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

by Angeline Fortin

  “This coming from the man who waited a half a century to dig around in a moldering pile of shite for his lost controller when he should have realized long ago that if I wisnae from this time, I must have a time machine, too?” she spat out, consumed by pain and hatred. “Ye’re nothing but an utter roaster, ye daft shite.”

  Color flooded his pallid cheeks, rage narrowed his eyes. “Where is it?” He snapped his fingers at her. “Give it to me.”

  “Feck off, ye mangled fud.”

  Rage suffused his face even though it was unlikely he comprehended the vulgar depths of her insult beyond the visceral. Then that gruesome smile was back. “Keep it, dream that it could take you anywhere other than into a permanent grave. And keep this, as well.” He tossed the phone on the ground. “To prolong your misery.”

  He stepped back through the door. Aila staggered forward to get there before it closed.

  Rab beat her to it. He slipped through the door before it was slammed in her face. Derne’s shouts barely penetrated the door. She threw her weight against it. It bounced a few inches and rebounded again as a shot rang out. Rab’s pained yelp almost drowned out the sound of the key turning in the lock.

  “Nay! Ye better no’ have killed my dog, ye bastard. I’ll kill ye. I swear I will!” She pounded her fist against the door. Jiggling the handle, she pounded it again. This time with more fury. “Nay!”

  Chapter 35

  “We’re no’ going to die down here. We’re no’ going to die down here.”

  It was her mantra as Aila pressed her cheek to the ground to try to see beneath the gap below the door. Rab’s nose was wedged there, snuffling between heartbreaking whimpers, the occasional paw sweeping by as if he thought he could dig his way back to her through stone and solid wood. When he stilled, her chest constricted so tightly she could hardly breathe. Only his low keening told her he was still alive.

  “Ye hang on.” The hoarse plea summoned another bout of tears. She swiped them away as they splashed on her cheeks. There was no way to ease the pain in her heart. “We’re no’ going to die down here. Do ye hear that, laddie?”

  Throat clogged, she continued her desperate mantra in a croaky singsong to pacify him.

  To pacify them both.

  There was nothing she could do for him. No way to know if he were fatally injured or how much blood he’d lost. For her part, she’d torn up her petticoat and cleaned the wound on her thigh as best she could. Under the light of her phone, it didn’t look as bad as she had feared. There were two holes, so it appeared the bullet had passed through the fleshy bit. That knowledge didn’t ease her pain.

  Nor did it soothe her worry for Rab.

  Or for what might come.

  “We dinnae need some man to come and save us. We’re going to save ourselves, aye?”

  Limping around the room, she dug through the treasure for anything that might be used to pick the lock. Not that she knew much about lock picking. If she’d had an Internet connection, she might have Googled it. Without it, she tried swords, necklace clasps, and broach pins. Nothing did the trick. Had Rab been locked in with her, she could have pulled the ring off his collar and tried that.

  He wasn’t.

  She was alone and her time was running out. Giving up the effort, Aila sat back next to the door and pressed her cheek to the ground, praying she’d hear some hint that Rab was still with her. She longed to comfort him. To hug him, pet him and assure him that everything would be all right. Even if it wouldn’t.

  Time ticked by without rescue. What more could she do? As Derne pointed out, using the device to go forward would send her to a time when this cellar was filled in with dirt. An instant death. Going back had occurred to her, but what good would it do? She’d still be stuck behind a locked door. “We’re no’ going to die down here, Rab,” she whispered. “We’re going to be fine, ye and I.”

  If she kept telling herself that, maybe she could convert words into reality. Hope was all she had. Blood continued to seep through her bandages and the little battery on her phone kept counting down.

  She didn’t know which was worse. No power on earth could compel her to turn off the light to conserve what little battery she had left.

  How Finn would laugh if he knew he’d been right.

  * * *

  Finn found Ian in the servants’ hall at the table with a man and woman he didn’t know. Nor had he seen them around the castle, though the man did look somewhat familiar. There were many strangers gathered in Inveraray today, so that didn’t surprise him. Both were dressed well, though modestly. He couldn’t imagine they were part of Argyll’s ostentatious entourage.

  “Ian, there ye are. Have ye seen Aila about?”

  His friend sat back with a caustic grin. “I feel like we had this same conversation this verra morning. Seems to be happening more and more of late, this sense of recurring events. Such as Aila’s trunk. I was just telling these fine folks about it.”

  Those fine folks stood amid Ian’s speech and the man now extended his hand. “Ye must be Lord Keeley. Honor to meet ye. I’m Tris MacKintosh. And this is—”

  “Introductions!” Ian announced and dragged himself to his feet. Like those in the solar, he was well in his cups. “Forgi’ my rudeness. These are Aila’s friends. The ones she mentioned to us. My relation — for obviously he is that, aye?”

  That’s why the man appeared familiar. Looking from one MacKintosh to the other, Finn could see the vague resemblance.

  “They’ve been trying to figure out how they’re related exactly.” A secret smile played on the woman’s lips as she, too, held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Brontë Hughes. Aila’s friend.”

  Her accent was flat and foreign to him. Her forthright manner and bold gaze were not. “Aila’s friend from…?” He cocked his head with a quizzical look.

  Her smile stretched into a grin. “Precisely. Finally told you, has she? I’m so glad. And so happy to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Her eyes assessed him from head to toe. “She was right about you. Hot.”

  “Och, lass,” Tris chided, and she laughed.

  Finn had no idea at what. He wasn’t the least bit warm. “She spoke of me when she went back…home, I presume?”

  Ian laughed. “It’s as though ye’re talking Greek. What did Aila tell ye, Finn? Did she leave to return to the distant land of the Orkneys?”

  “It sounds Greek because ye’re blootered, my friend.” Finn clapped him on the shoulder in a far more friendly manner than he had Etteridge earlier. He’d wait for a sober moment to share what he’d found out. If he ever did. It would be a difficult story to sell. He looked back at Aila’s friend. “Have ye seen her about?”

  “No, we were supposed to meet her in her room a while ago,” Brontë told him. “I will admit we got a little distracted by meeting Ian here. She’s got to be around somewhere.”

  “Perhaps she took her beast for a walk then. She seems to enjoy doing so,” Ian said as he resumed his seat…and his drinking.

  As with his greeting, his words were an echo of those he’d spoken earlier when Finn had similarly been looking for Aila. They made as much sense now as they had before. Had Rab needed to be taken out and he’d just missed her? Had it only been that morning? Finn found that hard to believe. The time since seemed like days instead of hours. Much had come to light since then and much had been explained. The presence of Aila’s friends had not.

  “Why are ye here?” he asked Brontë as they sat. He positioned himself so that he would see Aila when she came in.

  “We came to help distribute the medicine,” she told him then winced. “You know about all that, don’t you?”

  “Aye, Aila told me. She said she’d brought medicine for my bairns as well?”

  She nodded. “We’ve already taken it to them.”

  “Good news. Thank ye, Mistress Hughes.”

  “Please call me Brontë.” She was an engaging lass with a friendly open face and caring in her eyes. Aila had a good f
riend in her. “Anyway, that’s where we stumbled upon Ian here. We hit it off right away. I guess we should have come around to find you earlier. I wanted to make sure she had plenty of time to work things out with you. Did you?”

  Tris chuckled at that. “Ye’ll need a bit of something to arm yerself with before my lass is done with ye, my friend. Drink?”

  Not long ago, Finn had been desperate for one. Now he only wanted Aila. To see her, hold her. She’d said she’d be waiting for him when he returned. He wasn’t going to quibble over the needs of the dog versus his own. She’d be back soon.

  “Aye, one while I wait for her.” Finn sipped the Scotch and watched the door.

  “I can see you’re not going to answer that question. Let me ask another,” Brontë recalled his attention to the table. In truth, he hadn’t even registered a question in need of answering. “Was Aila able to discover anything at the mill? You know about that, I assume, since you’re aware of the medicine?”

  “Aye, she told me the millstone had been poisoned.”

  Ian looked up from his drink. “What’s this?”

  “We thought as much.” Tris nodded. “Best burn it to the ground, I say. Better that than risk further effects.”

  Finn didn’t disagree. He’d happily burn down the castle if that’s what it took to keep everyone safe. “She said ye had a suspect in the matter?”

  “More of a suspicion.” Tris sipped from his glass with a grimace. “We figured once the treasure was exposed, confirmation would come soon enough. Aila thinks it was a man named Derne who’d been pestering the miller of late. Do ye know him?”

  “Aye.” Finn scratched his jaw. “Truth is, I cannae see it. No’ that he isnae corrupt enough to unearth a treasure for his own gain. I can see that and more. The man’s an auld prick, but I cannae see him dirtying his hands like that. Alas, he’s far too high in the instep.”

  “Poison is typically the weapon of those who dinnae want blood on their hands, would ye no’ agree?” Tris suggested.

  He would allow that much. “Aye. Why no’ simply confront him?”

  “If we can’t find the treasure and draw him out, we will,” Brontë told him. “Was Aila able to find where the key belonged?”

  “What key?”

  They explained how they’d found a key hidden in the medallion, and Finn frowned, recalling the way Aila in costume had tried to open the storeroom door in the hall hours before.

  And then, how Rab had sniffed at every blasted door he’d come across. Aggravating to Finn at the time, he now realized that the dog had been following her progress all along. Stopping at every lock she tried. Why hadn’t she said anything?

  Och, she’d tried.

  He’d been too dumbfounded by her costume to pay any attention at the time. If she were to return this instant, he’d happily listen to anything she had to say, for as long as she wanted. Even if he didn’t understand a word of it.

  “Nay,” Finn answered then shook his head. “Mayhap. She said something when we were at the castle.”

  “We’re in the castle now,” Ian pointed out. “Ye’re talking rather strangely. The lot of ye.”

  “The other castle.” Finn cast a pointed look between Aila’s friends.

  Brontë’s brows shot up once his meaning was clear. “Oh! Oh, really?”

  Tris, too, seemed surprised. “That is unexpected.”

  “’Tis a long story. One better left to another time.” He cocked his head toward Ian. “As Aila said, ’tis been a day. Simple yet concise enough to encompass the many surprises it has dealt.”

  “Ye have my sympathies.” Tris lifted his glass in salute. “That first time…aye, it can be a blow. I hope ye handled it better than I.”

  As his meaning sunk in, Finn gaped at the man. “Ye have a long story of yer own, then? I’d be interested in hearing it.”

  “Aye, we historians need to band together.”

  Finn was happy to drink to that.

  “Ye’re all at it,” Ian grouched. “Finn dinnae ken a thing about history. Cease yer havering.”

  Ignoring Ian — there was no way to explain everything to him when Finn had hardly wrapped his head around it himself — his eyes strayed back toward the kitchen doors. What could be keeping Aila?

  “I’m so glad you two are working things out.” Clearly Aila’s friend was nosing about for information regarding the state of his affections for Aila. Aila must not have been detailed in her description of his character if Brontë thought she could pry personal information from him. His stony silence was met with a sigh from Brontë and a knowing look from Tris.

  “Where could she be?” Finn looked at the door and back again. It had been a long while now since he joined the others. Odd she hadn’t returned yet. “How long have ye been here?”

  Tris pulled out a pocket watch and consulted it. “An hour or more. Why?”

  That long? It had been a mere three quarters of an hour since he’d gone down to the solar. Concern spurred him into motion. Pushing back his chair, he stood. “And Aila never passed by this way?”

  “Nay, we would have seen her,” Tris assured him.

  “Is there another way out?” Bronte asked. “Another route she could have taken?”

  Ian straightened in his chair and shared a look with Finn. “Nae other way she’d take. The lass avoids the main towers and she would never go down the far hallway. ’Tis even more poorly lit than the one to the servants’ hall, and she’s afraid of the dark.”

  “Are we talking about the same Aila Marshall?” Brontë asked with a doubtful look. “As far as I know, she isn’t afraid of anything.”

  An uneasy feeling crept over him. Something was amiss. Aye, she exuded confidence and assurance. She’d told him it was nothing more than a façade to hide the insecurities beneath. Those insecurities had prompted her to leave him once before. Her remorse over doing so had been obvious. Finn knew she wouldn’t take flight in the same fashion again. Moreover, she wouldn’t have confessed what she had if she meant to leave.

  She loved him.

  The admission had come as something of a shock. So staggering he hadn’t even been able to respond properly. Another surprise on top of so many others. Not because he didn’t believe her. Rather because up until that moment he’d had only the vaguest inkling that she shared his feelings. Finn’s heart slowed to a hard thump against his chest. His blood pulsing hot in his veins.

  His feelings.

  She was perfect for him. Headstrong enough to match him. Intelligent enough to challenge him. Humorous enough to bring light and laughter into his life. Caring enough to be the mother his children needed. Aila would be more than a wife — she would be a partner. Even if he wanted to, she wouldn’t tolerate being coddled or sheltered. She would demand to be his equal. He loved that about her.

  In setting aside the past once and for all, had he embraced the truth in his heart, even if the knowledge hadn’t yet registered in his conscious mind? The future was his for the taking, without the darkness there to drive away the light. Aila could be his, as well. Without hesitation. Without regret. There was nothing left to hold him back.

  Nothing else mattered.

  And she loved him already.

  Aye, it was young and new. They had much to learn about one another still. There was time aplenty for them. The knowledge warmed him and brought a tender ache to his heart. Finn wasn’t one to believe in fate. This bond between them, however, seemed as if it had been written in the heavens.

  Meant to be.

  From this moment on.

  Or from the moment he figured out where she was.

  Or who had taken her. Apprehension began to trickle in behind the worry. Aila had uncovered the truth about the poison. If whoever was responsible knew, they’d want to eliminate all possible evidence to the crime. Including any witnesses.

  Like Boyce.

  Like Aila.

  They needed to find her before something dire happened.

  He needed
to find her.

  “Is there any chance Derne kent she suspected him?”

  Chapter 36

  “There’s got a be a way to fix this. Rabbie, lad, are ye still with me?” A labored sigh was her only answer. Heartening and agonizing at the same time. He wouldn’t last long without care. As for herself, she’d survive a great deal longer and that didn’t soothe her one bit.

  Six percent. The flashlight sucked power from her battery like a leach sucking its life blood. When it did, so would the iota of composure that kept her from bawling over the thought of Rab dying.

  As long as the light shone, so did her hope for a solution to save him. To save them both.

  Aila sat with her back against the door, clutching her phone in her shaky hands like a lifeline. “Let’s walk through it again, aye?” Her voice quavered, raspy with anguish she refused to acknowledge. He wouldn’t die. He couldn’t. “Going forward in time gets us nothing. Going backward gets us the same thing. Either way, we’re still stuck behind this blasted door. So, unless someone finds the statue and the opening and comes down here to open the door…” She banged her head back against the wooden slab. “Aye, they’ll find it eventually, I ken ye’re right, Rabbie. None of them are going to give up on finding us. The question is, how long will it take? If I kent when…”

  She dropped her head back again, this time with an aggrieved yowl not unlike those the dog was fond of making. “What a puce goon I am. Why dinnae I think of it before?”