The Scot and I (29 page)

“I wouldn’t run from you,” she said, “not now. If I decide to leave, I’ll tell you. What happened in this case was that I came downstairs for breakfast, or at least for something to eat, and was lured outside by the sound of the pipe band. Then, of course, I smelled the tantalizing odor of Forfar Bridies—so, here I am, thirsty, starving, and with no money to pay for anything.”

He realized that she’d made a huge concession. She wouldn’t slip away secretly in the middle of the night. She’d tell him to his face that she was leaving, probably after she’d tied him naked to the bedpost and taken away all his clothes. All the same, this was progress.

“It’s not as funny as all that,” she said, squinting up at his crooked grin.

“I understood that you had agreed to marry me,” he replied mildly.

“Did I? I don’t remember that.” She put her fingers to his lips to silence him. “Let’s take this one day at a time. We have to meet up with the others and see how they have fared. You have to meet your section chief and clear you name. After that’s done, we can think about the future.”

“What about Demos?”

“When they come, I’ll be ready.”

There was enough ambiguity here to raise the hairs on his neck. He let it go, reminding himself that he was now one of the favored few, along with Dugald. He was one of Mahri’s inner circle. When Demos came for her, he would be ready for them as well.

“Let’s get you that Forfar Bridie,” he said.

 

 

Forfar Bridies had never been one of Alex’s favorites. They were made of minced beef and onions baked in a suet crust, and they oozed grease. Mahri wolfed hers down like a starving dog and asked for another. Alex was amused. She ate like a peasant but had the delicate frame of a dancer. It was this contradiction between strength and vulnerability that intrigued him. He wondered about her involvement with Demos. She’d been a courier, she’d told him. Small fry. Then why were they determined to capture her?

And why was he worrying when she appeared to be as carefree as a child?

“Alex,” she said, licking the grease from her fingers, “are you going to get me another Bridie or not?”

He’d prefer to stay and help her lick her fingers. “Right,” he said, “another Forfar Bridie for milady.”

He returned with the Bridie and also a small basket of fruit and cheeses that they could munch on as they wandered among the booths and tents.

Most of those who were on the green had brought their own food and were making a picnic of it. It had the feel of a country fair. There were no lords and ladies of the manor to kowtow to, no well-heeled landowners watching the comings and goings of their tenants. All the bigwigs would be taking in the games and handing out ribbons to the various competitors. Every once in a while, they heard the roar of the crowd as a favorite took the prize.

At one point, Mahri said, “If Dugald were here, he would be in his element. I’m not joking. When he was younger, Dugald was the champion putter of the stone in the whole of Scotland. My brother and I used to follow him from one gathering to another.”

“You traveled all over Scotland?” He was amazed.

“Hardly. We took in the local games, but Scotland came to us. Braemar, Alex. Eventually all champions come to pit their skill against each other at the Braemar Games.”

She was halfway through her second Bridie and stopped eating. “I’m not really enjoying this,” she said.

“Then why did you ask for it?”

“Because Dugald and my brother scoffed them down by the score. I suppose I wanted to share in the camaraderie, so I ate them, too. Luckily, we only got them at the games. My grandparents wouldn’t allow them in the house—too much grease for Granny’s delicate digestion. I suppose munching on a Forfar Bridie brings back happy memories. Unfortunately, it also brings on a stomachache. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Your grandparents didn’t come out to watch their gamekeeper’s skill putting the stone?”

“They didn’t travel much, but every year they would make the trip from Gairnshiel to Braemar, and Dugald appreciated the gesture. My grandfather said that one of his proudest moments was pinning a blue ribbon on Dugald’s chest. The ribbon also came with a purse. That was a golden day.”

She was staring into space as if she’d been transported back in time to that golden age. He was thinking of Gairnshiel. He knew the name but couldn’t remember where it was located.

Alex disposed of the half-eaten Bridie by throwing it to one of the many stray dogs that followed the crowds. She dug in the basket, came up with an apple, and polished it on her sleeve.

“What happened to your grandparents’ house?” he asked casually.

She was on the point of biting into the apple when his question arrested her. There was a moment of complete and utter stillness before she turned to look at him. “What happened to
your
grandparents’ house?” she asked.

He answered easily. “It came to me on their deaths. We’re going there now.” He could have bitten his tongue out. He shouldn’t have asked such a pointed question. Now she was wary of him.

“I could say the same. On my grandparents’ death, the house came to me. My solicitors rent it out. Well, it’s too big for one person, but I can’t bear to sell it. Anyway, when I’m in Deeside, I’m rarely here for more than a few days at a time. I stay with Dugald.”

He knew when to press for answers and when to back off. Nevertheless, her wariness irked him. They were lovers. He’d asked her to marry him. There should be no secrets between them. He should come first with her, just as she was first with him.

She interrupted his train of thought. “Listen!” she said.

“What?”

“The pipes. In the marquee? I think the dancing may have started. Don’t you like Highland dancing?”

“Well enough. As long as no one expects me to dance.”

“No one will. For one thing, you’re not wearing a kilt, and for another, these are exhibition dances. Only the best are allowed to take part.”

His resigned expression brightened considerably.

“Do we have time to take in the dancing?” she asked.

“What?”

“You said we should get off to an early start.”

“That was before we slept half the day away. I’ve reserved our room for another night.”

“In that case, what are we waiting for?”

She knew how to put on a good show, but behind her smiles and ready laughter, her mind was hard at work. He was still digging for answers, still looking for discrepancies in every careless remark. Alex would never give up. It seemed she couldn’t win. Alex wanted to annihilate Demos, and she couldn’t allow it.

There was only one thing to do. She had no choice. She had to face her father and tell him and his cronies that their days were numbered. She had the means to bring them down. She had to convince her father that she was desperate enough to do it.

It was her loose tongue that had brought her to this fix. She shouldn’t have mentioned Gairnshiel or the house, shouldn’t have forgotten even for a minute that Alex was an agent of the Crown. His agile mind would soon put two and two together.

She wasn’t going to trick him. She wasn’t going to lie to him. But that did not mean she had to tell him all her secrets. One day, perhaps, but not yet.

Meanwhile, she tried to appear happy and unconcerned. After taking in the Highland dancing, they wandered among the tents and booths in a desultory way, stopping to admire the work of local artisans. They were on their way back to the hotel when they came to a tent with a sign outside it. There were no words on it, only a sketch of a crystal ball.

“I’ve always wanted to have my fortune told,” said Mahri.

“I can’t think why. You’ve already met your Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.”

“True. But Dugald says he’s too old for me.”

“Very funny.”

She grinned. “I’m not joking. I asked him to marry me when I was about six years old. That’s when he told me he was too old for me. I, of course, was brokenhearted.”

Alex wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but he found himself inside the tent before he could dig in his heels or voice a protest.

“Mahri,” he said, “you’re not taken in by this flummery, are you?”

“Oh, don’t be such a killjoy. It’s only a bit of fun.”

It was as dark as pitch in that small tent, and it smelled distressingly of incense and candle grease. Alex chuckled. “So must the blasted heath have looked when Macbeth met the witches. Come along, Mahri. This is nothing but theater.”

But Mahri would not budge. “Wait,” she said, “the smoke is clearing.”

Alex peered into that dim interior, and gradually there emerged the figure of an old gypsy woman with a shawl around her head, sitting at a lace-covered table. In the center of the table was a crystal ball.

“I have been waiting for you,” said the gypsy. Her voice was low and musical with a decided Gaelic lilt.

If Mahri had not been there, Alex would have turned on his heel and walked out. He had no patience with fortune-tellers who made a mockery of things they did not understand. He stayed because Mahri seemed set on taking part in the gypsy’s games.

The gypsy said something in Gaelic. Alex understood the odd word, but that was all. Mahri pulled up a chair and sat down. After a moment, Alex followed suit.

The gypsy’s eyes bored into Alex’s. “I don’t tell fortunes or make prophecies,” she said as though she could read his mind. She pushed the crystal ball toward him. “The crystal speaks for itself.”

“Well, go on,” said Mahri when Alex hesitated. “Hold it.”

Forgive me, Granny,
Alex silently prayed, then he grasped the crystal with both hands and stared into its depths. It was just as he expected. Nothing happened. There were no pictures, no visions, no voices, not even a reflection of his own face. The crystal remained impersonal and silent. After a moment or two, he set it back in the center of the table.

“Nothing,” he said, “not even a whisper. Your crystal ball isn’t speaking to me.”

“That,” said the gypsy, “is because you have shut your mind to it. Would the lady like to try?”

Mahri darted a glowering look at Alex then smiled into the gypsy’s eyes. “Of course I want to try,” she said. “I have great respect”—another darting glance at Alex—“for the old ways and the old knowledge.”

There was a softening in the old woman, and she smiled fleetingly. “If the crystal speaks to anyone, it will speak to you,” she said.

Alex sat like a block of stone while Mahri reached for the crystal. He watched her fingers close around it. She seemed calm and collected. She was breathing normally. A minute ticked by, then she let out a long breath and released the crystal.

“Well?” said Alex. One corner of his mouth turned up. “Did the crystal speak to you?”

“Didn’t you hear it?”

He straightened in his chair. “No. I heard nothing. What did it say?”

“It said—oh, it doesn’t make sense.”

“Tell me!”

“It said that I would pass through fire but would not be consumed by it. What a strange thing to say!”

They both turned at the same moment to look at the gypsy. Her chair was empty, but behind the chair was another tent flap that fluttered in the breeze. They looked at the table. The crystal ball had vanished as well.

“We didn’t even pay her,” said Mahri.

 

 

It wasn’t trumpery,” said Mahri. She idly arranged the cutlery on the table as she thought things through. “I heard a voice. You’ll just have to take my word for it. And I could not have made up that strange message. ‘
You will pass through fire, but the fire will not consume you.
’ I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what I heard.”

“You don’t have to convince me. Didn’t I tell you that a famous seer once laid a prophecy on me, too?”

They were in the dining room of the Feughside Hotel, waiting for their dinner to be served. Massive dark beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and a plethora of stags’ heads on the walls stoically surveyed the diners. There were few tables still available, and the babble of conversation made it necessary for Alex and Mahri to keep their heads close together.

Mahri said, “Yes, but you gave me the impression that you didn’t take it seriously. Well, I’m not exactly a true believer myself, but there are some things that defy explanation.”

They pulled apart as a serving girl delivered their first course, fish soup with oatcakes. Mahri took a spoonful of the broth before going on. “Who was this famous seer, anyway?”

“My granny,” responded Alex simply.

There was a moment of complete silence. “Your granny?” she finally said.

“My granny,” he repeated.

She chuckled. “Yes, well, doesn’t every old woman in Scotland think that she’s a bit of a witch? I know my granny did.”

“Very true, but my granny was the genuine article. It runs in the family.”