She hadn’t planned on staying long, so she’d opted to wear the long, black raincoat Brontë had herself worn into the past over black pants, boots and a jumper. Despite her friend’s lecture and subsequent nagging, she wasn’t able to commit to returning to Finn. Yet.
Or more accurately, she hadn’t been able to overcome her fears regarding whether Finn truly wanted her. There was no other aspect in which she wouldn’t trust him. Her life, security, he had her complete faith.
The problem wasn’t with him. It was her.
After much reflection, thinking about the men she’d frightened away in one meeting and her sporadic relationships ending with Kyle, she’d come to the rather chilling realization that no man, not one of them, had ever truly fancied the whole of her. As she was, flaws and all. No alterations, substitutions or returns.
How it would hurt…nay, how crushing it would be to have Finn come to the same conclusion.
“I came to bring ye back yer necklace.” Just in case. Aila dug into her purse to retrieve it and held it out to him.
His fingers covered hers, closing them again. “Keep it, lass. I’m no’ long for this world anyway.”
“Wheesht. Dinnae talk like that.” She reached into her purse again to retrieve the pill case she’d refilled then decided against it. An aspirin wasn’t going to solve this problem. He needed a professional. “Can ye walk, sir?”
“What?”
“I want to get ye some help, but I cannae do it unless we get outside,” she told him. “Can ye walk that far?”
Boyce offered a noncommittal grunt which Aila opted to take as assent. Forcing him into a seated position, she slung one arm over her shoulder and heaved him up. He swayed on his feet, and they lurched sideways until by sheer force of will, she held him upright.
“Standing is gi’ing me the boak.”
“I ken. I’m sorry.” They stumbled a few steps forward and she paused to get a better grip on him. “Those stairs are going to be a real bitch, but let’s do this thing, aye?”
His response was somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. “Ye’re a good lass. Caring and generous. I’m so glad to have met ye.”
“Och, sir, this isnae the end of it. Come on then.”
He helped as much as he could. His knees buckled by the time they reached the bottom. Hers weren’t far behind. “A wee bit further. Outside. Around the corner should do it.”
They staggered out the door like two drunkards on a bender. She hauled him around the side of the house and propped him up against it before she thought better of it and helped lower him to the ground. He looked even worse in broad daylight. Aila was afraid he wasn’t wrong about not having much life left in him. She had to hurry.
“Rabbie? Rab, come here, lad!”
Where had he gone? Swearing under her breath, Aila pulled the time machine out of her pocket and marked the time. Give or take a few seconds, she’d be back to get him before he even knew she was gone.
And then that would be that, no matter what Brontë or Donell had to say about it.
* * *
The present
Glasgow, Scotland
Gah, she hated hospitals. The sterile misery. The wait. It had been years since she stepped foot in one, not since her mother died. Boyce had slipped into unconsciousness not long after she shoved him into the backseat of her car. She’d taken him to the nearest medical facility, a clinic in Inveraray, only to discover they offered limited resources. They’d offered to call up an ambulance to transfer him. Knowing it would be quicker, she’d driven him herself. She’d been at the medical center in Glasgow for more than an hour now, bound in knee-bouncing jitters awaiting news on Boyce’s condition.
“Miss Marshall?”
Aila jumped to her feet when an attendant holding a clipboard called her name. “How is he?”
“The doctor would like to speak with you.”
That bad. Jaw tight, she followed the attendant through a maze of stark hallways under flickering fluorescent lights until she was abandoned in front of a daunting beige door with a simple placard attached at eye level that read Doctor Doom.
All right, they’d spelled it Duhum, but the message was clear enough to Aila. Good news did not await her behind this door.
A single knock and she was invited in. Doom…Duhum…wasn’t one to soften a blow. With a brief greeting, he got right to it. “I’ll be honest with you, Miss Marshall,” the ominously mild man said as he adjusted his glasses. “Your father is in critical condition. We’ve done what we can to make him comfortable. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid he hasn’t got long.”
Not what she wanted to hear. Was this doctor even old enough to have finished medical school? Look at those loafers! Not a scuff on them. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Radiation poisoning.”
“Radiation poisoning?” she repeated.
“Aye, that’s why I wanted to speak with you. It makes no sense.”
Actually, it made perfect sense. The vomiting, the trots…fever, fatigue, and — thinking back to that moment she’d seen him abed earlier — hair loss. It was just like when her mother had gone through chemo. Every symptom, only worse.
“There’s medicine to help him, aye?” Her mother had a battery of medicines to take subsequent to each round.
“I’m afraid it’s gone beyond medication.” The doctor stared at her with such a bland expression that Aila had to wonder if they taught that in medical school, too. “I wanted to speak with you to determine how he could have been exposed to high enough levels of radiation to result in such a dire condition.”
Good bloody question.
Aila thought about the other people who were sick in the village. Gah! Niall and Effie, too. How had they been exposed to radiation while others weren’t? Why had Boyce suffered more than any of them? She’d assumed the illness ravaging the village had been a random occurrence, but this wasn’t something that occurred naturally…or was it? Had she missed something she was meant to find? Was it possible that it was connected to Boyce specifically? And hence, the treasure?
Damn Donell and his hidden agenda. Surely he would have — should have — mentioned something like this? Aila was tempted to return to the whisky shop and wring the answers out of him, however she had no desire to see the old man again after how thoroughly he’d played her. There was only one other person who might be able to answer her questions, and if young Doc Doom was right, not much time to find them.
“Can I see my…er, father? Ye said he hisnae got long. I’d like to say goodbye.”
He cleared his throat as if he’d only realized the proper sequence of things in that moment. “Of course. We can talk afterward.” He picked up a phone and asked someone to join them. “You should know he’s a bit delirious. The fever perhaps? He keeps asking who we are.”
I’ll bet he has.
Aila nodded and followed the attendant who came to fetch her to a room where poor Boyce lay, hooked up to a dozen machines with tubes everywhere. Screens with bouncing lines. Little, nerve-grating beeps that hailed life and death. God, she really hated hospitals.
Pulling up a chair beside him, she took his hand and managed a smile when he opened his eyes. “Hello again.”
A hot tear splashed on her cheek. Poor, kind man. He didn’t deserve such an ugly end. Alone in a strange place with no one besides a near stranger to see him through his final hours. Boyce’s sons should be ashamed of themselves for not checking in on him. For leaving him alone. Aila had been at odds with her mother for years and still came when she was ill.
His fingers spasmed weakly around hers. “Och, thank the good Lord. I’d thought I’d gone to hell already.” His watery eyes swept around the crisp white room then closed again. “What is this place?”
Was there a good answer? She decided to cut to the chase, though the truth cost her. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Boyce. There is nothing more that can be done to help ye.”
“Dinnae fash, lass. Whit’s fur ye’ll no go
past ye.”
How fatalistic he was. Whatever is meant to happen to you, will happen to you? Aye, maybe, but it wasn’t as though this was an act of God.
“I’m sorry I dinnae figure out what was making ye sick before.”
His cold fingers tightened ever so lightly around hers and a tear slipped out of the corner of his eye. “’Tis no’ yer fault.”
Perhaps. Why hadn’t she made the connection before when it might have helped? When there might have been a chance to save him. Her chest burned with sorrow and regret. There was nothing more she could do for Mr. Boyce. Hopefully she could figure out a way to prevent others from suffering the same way. Avenge him, if possible. “The doctor says ye were poisoned. Do ye ken anyone who would want to do ye harm?”
His head twitched to the side before changing directions. “Aye, the truth will prevail.”
Surely she couldn’t have heard him right. “What did ye say?”
His eyes blinked then closed as if it were too much effort to keep them open. “My Da knew. Figured it out. Fire at…mill. He saved the duke. Before Da was mur— mur—”
“He was killed?”
That faint assent again. “Aye, Da kent what it was…why it was hidden. Promised to…same. Never tell anyone. Made me…. Nae one can….”
Aila felt her jaw sag. “Ye mean the treasure? It’s real?”
“’Tis…truth.”
“The truth?” Aila squeezed his hand to rouse him. “What truth? Mr. Boyce?”
His eyelids fluttered. “The key?”
“Aye, I found the key. What is it for? What should I do with it?”
“Unlock…the truth.”
Chapter 26
Late September 1748
Inveraray, Scotland
Finn could have sworn it had been Aila he saw. No one other than his fiery vixen had hair that color around here. It had taken mere seconds to reach the house, yet she was nowhere in sight. Since Boyce wasn’t at home either….
He scratched his jaw trying to figure it out, then shrugged. There were few options other than to return to the castle and await her return.
Or return to the worksite as Ian coldheartedly suggested.
The dressing-down his friend delivered the previous night still stung. Aye, they’d lived most of their lives as friends and brothers. Aye, they both had reasons to hate. And true, Finn could see well enough that Ian’s revenge hadn’t brought him the satisfaction and relief he’d hoped it would.
That wasn’t sufficient rationale for Finn to abandon his own vengeance. He’d worked here for over a year, in a position that chafed each and every day. He labored to build a pile of rubbish to house a man who had betrayed his fellow Scotsmen to side with the English. For what? The off chance that the villain he sought would come here one day?
Live for the future. Ye have a chance. And if ye dinnae take it, I swear, I will bloody well hate ye forever, too.
Ian’s petition, while it pricked, wasn’t without merit. Finn could leave this place behind. Save his lifelong friendship. Return to the shambles of his home. Build a new one where his children could grow and thrive.
He could, if he were convinced it was the right thing.
He had been, staunch and true. Until he’d met Aila. Until the moment he first kissed her, he had been fully committed to the task he’d set himself to and dedicated years of his life toward fulfilling. That kiss and each one that followed breathed life back into his shriveled soul. Tamped back thoughts of revenge with the taste of her lips. Sweetness, goodness.
Hope.
Bugger it all, she tasted like hope. Springtime to come. The promise of a joyful future if he were to give in to it. That hope begged him to sweep her into his arms and carry her off to share a better life together. A happier one.
He could love her. It would be so easy to simply take that last step and give in to the emotions she roused in him. He could love her and shed the hate that had consumed him for so long. Forget the past and look forward. Already his commitment wavered.
He could.
“Bloody fooking hell.” Finn ran his fingers through his hair. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what held him back from the bliss that could be his if he relinquished his vengeance. “Och, my head’s mince. I dinnae ken what is best.”
A soft chuff and bump against his thigh drew his attention and found Aila’s dog seated before him with one paw on Finn’s leg, staring at him with solemn brown eyes.
“Rab. What are ye doing here?” Finn crouched down and rubbed the dog’s loose scruff as he’d seen Aila do. He scanned the area again, still unable to locate her. “Where’s yer mistress?”
The clink of metal against metal sounded as he pet the dog. Finn caught a pair of silver disks in one fist, noticing the leather belt that circled the shepherd’s neck. The disks were attached to a metal loop near the small buckle that closed the belt. Catching one between his fingers, he saw that there was something engraved upon it. “Rab. 147 Newhaven Rd, Leith,” he read.
An address? Why? There was a series of eleven numbers following the words that provided no enlightenment as to what he was seeing. His brow furrowed so deep he felt the strain of it across his scalp. Massaging it away, he looked to the additional disk that hung behind the first. The engraving on this one was so bizarre, Finn had no idea what to think of it. It read: Please call my mum, she’s ugly crying right now.
Ugly crying? What did that mean? He might well have been reading Greek for all the sense it made. There was only one person who might provide the answers. Someone who was in many ways as much of an enigma.
“Where’s yer mistress, Rab?” he asked the dog, feeling a fool for doing so in earnest rather than rhetorically. “Where’s Aila?” Eyes wide and dark with the joy of hearing his mistress’s name, the dog hopped on all fours as if on leaf springs and bounced down the avenue and back again with an enthusiastic woo-woo-woo. “Aye, then. Lead the way.”
Finn would have more questions for Aila than he’d imagined when he found her.
* * *
“Ye ready here?”
“Aye.” Tris grinned at her through the faux beard she’d added to the disguise they’d assembled for him. “Doctor Who’s Miracle Cure is ready to open shop.”
Aila had stayed with Boyce, held his hand so he wouldn’t be alone until the beeps slowed to a continuous buzz. Until the jagged line flattened. The decision of what to do with him was difficult. There was no way for her to return his body to his own time. With a heavy heart, she’d opted to have his body cremated. She’d brought his ashes back with her to spread in the river next to his mill. Although the people in the village — and his sons, were they ever to venture home — would believe he’d disappeared and never know the truth of what happened, he’d have his rest in his highlands, not hers.
Whatever plan Donell had for her, she now had one of her own, and she refused to consult him on the matter after he’d toyed with her and Finn so cruelly. She would set things in Inveraray to rights. No one else would lose their life to the poisoning. The most common treatment was potassium iodine to block the absorption of radiation in the thyroid. Thankfully the tablets were only a Google search away. She’d spent hours grinding enough of them down to encompass her estimate of the numbers of villagers affected for the recommended duration of treatment. Figuring out how to convince the afflicted, wary victims to take them had been far more difficult. Thankfully, Tris and Brontë offered their help.
Brontë’s skills and her own in their respective theater specialties finally proved applicable in real life. With careful makeup, prosthetics and wigs, the young, dark-haired couple had been transformed into a greying, middle-aged peddler and his wife. They’d scavenged the prop room at the Lyceum Theatre where Aila still worked for a handcart that had been used in Fiddler on the Roof and filled it with leftover bolts of fabric and odds and ends from the costume shop. Along with glass bottles filled with “miracle cures” including rations of the iodine. Should their effor
ts be rejected, they were prepared to dump it in the village well with fingers crossed.
They’d come to the — albeit, irksome — conclusion that the villagers were more likely to believe in and buy from a man. Aila had faith that Tris would prove himself a capable salesman.
“Hopefully the rain will hold off long enough to get this done.”
“And to imagine it was springtime only a moment ago.” Brontë grinned. “Ye do get used to it.”
“Aye, right. I’ll meet ye in my bedchamber later to compare notes and plan next steps,” she reminded her friends. “Ye remember how to get there?”
“Yes, now go,” Brontë gave her a little shove. “We’ve got this. You’re the one with the hard job.”
With a nod, Aila set off to the west. Saving the village was one thing. Ensuring no one else was contaminated meant finding the source of the radiation and eliminating it. Thankfully, a Geiger counter was also readily available in a Prime shopping world. That was only one part of their task, though. Once they dealt with the poison, they needed to find out who had done it.
And, with any luck, find out what the key in the medallion was for along the way.
She also needed to locate her dog.
Any part of it, she would have been able to accomplish as herself. Mistress Marshall out for a walk. If she wasn’t well-known among the villagers after the week she’d been in their time, at least her presence wasn’t bound to cause comment. Contrary to her friends’ opinions on the matter, she’d decided to disguise herself as well, arguing the need for a thorough search of the castle without drawing any undue attention.
When in truth, Aila didn’t want to invite Finn’s. Not yet, not unexpectedly. When she faced him, she wanted it to be in a time and place of her choosing. Prepared for and fully invested in the moment. Her current mission accomplished and unable to distract her.
She wasn’t certain she believed her own bullshit any more than they had.
At any rate, Aila was proud of her disguise. Some of the best makeup work she’d done in years. She blended seamlessly into her surroundings. There was no chance anyone would recognize her while she made her search.
A Good Scot is Hard to Find (Something About a Highlander Book 2) Page 23
