Cluny, I think I ought to be in full dress.” She straightened the lace jabot at her throat. “Thank goodness I have an extra blouse. Isn’t this a pretty kilt?” She twirled to show off the red and blue plaid of Clan MacPherson.

“That’s right,” said Geoffrey. “Shake and bake. I’m going to the refreshment tent. Want anything?”

“Not now. It would only give me more to sweat. I’m going to check in at the Chattan headquarters, and then I’ll see if Marge and her dogs have arrived.”

“I’ll find you.” Geoffrey nodded toward the bobcat. “You’ll be easy to spot.”

Elizabeth started off in the direction of the clan displays. Cluny, who was by now used to Highland festivals, put up only a token resistance when his leash was tugged. He could behave perfectly if he chose to, but he always made it clear that his cooperation could not be taken for granted. His yellow eyes flickered around the meadow, sighting nothing of interest, just the black-and-white shapes of noisy primates which matched the sweaty man- smells he’d been getting all afternoon. Cluny yawned.

“Isn’t this exciting, kitty?” Elizabeth was saying. “All these beautiful colors! Let’s go to the Chattan booth and see who’s on duty now.”