Highland Laddie Gone (6 page)

“Yes, they’re wonderful,” she murmured.

“You’ve heard whale songs, then?”

Elizabeth straightened up. “Whales? I was talking about
your
sound patterns.”

Cameron blushed. “That shouldn’t be a novelty here. What percentage of these people are from Scotland?”

“Just you, I imagine,” Elizabeth told him. “When the rest of us say we’re Scottish, we mean six generations back.”

“Hmmm.” Cameron studied the faces of the passersby. “Now
that’s
a Scottish face,” he announced. “Look at that old man in the souvenir stall. I’ll bet he’s the real thing.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Come on. Let’s go and find out. Maybe he has some Billy Connolly tapes.”

“Who’s Billy Connolly?”

Cameron considered it. Whom could you compare Billy Connolly to? Richard Pryor? Lenny Bruce? He grinned.

“He’s the Duke of Glasgow. Come on.”

*  *  *

Lachlan Forsyth, having finished his conference with Jerry Buchanan, returned to the stall to find Jimmy in conference with a man in full MacDonald regalia.

“How are you keeping, lad?” he asked pleasantly.

Jimmy froze, thinking for an instant that Lachlan’s ESP had told him about the extra twenty per cent he’d been pocketing; but he decided that it might just be a Scottish way of saying hello, so he answered carefully, “Just fine, sir. But this guy has a special request, and I don’t know what to do about him.”

“Och aye?” said Lachlan, turning his performance on the customer. “How can I help, Mr.… MacDonald, wouldn’t it be?”

“Hutcheson, actually.” The man shook Lachlan’s hand. “Dr. Walter Hutcheson. I was looking for a tartan for my wife.”

“Well, we have the MacDonald hunting, which is a nice green, or perhaps a dress plaid in the ancient colors?”

“No. I don’t need MacDonald. You see, my wife is from Scotland. She’s the niece of the Duke of Rothesay, and I’d like to find out what tartan she’d take and get her a scarf in it. I don’t know much about these things myself.”

Lachlan Forsyth looked thoughtful. “The Duke of Rothesay, eh? I’d like very much to meet her.”

Dr. Hutcheson smiled. “Heather’s back at the camper now. I’ll try to bring her by sometime, though. Do you have her plaid in stock?”

The old man produced a fringed scarf patterned in soft blues and beige. “Her ladyship would be entitled to wear this one,” he declared. “No one more so.”

“Oh, Heather doesn’t bother with all that title business,”
said her husband with a touch of pride. “She hates for me to tell people about it. Now that she’s in America, she says she wants to be plain old Mrs. Hutcheson. I’ll bring her by.”

“Right. Do that. Oh, look—here comes the MacPhersons’ Maid of the Cat. Wonder what she’s about. Here, doctor, my assistant can take care of the purchase for you. He needs the practice.” Lachlan waved to the couple approaching the stall. “Hello, Moggie!” he called to the bobcat. “Who are your friends here?”

“Hi!” said Elizabeth. “Do you have any tapes by the Duke of Glasgow?”

Lachlan Forsyth looked puzzled. “Dukes again! Tapes, d’ye say? By the Duke of Glasgow?”

Behind Elizabeth, Cameron mouthed, “Bil-ly Con-nol-ly.”

Lachlan grinned. “Oh, aye! Is it him you’re wanting? Lassie, I’m truly sorry. Not many Americans appreciate His Grace, so I don’t carry his work. You come to see me at the Grandfather games next July, and I’ll see what I can do for you.” He turned to Cameron. “You should’ve brought some with you, laddie. Where are you from? Kelvinside, from the look of you.”

“Edinburgh,” said Cameron.

“Ah, Morningside, then. Just over, are you?”

Lachlan and Cameron began to talk animatedly about the Rangers. Elizabeth, deciding that she wasn’t interested in British military matters, began to look at the stall displays when she noticed the man at her side.

“Dr. Hutcheson!” she cried. “I’m so glad to see you. It’s been ages! I’m Elizabeth MacPherson, remember?”

“Ah, yes! The little girl who used to be so crazy about
border collies. I see you’re still fond of livestock.” He nodded toward Cluny.

“Yes. He’s the Chattan mascot. I’ll leave him with my cousin when I go to see the collies. Is Marge out with them or back at the camper?”

Dr. Hutcheson reddened. “I guess most people here haven’t heard. Marge and I are no longer married.” Seeing Elizabeth’s look of astonishment, he hurried on. “We—ah—came to a parting of the ways about a year ago, and I’ve remarried. Is that your husband?” he asked, glancing at Cameron.

“No,” murmured Elizabeth. “He’s a professor from Scotland. I’m showing him around.”

“Scotland! Well, isn’t that something? Heather’s from Scodand too! Why don’t you bring him by the camper this evening for our get-together?”

“I’ll ask Cameron.” She wasn’t thinking clearly enough to come up with a glib excuse not to go. The news about the divorce had caught her off guard. Still, maybe Cameron would enjoy meeting another Scot. She should ask him, at least.

“You won’t have any trouble finding us in the campground,” Dr. Hutcheson was saying. “We’re flying the MacDonald banner, since I’m regional clan president. Of course, Heather isn’t a MacDonald by birth.” He pulled out a corner of the newly purchased scarf. “That’s
her
tartan.” He reeled off Heather’s pedigree as if she were a sheepdog. “But don’t mention to her that I told you. You know how people are about the aristocracy.”

“I think so,” said Elizabeth, giving him a meaningful stare. “Is Marge here on her own, do you think?”

Dr. Hutcheson’s lips tightened. “I haven’t seen her. Do
stop by later, both of you.” He nodded curtly and walked away.

Cameron looked up from his discussion with Lachlan in time to hear the last few words. “Stop by?” he echoed.

“He’s the local chief of the MacDonalds,” Elizabeth explained. “And his new wife is Scottish, so he wants us to come by later and meet her.”

Cameron, detecting a note of bitterness in Elizabeth’s voice, said, “I don’t mind. Do you want to?”

“Maybe. I have to find somebody first. Can I meet you later? At the Chattan tent around seven?”

“Leave him with me!” boomed Lachlan. “I’m having a high time hearing about the Rangers bashing the Celtics.”

Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “As a Gaelic people, I should think you’d be more sympathetic to the troubles in Northern Ireland!” Without waiting for an answer, she swept away.

Lachlan and Cameron exchanged puzzled glances. What did Belfast have to do with Scottish soccer matches?

   E
LIZABETH
found Geoffrey at the sign-up booth for athletic events. “What on earth are you doing?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “Well, I thought I’d get into the spirit of things. Learn how to do something. It might be useful for
Brigadoon.
What have you been up to?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Can you do without me for a while? I’ve met somebody …”

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. “Oh? What’s he like?”

“Mmmm. He looks like Prince Philip did when he married Queen Elizabeth.”

“Oh! He’s Greek!”

Elizabeth scowled. “He’s from Scotland. He has a Ph.D. in marine biology, and the way he talks is just lethally sexy.”

“Oh. Scottish. Too bad.”

“What do you mean, too bad?”

Geoffrey grinned. “Remember what you told me earlier? All the Highland clansmen were either murdered after Culloden or driven out of Scotland. So if this guy comes from there …”

“Shut up, Geoffrey. You always exaggerate. Anyway, I don’t care if there were sharks in his gene pool, he’s adorable. And he has an accent like pancake syrup—all l’s and r’s.” She sighed.

Geoffrey groaned. “Are you going to get a grip on yourself, or do I have to turn the hose on you?”

Elizabeth made a face at him.

“And what about your boyfriend the grave robber?”

“Milo?” She hesitated. “Well … we aren’t engaged or anything. I told Mary Gillespie we were, but that was in self-defense. Anyway, I’m just showing Cameron around the games.”

“From the way you were talking earlier, it sounds as if he’ll need a bodyguard to protect him from his guide.”

“Oh, you’re worse than Bill. Anyway, what are you doing right now?”

“Why do you ask, cousin?”

“Because I want to go to the dog field, and I need you to keep the moggie for me.”

“The … 
moggie?”
echoed Geoffrey in forbidding tones.

“Bobcat, Geoffrey. Anyway, can you keep him for an hour, please? You’re not scheduled for any games now, are you?”

“Not till tomorrow. I signed up for something called a saber toss. The idiot that typed the sheet misspelled it, though.”

Elizabeth smiled. “It should be very interesting. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. See you later!”

Andy Carson found his visiting Scottish professor at Lachlan Forsyth’s souvenir stall, discussing gardening-something about a Partick thistle. “Here you are!” he exclaimed, clapping Cameron on the shoulder. “What do you think of the games so far, eh?”

“It’s a bit like Disneyland,” murmured Cameron.

“Just like home, eh!” boomed Andy, who never listened to other people’s small talk. “Well, come over here. I’d like you to meet a clan chief.”

Cameron shook hands with the wizened man in a green kilt. “How do you do, sir?”

Andy Carson performed the introductions. “Dr. Campbell here is an M.D., Cameron, but he’s also a member of the board of trustees at the university.”

“Class of ’39,” grunted Dr. Campbell.

“He’s been one of our chief supporters for the Center of Marine Science.” Turning to Colin Campbell, Andy explained, “Dr. Dawson here is our visiting marine biologist from Scotland.”

“Excellent,” said Dr. Campbell with a thrust of his jaw. “About time you people got an expert in here. Though you Scots haven’t done such a good job over there.”

“At Great Cumbrae? Our work on seal migration—”

“Seals? Who gives a good goddamn about seals, young man? What have you done about Nessie?” Without waiting for an answer, he edged in closer. “There’s been another sighting here, you know.”

Cameron blinked. First selkies, then bobcats, and now sea serpents. He wondered if jet lag ever caused people to hallucinate. He hoped so. America couldn’t
really
be like this … could it?

“I work with seals and porpoises,” he said faintly.

Dr. Campbell wasn’t listening. “It was in the Eastern Bay this time. That’s an arm of the Chesapeake right across from Annapolis, Maryland. Scared the hell out of a couple in a sailboat. You people are familiar with Chessie, aren’t
you? Have you seen the 1982 videotape? How does it compare with Nessie?”

“I don’t know,” said Cameron. “Maybe a paleontologist could advise you—”

“Well, consult one,” snapped Colin Campbell. “The Center can afford it. I’ve certainly donated enough money to it.”

“I haven’t had much time to talk to Dr. Dawson, Colin,” Andy Carson put in hurriedly. “He hasn’t even visited the Center yet. Maybe we should postpone this little talk until—”

“What
do
you know about Nessie, young man?” Dr. Campbell barked.

“F.—all,” said Cameron. “Which is all I want to know.”

Andy Carson laughed nervously. “That dry British sense of humor, eh, Dawson? I’m sure you don’t realize how important Dr. Campbell is to our department. Why, his efforts on the board of trustees were instrumental in getting this center set up in the first place. His donations played a big part in endowing the visiting professorship you received.”

“Are you saying that you took me away from North Sea seal studies to come over here and study sea serpents?” cried Cameron. “A year’s work down the bloody cludgie!”

“Get somebody else, Carson!” snapped Colin Campbell.

“Now, gentlemen, please. This is a social event—”

“Right,” said Cameron. “I have no intention of discussing it further until we do so officially. Excuse me, please.” Without waiting for an answer, he walked away. A dozen yards from Lachlan’s stall, he stopped and looked
about. Kilted people edged past him on either side, but he didn’t see anyone he knew. At least it wasn’t so hot anymore.

Cameron glanced up at the sky. So that was it! A bloody great cloud had settled over the meadow. He felt a drop of rain hit his cheek. Some outing this had turned out to be. He was trying to decide whether to seek shelter when he caught sight of something familiar. Cluny the bobcat was rubbing up against a tent pole, while beside him a crowd of people were huddled together, perilously close to treading on him. Cameron hurried over.

“Hello!” he called out. “Elizabeth! Are you here?”

The bobcat’s lead unwound from the throng of people, but the person at the other end of it was not the Maid of the Cat. A young man in yellow poplin slacks looked at him inquiringly.

“Sorry,” stammered Cameron. “I was looking for a dark-haired young lady who had charge of the lynx earlier.”

Geoffrey pointed an accusing finger at Cameron. “Pancake syrup!” he cried.

“Oh God!” thought Cameron. “Maybe it’s something in their water supply. Has anyone ever checked America’s water supply for mind-altering substances?”

Geoffrey smiled. “I’ve heard of you,” he explained. “The young lady you’re looking for is my cousin Elizabeth. She left this beast with me while she went to look at sheepdogs. Would you like to watch him for her?” This last hopeful query was nearly drowned out by a clap of thunder.

Cameron hesitated. “Do you know which way she went?”

“In that direction,” said Geoffrey, pointing. “Come on, I’ll see if we can find her.”

The rain was pelting down even harder now, punctuated by flashes of lightning, all of which made Cluny even less anxious than usual to walk on his leash—particularly when foolish people were trying to make him head for an open field in a thunderstorm.

“Damned cat!” yelled Geoffrey over the rain. “We’ll never get there at this rate!”

“How far is it?” Cameron called back.

They had left the circle of clan tents and were headed for the lower meadow where the herding practice took place. The wind, blowing from that direction, had pretty well drenched them after the first two minutes.