Aila rolled her eyes. Of course, Violet had told her granddaughter about Finn. The bare bones of it, no doubt. Just enough to tease. Just enough to taunt Aila with her little riddle. Look it up. She’d laughed her head off, knowing what the result would be. She’d poked fun at Aila all week with what she’d found in her Google search.
Finlay. From the Gaelic Fionnlagh, meaning fair or white warrior.
“I ken ye believe in fairy tales, Brontë,” she said. “But dinnae let Vi get yer hopes up. I never have and still dinnae. Nae offense, Tris.”
He grinned and she saw the resemblance to Ian. “None taken.”
The meaning of Finn’s name was nothing more than another one of those incredible coincidences. Like her clan motto on the necklace. A quirk. Finn was not her bloody white knight.
“But you have met someone?” her friend persisted. “Tell me about him? What’s his name? Where did you meet him?”
Gah, she loved Brontë to death, but she could be like a dog with a bone when she wanted to be. She wouldn’t accept Aila’s usual sarcasm or a vague fabrication. As with Violet, Aila didn’t want to lie to her dearest friend. In fact, since she’d only been able to talk about part of the problem with Vi, it might be nice to share the whole of it with someone who could understand where she was coming from…and where she’d come from.
“His name is…was…Finn Keeley.” His name caught in her throat with an emotional crack. Aila hugged the purse she was still holding to her chest as if it were a lifeline. “And I met him in much the same manner ye met Tris.”
“What?” Brontë screeched while Tris’s gaze filled with compassion, as if he saw deeper and understood more than her words. Her friend was so lucky. “I thought you said you hadn’t seen Donell.”
Aila turned back to her friend. “To be fair, I said I had no’ seen him around here.” Before her friend could argue the fine details of prevarication, Aila glanced at Tris. “I met an ancestor of yers, as well, I think.”
His brow rose a notch. “Did ye now?”
A snort of laughter escaped her. “Most definitely. Ian MacKintosh? He would have been earl around the time of Culloden.”
“Culloden?” Brontë’s shriek was a fraction more controlled this time. “You went that far back? What was it like?”
“Ye realize ye’re perfectly capable of seeing any time ye like for yerself?”
Her friend scoffed at Aila’s dry retort. “That’s not what I…actually, yes, that is what I meant. Oh, come on, tell me everything! About what you saw, what you did. This white knight of yours? Why are you here if he’s there?”
Hot tears pricked Aila’s eyes before she even felt the pang in her chest. Bloody good question, wasn’t it?
A warm hand wrapped around hers. Not Brontë’s, but Tris’s. Through the haze clouding her vision, she saw him crouch in front of her. His eyes were green while Ian’s had been brown, but she saw there the same sort of friend Ian was for those he cared about. The stalwart sort. If she needed it, he would provide a wide shoulder to lean on, strong arms to hold her, or a safe haven to share her secrets. Going the distance for a friend must have found its way into the genetic pool. Aila was as lucky to count him as one as Finn was to have Ian.
However, if she let him hug her now, there was a fair chance she’d dissolve into a pool of tears, and that wouldn’t do. She squeezed his hand and released him with a smile. “I’m fine, thank ye.”
He smiled back and stood. “A whisky then?”
“Aye, thanks.”
He moved to the sideboard and pulled a pair of glasses out before perusing Vi’s selection. Two glasses. He hadn’t extended the offer to Brontë as courtesy normally commanded him to. Aila looked at her friend. “None for ye?”
Brontë shook her head. “No, I’m off the drink at the moment. I would take one of those candy bars you keep in your bag, if you have one. I’ve been dying for something sweet and there’s nothing like them in the past.”
Aila tossed her purse and her friend caught it. “There might be one left in there. Not like ye to crave chocolate though…. The little bird that drove ye home…Och, ye’re no’ pregnant, are ye?”
Glasses clanked together and Tris turned, jaw comically unhinged.
“Relax, baby.” Brontë laughed and waved him down. “Do you think I’d keep that big of a secret from you?”
“I should hope no’.” Tris returned with a glass in each hand. “I’m content to have my lass to myself for the time being. I’d be thrilled at the prospect should it occur somewhat farther in the future and certainly after we are properly wed.”
“Welcome to the mentality of an old-fashioned guy. No, as for the drinking, Tris’s family threw us an engagement ball last night and I’m afraid I overindulged. May take me a week to get over it.” Her friend grinned at him then frowned into the purse. “I don’t think there’s one in here.”
“Dump the bloody thing out. There’s got to be one in there.” Aila took the glass from Tris and held it up in mock toast. “To old-fashioned guys.” Before Brontë could recall their previous topic of conversation, she asked, “What was the little bird that brought ye home, then?”
“Hannah,” Tris told her. Hannah was his cousin from Edwardian times. A woman more unlucky in love than Aila, if they could be believed. They’d mentioned several times the possibility of bringing her into a new life in this time. “A brief visit. Ye might say a trial run to determine whether she’d be amenable to staying with ye and Violet for a time. She’s asleep upstairs now.”
“I cannae wait to meet her.”
“Ah, there’s one! Come here, you precious thing.” Brontë mined a sweet from the pile of rubble she’d dumped out of Aila’s bag as if it were solid gold. Tearing open the wrapper, she took a bite, then frowned. “What is this?”
“What?” Aila looked down and her high spirits sank. “Oh, shite. I must have grabbed that when I spilled my purse in my trunk. It belongs to the miller, Mr. Boyce. I meant to return it to him before I…. Shite.”
“Well, you still can.” Brontë’s smile turned to a concerned frown as she watched Aila. “What is it?” Aila’s throat clogged. It was all she could do to shake her head. “Oh, honey, what happened?”
She waved her hands in front of her face as if she could fan her eyes dry. How humiliating. She’d never been that person. The one who moaned and sobbed when things went wrong. Never the one with the sob story. She was the plucky, pushy friend. A survivor. A realist. The one who picked herself up and moved on.
Or at least, she had been.
“I can make myself scarce, if ye like?” Tris offered kindly. “Violet decided to celebrate the removal of her cast and took yer dog for a walk. I could go find them.”
With a shake of her head, Aila wiped her watery eyes. “Sure, she says walk, but ye’d probably find them down at her friend Joyce’s house doing shots. She’s beyond control, yer granny is. Using my dog as an excuse to sneak away and party.”
“She’s living her best life.”
“Aye,” Aila nodded. “She’s bloody good at it.”
“And now you have a dog,” Brontë prompted. “Is that part of what has you like this?”
The whole story tumbled from her lips as if the floodgates had opened and everything she wanted to tell Violet but couldn’t burst forth. She told them how she met Donell and Rab at the whisky shop, how he lured her with a chance to solve the mystery of the missing treasure, and his deceptive claim that three turns of the time machine would take her to the appropriate time to do just that. “I was bored, I’ll admit it. A tad intrigued. It wisnae as if I went into it blind. I learned a lot from yer adventures and more from yer mistakes. I was determined no’ to make the same ones myself.”
“Hey,” her friend protested. “I may have made a few wrong turns, but each one ended up taking me the right direction.”
“Mine dinnae.” Aila couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice. “That auld bastard led me astray from the beginning. H
e gave me some song and dance about savoring each day like it was a fine glass of whisky. I fell for it completely.”
“Well, he wisnae completely wrong. There’s something to be said for cherishing the moments we have.” Tris gazed at Brontë with love so apparent it sent a shaft of envy through Aila’s heart.
“He was wrong enough,” she argued. “To begin with, he sent me to the wrong time entirely.”
“Ye believe he did so intentionally?” Tris asked.
“Aye. I think everything he told me was a lie.” She gestured to the necklace in Brontë’s hands. “That is no’ the treasure Donell made it out to be. It’s as much a piece of shite as he is.”
“Perhaps the treasure he sent ye for was one of a different sort.” Tris took the necklace and turned it over in his hands, then examined the images and etching. “Veritas Vincit Hostes Nostros. Truth conquers the enemy amongst us.”
“Ye maun have had the same Latin tutor as yer great-whatever-grandfather,” Aila told him. “Another translation, I’m told, is truth prevails against the enemy. Which is, in part, my clan’s motto. I think ye can agree, Donell disnae do coincidences.”
Brontë grimaced. “No, he does not. He does ulterior motive and manipulation.”
Aila had been given a summary of Donell’s basic motivations months ago after her friend brought Tris to their time. Something about him saving the future from a despot, good against evil…Nay, overcoming evil. He insisted there was a fine line between the two. That much she remembered. Same as there might be between conquer and prevail. Either way, she’d forgotten about his vainglorious plans when she’d accepted his offer to look for the treasure. She’d been another pawn in his game. Nothing more.
“We can assume, then, that he sent ye to that particular time on purpose, as well,” Tris said, still examining the pendant. “What was it like?”
Aila shrugged, glad he hadn’t lobbed a more difficult question at her. “It was nice enough. As peaceful as a country torn by war could be. It wisnae as horrible as one might think picturing it. A little boring at times. On the other hand, I never did watch as much on the telly or go to the cinema as often as Brontë.”
That mundanity also calmed the pinch of anxiety life tended to incite. The incessant need to bring snark and sarcasm to every conversation had abandoned her. She’d been content to be herself, even when secrets and lies should have made that impossible. It had been nice.
“She does miss those things when we’re gone,” Tris agreed. With a frown, he held the medallion close to his face. “Do ye have a magnifying glass?”
“Nay, why?”
“There’s something odd about this sword.”
“The one in the gauntlets?” Aila looked around and found a pair of Violet’s reading glasses. “Here, try these. What is it?”
Tris went almost bug-eyed when he put on the spectacles, then he squinted at the piece. “This sword —” he caught it between his forefinger and thumb “— it looks like it can…Aye!”
He wiggled it between his fingers and pulled, then withdrew a miniature sword. He held it up for Aila to see. It was about the length of a toothpick, but broader. Like one of those cheesy cocktail picks. She ogled it in shock then took the pendant from him. Only the hilt was missing. The remainder of the sword was still carved in below the clasped hands. “What? Was it in there like a…like a…”
“Like a sword in a sheath,” Tris finished. “Clever, but why would it be removable?”
Aila ran her fingertip over the pewter relief. The stag in rearing profile. The lion above and opposite it on the shield. Something about the rampant pose had been niggling at her. “This lion. What’s wrong with him?” She turned it toward the couple who put their heads together and studied it.
“In heraldry, the rampant lion normally has his arms raised. This one looks like he’s clasping his chest,” Tris offered. “As if he’s had an attack of the heart.”
“Or like he’s been stabbed,” Brontë offered.
Aila snapped her fingers. “Aye, that’s it.”
Her friend looked up at Tris with a grin. “Believe me, we’ve been subjected to enough over-dramatized stage death to recognize the pose.”
“Here, give it to me.” Aila took the medallion and then the glasses off Tris’s face to study the figure. “There’s a tiny space under one paw. Big enough, I think…” She let the thought trail off and stuck the point of the small sword into the opening as if stabbing the lion’s chest with it.
It went in about a quarter of an inch, then…snick.
Chapter 24
The pendant opened on hidden hinges like a locket to reveal a space inside.
And an iron skeleton key.
But to what?
Brontë had an enthusiastic grin on her face. “And you thought there was no mystery. You’ve got to go back and figure out what this key opens. Oh, say what you like about Donell, but this is far more thrilling than dodging bullets.”
“Indeed, it is,” Tris agreed. “What do ye think, Aila?”
Her heart was pounding. Not with the exhilaration that brought broad smiles to her friend’s faces. It should have been. As Brontë said, a true mystery had been revealed where she’d thought there was none. Perhaps a true treasure, as well. Intrigue should be driving her to go back and discover the truth. Her own Miss Marple moment.
Instead, dread drove her back into her chair. Aila picked up her glass of whisky and downed the remainder of the contents in a single shot, earning herself a scowl of disapproval from Tris for abusing the fine Scotch.
“What’s the matter, Aila?” Brontë asked. “This is an exciting turn of events. There could be something to this after all. Oh, I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
“I willnae be coming up with anything.”
“What? Why? That’s what Donell sent you there for, isn’t it?”
“I have nae idea what he intended anymore. At any rate, I cannae go back there.”
“Why not?” When Aila offered nothing more than a shake of her head, Brontë looked up at Tris. “Would you give us a moment, please?”
“I think I’ll take that walk,” he said. “Perhaps find a stray grandmother along the way.”
A moment later, the front door closed with a soft thud and Aila’s hands were grasped again. This time by a pair of cool feminine ones. “What is it? We got sidetracked back there. You were going to tell me about this white knight of yours.”
“He isnae my white….” Aila caught the smile in her friend’s eyes and withdrew her hands. “This isnae amusing. I cannae go back there. After everything —” With a groan, she covered her face with her hands. “Do ye think Donell ever considers the consequences of his actions? Or does he intentionally…uh gah! I’ve never….”
“I don’t mean to tease.” Brontë grew more serious. “You must have followed the advice you once gave me and shagged your historical hottie.” The near hysterical laugh muffled by Aila’s hands was all the confirmation her friend needed. “How long did you say you were there again?”
“That disnae matter.” She dropped her hands. “Bottom line, he is hot. Sublimely sexy. Even sexier than that American actor ye always panted for before ye met Tris. Ye ken the tall, muscular one with the chiseled cheekbones and square jaw. So serious and stoic but when he smiles the whole world lights up?”
Brontë stared blankly.
“He was on some show about hunting demons or supernatural beings or some such?”
“Oh, that one.”
“Aye, that one,” Aila confirmed with a nod. “Take him, add about two stone more in solid muscle and ye’d still no’ have a man as divinely handsome or sigh-worthy as Finn.”
“That’s pretty hot.”
“Aye, and the moment I laid eyes on him I kent I wouldnae put off the opportunity as ye did.”
“Hey! Ouch.”
“Point is, I had a chance and I took it.” She shook her head again, still wondering where it had been in those moments.
“I mean, I leapt in with both feet without a second thought. Ye remember how ye told me about that first time when ye shagged Tris?”
Color flooded Brontë’s face. “We like to call it making love now, but yes, I recall the conversation.”
Making love. A little quiver ran through Aila. She, who had never used the word, had used it repeatedly that week. Perhaps she’d be better off now if she hadn’t. “It wisnae only Finn who trembled with the power of it. I did, too. It was more consuming by magnitude than the sum of every guy I ever went to bed with. Combined.”
“So you’re saying it was good,” her friend said by way of understatement. “I don’t see the problem then.”
“It was so good I dinnae give a moment’s thought to protection.”
Brontë blinked. “Wow. That’s…wow. I guess you should make sure you get tested for STDs or whatever then. There’s no chance you could be pregnant?”
“I think ye’re missing my point.” Aila lifted her glass only to find it empty. Rolling it between her hands, she searched for the words. “He took my breath away. My bloody common sense. Nothing mattered besides being with him.”
“There must be more to him than a pretty face to get you this wound up.”
“Nay. Aye, he’s….” Where to begin? Spotting the half-eaten Tunnock’s Teacake Brontë had set aside when Tris found the sword in the medallion, she held it up. “This is Finn.”
“You’re right, he is delicious.”
Aila rolled her eyes. “Eye candy on the outside, and aye, delicious, but dark. Troubled. Inside, he’s soft and sweet and caring —” she indicated the dome of Italian méringue inside the chocolate shell, then the shortbread at the bottom “— but when it comes right down to it, he’s rather…”
“Thick? Crusty?”
“Ye might think ye’re amusing, but ye’re no’. I would say solid. He’s got principles, ideas. And he’s…brilliant and….” Not liking where her thoughts were heading, Aila bit her tongue lest she start singing Finn’s praises.
“Brilliant, huh? Then I guess I’m back to my previous statement. I don’t see the problem.” When Aila didn’t answer immediately, Brontë took the candy from her hand and munched on it. Och, her friend would wait her out. Wait until the truth spilled. As it had with Kyle, as it had about her mother. That saintly patience was bloody annoying.
A Good Scot is Hard to Find (Something About a Highlander Book 2) Page 21
