“And success to the Scottish Republican Army!” cried the man in the cowboy hat.
Or could they?
Lachlan Forsyth appeared in the doorway, his genial smile fading a bit when he noticed Geoffrey among the kilted conspirators. “Evening, lads,” he said softly.
“Hello,” said Geoffrey quickly. “I think you’ve done a splendid job with the recruits here.”
Lachlan looked at him speculatively. “Oh, aye?”
“Even so, I haven’t disclosed any of the military strategy. I feel that the fewer people who know, the better, don’t you?”
Lachlan nodded. “Perhaps we might have a wee talk later,” he murmured, easing into a chair.
“Oh, absolutely. How about a drink? A little Scotch, perhaps?” Geoffrey was particularly good at parties.
The Hill-Sing bonfire had burned low, and many of the festival participants had picked up their blankets and straggled off toward the campgrounds. Elizabeth, who did not want the evening to end, was giving her best imitation of someone who was still awake.
She sighed. “I love Scottish folk music.”
Since the last song had been “Home on the Range,” Cameron was at a loss for a reply. “It’s after midnight,” he said softly. “Do you think your cousin will be worried about you?”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “But having them drag the river for my body would be his idea of a joke. Perhaps we’d better get back.”
“The stars are very nice up here,” Cameron remarked as they walked along the trail. “You can see a lot more of them here than you can in Edinburgh.”
Elizabeth stifled a yawn. “I’d rather see them in Edinburgh.”
“Just don’t expect it to be anything like this,” Cameron warned her. “Over there, if you see someone walking down Princes Street in a full kilt, it’s bound to be an American.”
“So, what is a Scot?” mused Elizabeth sleepily. “Someone with a pedigree back to the Duke of Some body or someone who knows all the dances and songs and customs? Or somebody like you, who doesn’t know any of it, but who has a passport to prove he’s Scottish?” She looked up at him for an answer and promptly tripped over a rock.
“I don’t know,” said Cameron, catching her. “But people who get philosophical at one in the morning while stumbling over rocks are always assumed to be Irish.”
“Close enough,” murmured Elizabeth, suiting her actions to the words; and Cameron had one brief flash of anxiety before he discovered that, despite their other cultural aberrations, Americans were perfectly sound in the matter of kissing.
Some time later, they reached the porch of Elizabeth’s cabin; all was dark. “Good night,” said Cameron, kissing the Maid of the Cat. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Be thankful I remembered where the rock was.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” laughed Cameron as he started down the steps. “I’d better-good God!”
“What’s wrong, Cameron?”
“I haven’t seen the Carsons since four o’clock. I have no idea where I’m going.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “You can stay here,” she said in a small voice.
Cameron hesitated. “Well, I suppose I could, if you wouldn’t mind. Is there a couch or something?” he asked, following her in.
Quite amazingly dim, thought Elizabeth. I wonder, do unicorns follow him at a respectful distance?
Cameron flipped on the light. “No couch. Ah, is that Geoffrey’s room? Perhaps he wouldn’t mind?” Before Elizabeth could phrase her opinion that Cameron would be safer with her, he had tried the bedroom door and found it locked. “Should we try to wake him?”
Elizabeth picked up an empty Drambuie bottle from under the chair. “Not a hope,” she said cheerfully.
“Oh! Well, there’s always the floor. Do you have an extra blanket?”
“I don’t take up much room,” said Elizabeth softly, pointing to the double bed.
Steady on, Cameron told himself. This country was getting more interesting by the minute. “Right,” he said 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.