"Hugh," Ambrose said sternly, realizing they had been speaking about far different things, "what have you been doing? Other than dressing yourself as a mouse? I sense something else is afoot."
Hugh ducked his head, looking very guilty. "He is my grandson, after all," he muttered.
"Hugh..."
"Several times removed, of course."
"Hugh!" Ambrose exclaimed.
"And a fine, braw lad he is. Strong, clever—"
"You were to leave him be!"
"I didn't say anything to him," Hugh said defensively.
"Did he see you?" Ambrose demanded.
Hugh suddenly seemed to find the footwear he was sporting enormously interesting, for he studied it with great intensity. And remained silent.
"A disaster," Fulbert said grimly. "I could have told you that before we even started."
Ambrose was tempted to agree, but he was, after all, a MacLeod, and MacLeods did not give in so easily. It made no difference what Hugh had done, for Ambrose greatly suspected that young Thomas would chalk whatever he'd seen up to a sour stomach. He would never believe he'd seen anything resembling a ghost.
Which left them in something of a quandary concerning Thomas's future bride, but that was something to be solved later.
Ambrose cleared his throat purposefully. "What's done is done," he said.
Fulbert shook his head with a grumble. "This feels all too familiar for some reason."
"As you both know," Ambrose said, ignoring the dissention in the ranks, "we've a grand work set here before us."
Fulbert took a long pull from his mug and refrained from comment.
"Assuming," Ambrose said, casting a stern glance Hugh's way, "that things haven't been befouled already."
Hugh gulped and looked horrendously guilty. Ambrose could only hope that his cousin hadn't done irreparable damage to the scheme. Then again, if Thomas's own father hadn't been able to convince him to remain in the Colonies,
Ambrose was quite certain no chance sighting of Hugh would do the like.
Ambrose could only hope his cousin had been sporting a kilt and not his current costume.
He put that thought aside and turned his mind back to the task at hand.
"Thomas arrives on the morrow," he continued.
Fulbert yawned. "Just thinkin' on it is wearying."
"Then mayhap ye should think on somethin' else," Hugh growled.
Fulbert paused and glared at Hugh. "What is it you mean by that?"
" 'Tis Scots' business," Hugh said, sticking out his chin stubbornly. "Ye'll only set the plans awry."
"I'll not leave it all to you two," Fulbert said stiffly. He stood and cast his mug into the fire. "You'll have need of my good sense at some point. See if you don't."
And with that, he vanished.
Ambrose sighed. He looked at his cousin, the former laird of the clan McKinnon, and waited for his thoughts on the matter. Fulbert would no doubt return at the worst possible moment, but there was nothing to be done about it. They would simply have to press on as best they could.
"Herself up at the keep'll be passing furious," Hugh offered with a shudder. "No matter what we do."
"Very likely."
"Don't like it when she's passing furious."
"Then I suggest," Ambrose said, "that we keep ourselves busy here and let those who venture up to the castle do so at their own risk."
Hugh nodded heartily in agreement, downed the last of his ale, and vanished with all his newly acquired gear.
Ambrose sat back, crossed his feet at the ankles, and contemplated the next pair of days. Of course, he had no intention of remaining behind when there might be a show up the way, especially when Herself caught wind of what was up. Passing furious was likely a very mild approximation of the fury that would explode when his kinswoman learned she was going to have a permanent houseguest.
Or landlord, as the case might be.
Well, that would likely sort itself out in time as well. Ambrose finished his own ale and stood up. Rest was likely in his best interest. He would need all his wits about him if he was to be of any use to either Thomas or the lass up the way.
He extinguished the lights and left the kitchen.
Chapter 3
Thomas turned the car's ignition off, then very carefully leaned his head against the steering wheel. He should have listened to his sister. He would tell his father that the next time he talked to him. Megan gave good advice. At least when it came to advising those befuddled by jet lag and too much ego.
It had all started with a bumpy commuter flight to Kennedy, followed by an evening flight to London on which he'd chosen to travel coach. He'd come to several conclusions from that alone. A man who was six foot two had never been meant to sit in a seat in which his knees were actually partway into the seat in front of him. There was also something very unwholesome about having strangers sitting on either side of him fall asleep and use him as a pillow. No, the next time he would fly business class. At least that way he'd arrive at his destination without feeling crunched and drooled on.
He'd called Megan once the plane had landed bright and early five hours into another time zone. Megan told him to take the train to Thorpewold. She'd promised that her husband Gideon could find any number of people willing to pick up the car he'd bought in London and drive it north for him. But had he listened? Of course not. He'd taken a taxi to the car park and picked up his keys. He'd gotten into the car, buckled up, then reached for the steering wheel.
Only to discover it was on the other side of the car.
That should have been a sign.
His subsequent drive-on-the-left baptism-by-fire had come in morning rush-hour London traffic. Nine hours and numerous stops for map deciphering later, he'd thought he might have gotten the hang of things. Even despite his jet lag, he was managing to keep on the correct side of the road, and he'd only had a
