A Good Scot is Hard to Find (Something About a Highlander Book 2)

by Angeline Fortin

  Boyce was the obvious place to start. He’d been the hardest hit and the keeper of the secret she could only assume the killer had been out to find. As she was in the village already, his house came first. It still smelled appallingly rank, as if she’d left only moments ago rather than nearly a week. Which — in this time, at least — she had. A quick sweep with the Geiger counter picked up nothing other than the faintest reading.

  Not that she expected it to.

  There was only one place that could tie back to each of the people who’d fallen ill. A visit to the mill would merely provide confirmation of what she already suspected.

  How it was done was also obvious.

  It wasn’t the who that troubled her.

  In retrospect, it, too, was fairly obvious.

  What wasn’t was why.

  Chapter 27

  “I should have kent better than to let a dumb beast lead the way,” Finn muttered under his breath.

  He’d followed Rab as if he were a reliable hound on the scent of a fox only to be led astray. First, the dog steered him toward the mill. As he’d quite recently come from there, he wasn’t willing to waste time retracing his steps. The shepherd chased a few sheep and led him in circles before Finn strong-armed the beast to return to the castle when the grey skies began to drizzle. Once they reached the bailey, the dog’s enthusiasm returned until he fairly quivered with eagerness. He raced around the enclosure, methodically pausing at each door before moving to the next. Finn took the time to peek into the chapel, dismissing the rest of the stops as possibilities. It was unlikely he’d find Aila in the larder, buttery, or smithy. Had the day been a hot one of midsummer, he might have considered the icehouse, but it was empty this time of year.

  At each portal, Rab stopped to look back at him as if he’d triumphed in his task and was due praise in kind. What reward was there in failure? As he was learning with Niall and Effie, it didn’t do well to reward bad behavior. No matter where the animal guided him, there was no sign of Aila among the servants and craftsman milling about. If her hair hadn’t heralded her presence, her tall, lithe figure and fine clothing would have done so.

  Finn felt as though he’d been sent on a wild goose chase. One of his own invention.

  Inside, the dog sped through the scullery, the kitchen, and servants’ hall. Again, he lingered at each door, be it a threshold or cabinet. When he disappeared through the open entry leading to the undercrofts and cellars, Finn acknowledged it had been foolhardy to credit the beast with enough intelligence to track his owner.

  Waiting for the dog to return so that he might drag him up to the nursery, Finn leaned back against the opposite wall and surveyed the room. The hall bustled with activity today. More than usual, as had the bailey now that he thought about it, and he wondered why. Maids hurried this way and that with armfuls of linens. Burly male servants clad in work clothes trailed Rab to the cellars. Idly he watched them come and go, noting that most were strangers to him. One by one, they reappeared laden with crates of wine or a keg over their shoulders. Only one returned empty handed.

  Rab bounded out the door behind him and dashed back to Finn. Tongue lolling, panting through what looked suspiciously like a smile, the dog circled back a few feet and returned once more. As if he wanted Finn to follow.

  He’d had enough of that. “Och, I’m done wi’ ye, Rabbie.” Finn shook his head. Admonishing the dog now? He’d taken on one of Aila’s bad habits to be sure.

  With a curious trilling gurgle, the dog turned away once more and back. Rab’s expression seemed almost exasperated when he spun about again with a low garbled woof and loped crosswise the hall. He launched himself at the unsuspecting fellow who’d come from the cellars before him. His paws landed on the middle of the man’s back and the man stumbled forward with an oath.

  His yelp was surprisingly high, not inconceivably so given the unexpected attack. What was unusual was that the voice was also surprisingly familiar.

  The frown was back, stretching the muscles of Finn’s scalp to impossible lengths. He was a portly man, rotund in the middle and narrow at the shoulders. When he glanced over his shoulder to glower at Rab — as well he should — Finn took note of his bulbous nose and heavy jowls. Like many of the others today, he’d never seen the man around here before.

  The fellow hurried away. Finn watched him go, taking note of the grizzled hair shorn close, above his collar. Squared shoulders rather than those hunched from years of labor. An effeminate sway to his gait that sent the length of his long woolen coat swishing about his knees.

  Swishing.

  Odd for a fellow of his years.

  Finn rubbed away the persistent pinch between his brows before it made his head ache. The niggling sense that he’d missed something was not was easy to scrub away. Examining the hall and its occupants once more, he considered a search of the cellars himself as more men came and went. Men in rough canvas trousers and thick shirts. Not suits.

  Rab lay with his head upon his paws, staring at the man he’d practically tackled with a mournful whine. The stout, besuited man stopped at the open door to the storeroom. The quality of his clothing and the shiny silver buckles on his shoes marked him as one of the merchant class, at least. Perhaps the workmen were his. There was something out of place about him. Finn couldn’t put a finger on it. He didn’t know the man. He was certain of that.

  The peculiar fellow closed the storeroom door, tried it again with a key and turned away with a shake of his head, headed to the passageway toward the west tower. At the mouth of the hall, he paused.

  Rather, his step hitched a fraction before he bustled ahead.

  Finn stiffened, catching a glimpse of the curiously slender calves and well-turned ankles encased in the man’s woolen hose. And he had uncommonly small feet to boot. With a shake of his head, Finn tried to make sense of what his eyes saw in contrast to what he believed.

  What he knew.

  Nay, it was impossible. A trick of the light. A figment of his imagination. Nothing more.

  Acknowledging the impossible didn’t stop Finn from trailing after him.

  Didn’t stop him from asking, “I thought ye said ye were no’ afraid of the dark.”

  * * *

  There was no way he recognized her. None. Her own mother wouldn’t have. Aye, bad example. Well, Brontë nearly hadn’t, even when she’d been expecting her.

  Aila kept walking as if she hadn’t heard him. She’d tried the key they’d discovered in the medallion at nearly every single door in the castle, starting in the great hall. From the solar to the apartments above, from bedchamber to garderobe to cabinet, it didn’t fit any lock she’d discovered. Circling around the castle, from the easterly tower to the bailey. Nothing. The only rooms she hadn’t tried thus far were the apartments in the west tower where she was headed now and the one to Derne’s office. The old bawbag had given her a scolding for being in the public rooms and sent her on her way, thankfully without an ounce of recognition.

  There was no way Finn could have recognized her in the guise of a stocky old man. He must think her to be someone else.

  Without a candle or lantern to carry, the passage was darker than normal. She fought the urge to look back over her shoulder to see if Finn followed much as she struggled to refrain from racing from sconce to sconce. Not that she was afraid of the dark.

  Or afraid of facing him.

  That didn’t stop her from yelping like a frightened child when his warm hand caught her wrist. Amid the gloomy hall, the inquisitiveness lighting his hazel eyes had the effect of being put under an interrogation spotlight.

  “I cannae reconcile what I see with what I ken to be the truth.”

  “I…er, I dinnae ken what ye mean, sir,” she tried in an overexaggerated brogue although she knew the effort was futile. Somehow, he knew.

  Finn dragged her into the next circle of light and pinned her beneath the sconce before he stepped back to examine her. From head to toe, his intense gaze scrutin
ized her. Aila simply drank him in. It seemed like years instead of a mere twelve days since she’d seen him. Colorless days that passed like a prison sentence without him despite the hectic activity of the last few. Even covered in layers of male clothing and her face hidden behind thick latex, the effect on her was as overwhelming as ever. Akin to seeing a piece of chocolate following years of dieting. She longed to eat him up.

  Gah, this would have gone much easier if she didn’t have to explain this to him. Aye, she had a laundry list of things to confess. Adding this on top of everything else! How could she expect him to make sense of it? She had no idea what to say to mitigate his confusion.

  Especially when he appeared as stony and unmoving as the statues that flanked him.

  “What is this witchery?” There was the faintest hint of trepidation in his voice.

  As logical and educated as Finn was, she didn’t want him thinking she’d consorted with the devil to change her appearance. She’d looked it up. Although parliament passed a law in 1735 banning witch hunts and trials, Aila didn’t plan on becoming an exception.

  “I’m nae more a witch than I am a selkie. It’s makeup. Cosmetics,” she clarified when his frown deepened. She had to know how he’d figured it out. “How did ye ken it was me?”

  “Yer walk.” With obvious hesitance, he touched her prosthetic nose with one finger. The spongy latex provided little resistance. He jerked his hand away with a grimace. “And Rab.”

  Aila looked down at her dog who’d followed Finn down the passage and was currently engrossed with some smell behind one of the statues. “Treasonous beastie,” she mumbled. “Nay, dinnae grouse at me. It wisnae me.”

  Nor was it her he was growling at. An odd, low, constant grumble akin to the rumble of distant thunder. Her attention shifted to the object of his discontent.

  “Yer turn.” Finn ground out. “How? Why?”

  Her eyes flicked to him, but with something nagging at her brain, were drawn back to the statue. What…?”

  “Lass!”

  She brushed away his annoyance and stepped past him to study the statue. “Hold on, there’s something…. Oh my God. This is it! This is why that necklace looked so familiar. Look, Finn.” Euphoria fermented in her veins with an intoxicating rush that left her head spinning. She groped behind her and caught him by the arm to pull him along. “The shield on Sir Clinksalot’s tunic. That’s it, is it no’?”

  Her excitement was not contagious. Finn stood firm, stiff with displeasure clear on his face when she glanced back at him. “I dinnae care about the buggering necklace at the moment. I want an explanation. Nay, I demand one.”

  His imperious inflection roused an inkling of irritation. Aila squared her shoulders and pinned him with a stern glare. “Dinnae use that tone with me,” she cautioned. “I’m no’ a child or servant for ye to command.”

  “Och, and yer no’ a lady to be treated with kid gloves at this particular moment either, are ye?” he shot back, reaching for her arm. “I demand an answer, and ye’ll do as I say, woman. Now.”

  “Woman? Ye demand?” She swung her shoulder out of reach and struggled to keep her tone even. “That’s fifty percent of the problem right there. I told Brontë, I told her…. Ugh! Ye need to understand this right now. I’ll no’ have a man telling me what to do. No’ ye, no’ ever again. I dinnae care what century it is, ye can ask nicely, but ye cannae command.”

  “Look at ye! Ye think this is the moment for etiquette?” He covered the length of her in one scathing look. “Ye’re a bloody man, lass. A corpulent auld man. I deserve an explanation beyond cosmetics. That is no’ the work of a bit of rouge and rice powder.”

  Aila’s jaw ached with the grinding of her teeth. “What? No’ pretty enough for ye anymore?”

  “I can barely stand looking at ye. I have every right to ken the meaning of this.”

  “Dinnae fash, mon.” She patted him on the shoulder with mocking kindness unable to contain the contrary rebellion in her heart or the biting sarcasm in her voice. “It’s no’ permanent. Ye’ll have yer bonny wee fuck buddy back soon enough.”

  The Furrow of Fury morphed into horizontal rows of bewilderment. “My what?”

  The muffled bleat of trumpets reverberated through the hall, long and triumphant as if the queen herself were being welcomed to the crowds with great fanfare. Before it faded away, another low roar rose to replace it. Aila stepped closer to Finn, her eyes darting around the narrow space then to the far end of the hall where the kitchen servants approached like an indomitable stampede of…sheep.

  Aye, sheep, she defended the thought. The terrifying blighters.

  “What is it?”

  “A herald.” Finn pushed her between the statues and barricaded her against the onslaught of bodies with his own until they trickled to a harmless few.

  Maybe she’d been right, and the queen — or it was a king now, right? — was coming. “Heralding who?”

  Drowned out by another blast of trumpets, this one much closer, he refrained from answering and instead caught her hand to pull her along with him. Rab followed on their heels. Past the opening to the west tower stairs and into the main section of the castle. They arrived in the great hall where not long before Aila had tested locks under the disapproving glower of dozens of Campbell ancestors.

  The servants streamed through the front gate and over the drawbridge to form rows on either side of the muddy drive. At least the rain had stopped for the time being. For the third time, the herald announced the arrival of the procession coming toward them from the village. Following Finn across the drawbridge, she could hear cheers from the townspeople and wondered who’d merited such a greeting.

  “Mister Keeley!” Aila jumped at Derne’s cutting pitch as they rounded the neat row of servants and liveried footmen with the steward opposite them. “Control your brats.”

  A quick look around was all it took to see Niall and Effie swinging on the drawbridge chains that had gone from being functional to decorative long ago. Next to Derne, Elliot offered a helpless shrug. Right, Aila remembered that they’d made arrangements with him to take both children for the day following their long confinement in the nursery so that she and Finn might have a break and some time alone. She was about to chase down the children herself, when he pulled her back with a pointed look at her chest.

  Nay, her male attire. Gah, she’d almost forgotten she was in disguise!

  Uncertain where to go, for a brief moment she floundered under Derne’s scrutiny for the second time that morning. Abruptly, she turned away and melted into the crowds behind the line of servants. This was a mistake. Her makeup might be flawless in poor lighting and from a distance, but it wouldn’t hold up for long under a thorough inspection in broad daylight. That’s why she hadn’t plied Tris and Brontë with prosthetics. Instead she used color and contour to age them.

  Thankfully, after close to two weeks, Rab’s excitement incited him to follow Finn rather than stay with her in that telling moment. Finn returned a few moments later with each child by an ear, walking past her before he recalled her appearance. He sent the children and dog off to play in the open area behind them.

  “I hope ye’re able to transform yerself back into a lass,” he murmured to her under his breath. “God help me, I adore ye, but I’m no’ sure I can become a back door usher for ye.”

  Given her appearance, it wasn’t difficult to decipher his meaning. Amusement dashed away any residual irritation she might have harbored at that point, which wasn’t much. Even at his most chauvinistic, she couldn’t maintain an ounce of anger for long. “So, I’m no’ pretty enough for ye any longer?” she teased, trying not to smile and test her adhesive. “Do ye no’ want to hold my hand anymore?”

  He jerked his hand away from hers as if she were a plague unto herself, nevertheless a faint smile played on his lips. “No’ even in the darkest of rooms could I bring myself to fondle yer sweet arse looking like that.” He looked down at her, then tore his eyes away wi
th a grimace to fix them upon the oncoming parade while Aila choked on a chuckle. “Please tell me yer bonny breasts are still in there somewhere.”

  The chuckle became a snort of laughter. “Ye willnae be the only one disappointed if they’re no’.”

  “Ye will tell me how this came to be, aye?” Then, “Please?”

  “I promise.”

  Aila’s fingers itched to reach out to him. Oh, it had been an eternity without him. What had ever made her think she could give him up? Even beyond his sphere of influence he’d held her captive. Up close, he was an invasion of body, mind, and soul. She’d surrender everything for a smile. Brave any rejection for a chance to lose herself in his strong embrace again. The past, her independence…none of it really mattered in the end.

  “Just so ye ken, my anger back there wisnae for ye. I’ll try to explain it — all of it — best I can, later. If ye feel inclined —” she took a deep bracing breath “— to grant me the time, I’m willing to work on shedding my baggage for ye.”

  “I have nae idea of yer meaning. Baggage? Yer trunk?” He frowned. “That reminds me, what is that around Rab’s neck? What is ugly crying?”

  Aila winced, then winced again when the trumpets blared so loud she would have thought them an inch from her ear. The procession arrived and at the most opportune moment for her. A quartet of heralds on horseback and equal number of bannermen led the way. They turned off in front of the castle to reveal a dozen men on horses, what looked like a hundred more behind them on foot, followed by wagons and more still out of sight. None appeared the worse for wear despite the sporadic bouts of misting rain. Even though the skies had cleared somewhat, they must have stopped recently and changed clothes to look so fresh.

  One of the men at the front of the pack was bedecked in a jacket of crimson velvet covered with silver braid and buttons with a royal blue sash that crossed his chest. Over it, he wore a matching red cape. White breeches disappeared into tall black boots and she noticed a sword belted around his waist. Most notably, he wore a wig. Rather than the sort barristers wore, his had full rolls of white hair that framed his long angular face and fell past his shoulders. He waved a gloved hand at the people with a lofty smirk.