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.”
“She sounds much more Scottish than you do,” Elizabeth remarked. “Such a wonderful accent.”
“Oh, toffee-noses talk like the Beeb,” said Heather.