“Think harder, then. All of the other valuables from the west wing ended up in the attic, because the household had ample warning that it was falling into disrepair. There’s no reason to believe the map would have been left behind.”
He glared toward the well-covered lump on the bed. “Not if Ricky hid it first. At the same time, it would have been lovely if you’d come up with this theory four days ago.”
The blanket lowered, revealing disheveled blonde hair, followed by a pair of blue eyes with smeared mascara. Ah, the perils of not removing one’s make-up before bed.
“It would have been even more lovely if you ever thought of anything,” she returned, her tone sharp enough to cut glass.
“I think,” he retorted, “he’d forgotten all about the map and the treasure. He’s rolling in money; something he stumbled over when he was fifteen, especially since he found out about Aunt Rachel’s cancer at the same time, probably went right out of his head. If he thought about hiding it at all, he only did it after I went looking for it in the old library.” As he considered it, Ricky had more money than Midas. An old treasure map and the prize it represented would have slipped his mind until the moment someone else expressed an interest.
“There aren’t that many places it could be then, are there?” Eerika sat up, one blue strap of her nightgown sliding to her elbow.
God, she looked fetching. Reginald started toward the bed, loosening the belt of his dressing robe as he approached. “You know what would help me think better?” he murmured.
“Oh, please. It’s morning. I think perhaps I’m too distracting for you, Reginald.” She pulled up her sleeve. “Think of me as your reward for a job well done. When you do as you promised me.”
Fuck. “The treasure is enough incentive, don’t you think?”
“As we’ve been here for nearly a week and you’ve made precisely zed in the way of progress, I would have to say no, the treasure doesn’t seem to be enough incentive for you.” She lowered her head, regarding him with china-blue eyes through her long, dark lashes. It was effective, and might have been more so without the smears of black around her eyes. “So now I’m your incentive. I want to be famous, Reginald.”
“Fine.” Grabbing the ends of the belt, he pulled his dressing robe closed again. “Get dressed, Incentive. I can’t search the attic and twenty-seven other rooms on my own.”
With his new insight, he wouldn’t be looking for cleverly-hidden as much as hastily put in the most out-of-the-way, inconspicuous place possible. Attic first, then, followed by everywhere they hadn’t been searching for the past six days. Then he and Eerika would have a little chat about incentive while he rained down gold coins and precious gems on her tits. They might not be able to televise that, but he bloody well wouldn’t mind doing the re-enactment. Booty Queen, indeed.
Now that image was incentive.
18
Monday, 10:45 a.m.
“A day and a half ago I was in Palm Beach,” Stoney said, holding the heavy blue blanket close around him. With the huge parka he wore beneath that, he looked like a giant, grouchy grizzly bear. “There is snow outside, Sam. Snow.”
She grinned at him before she went back to studying her map. “Just think of it as solid water.”
“That’s stupid. This is stupid. Addison wants you to go after Will Dawkin’s stash, except he won’t help, he won’t admit it’s real, and he would actually prefer if nobody did anything but go bird hunting and help him count up his Picassos.”
“It’s complicated. And he promised me he wouldn’t shoot any birds.” Looking at the map in light of the new stuff she’d read about Will Dawkin yesterday, she could immediately eliminate two of the possible locations she’d marked. “But at least I’m not going behind his back anymore.”
“Oh, yay. What are you supposed to do when – if – you find the damn thing, then? Go tell Addison you figured out his stupid challenge so he can pat you on the head and decide you’re trustworthy enough to marry?”
“This is not a game show,” she retorted. “And I haven’t decided what I’ll do when – when – I figure it out. Yoda knows there’s no ifs and tries allowed.” She traced the old road with one finger, winding in and out of the hills and valleys, touching villages and curving close to the handful of massive estates, including Canniebrae, that dotted the area.
Will Dawkin had been a commoner, the bastard son of a tanner and a priest’s daughter. The Church – and her dad – had not been kind to her. The locals, though, had taken her in because she’d apparently been much nicer and more charitable than her father. She’d taken a position at The Bonny Lass back when it had been a traditional coaching inn. Will Dawkin had spent most of his evenings there growing up.
His life of crime had begun when several of the local lords, in the wake of the Battle of Culloden, had begun throwing nearby tenants and cotters off their rented lands in an effort to keep their own properties solvent. Having more sheep equaled allowing fewer people to clutter up their grazing land. The Highland Clearances was when Will Dawkin had started holding up coaches and riders and robbing them. Despite the turmoil, the village of Orrisey had remained intact. Hell, from what she could tell, it had thrived, even back then.
Now it had that old Highlands charm with a second-place award to prove it, and wi-fi and internet despite nearby Balmoral. It had both a quaint bakery and a high-end dress shop where even a professional shopper like Eerika had found something worthy of purchase.
“You figured it out, didn’t you?” Stoney said into the quiet attic.
Samantha blinked, lifting her head. “What?”
“I recognize that look on your face, honey. You and your maps – you figured it out. You know where the loot is.”
“I know where I think it is.” She tapped the outline she’d made of The Bonny Lass. “Finding out for sure will take some finesse.”
Stoney made his way over to where she sat. “Isn’t that the pub?”
“It is now. Two hundred fifty years ago it was an inn where Will Dawkin’s mother worked in the kitchen.”
“That’s a little obvious, don’t you think? Wouldn’t the Redcoats or whoever would have known that and stomped through there a long time ago?”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” She looked at the map again. “Somewhere really close to The Bonny Lass, but not obvious. Somewhere that could be protected.” She folded the map, old, familiar tension and anticipation pulling at her. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug, and she was definitely still addicted. “Wanna go for a drive?”
He shook his head. “I find the jobs. I don’t go on the jobs. Plus, snow.”
She could have used another pair of savvy, cynical eyes who knew what to look for. At the same time, Stoney’s people didn’t exactly hail from the Highlands. Him poking around would be even more noticeable than her doing it – and she had a lot more practice at blending in and being unnoticed, anyway. “Are you going to stay up here, then? The notebook I’m using for cataloguing is on the gaming table.”
“Addison’s not worried I’ll pilfer something and sell it to one of my contacts?” He picked up the notebook and flipped it open.
“I’m not worried.”
“Maybe, then. Or Mercia invited me to the library for cocoa at eleven o’clock. The library has a fire. Plus, cocoa.”
Samantha laughed. “The great Walter Barstone, tamed by a cold day.” She offered him a fist, which he bumped with his own. “Mercia likes old timey card games. So do you. Play one with her. I’ll be back soon.”
“Take a walkie-talkie.”
“Roger that.”
Rick had vacated the house hours ago to head back down to The Bonny Lass with Donner. That Japanese guy deserved all the trouble Rick decided to send in his direction. On top of the trouble he was making for Addisco, Mr. Kigomo was also making things more difficult for her, because she would have preferred being able to visit The Bonny Lass without Rick and Donner glowering at her.
Stompin
g into her heavy hiking boots, she tucked her jeans into the tops to help keep her feet warm and dry. A heavy sweater of nondescript olive went over her black Godzilla T-shirt, and a gray, fleece-lined coat over that. Lined leather gloves and a wool hat later, and she looked ready for either the Iditarod or an REI commercial – anything but a joint casing expedition and a possible B and E.
Maybe that was a good thing, though. The village was on Canniebrae land – Rick’s land. A snatch and grab followed by a quick getaway wouldn’t work, and she had the feeling that what she might find would be way more complicated than any of her previous jobs, anyway. Whatever she decided, she was going to have to be able to stand by it. And to live with it.
Yule arrived at the front door as she trotted down the last flight of the main staircase. She had no idea how the butler knew when to be where, especially with the power still out and a lot of dark, murky hallways to contend with, but he was really good at it. “If anybody asks,” she said, adjusting the black wool cap to cover her ears, “I’m heading down to the village for a while. One of those pairs of shoes I saw is calling to me.”
“The jeep’s already gone down,” Yule returned, “and the truck won’t start again. Shall I have Briggs saddle Lily for ye?”
“No,” she blurted, probably with too much volume. “Don’t worry about it,” she continued. “I go running all the time. A walk’ll be nice.”
He freed a sturdy, straight stick from the umbrella stand. “The snow’s beginning to melt. Take a walking stick to help ye with yer footing, and dunnae stray from the road, Miss Sam.”
Straying from the road was exactly what she meant to do. “Thanks, Yule. I’ll be careful. I’ve got a walkie-talkie with me, just in case.” She patted her right pocket.
Nodding, he pulled open the door. “I’ll tell Mrs. Yule to have a nice hot soup ready for ye when ye get back. I reckon ye’ll need it.”
She stepped outside and headed down the drive, the thin layer of snow there not so much crunching as collapsing into a slick, icy mud under her feet. Well, this was going to be fun. The walking stick was going to be a lot handier than she’d expected, even if it did kind of make her feel like Gandalf the Grey.
Her breath clouded when she exhaled, but so far, the inhale still felt refreshing. A mile down the road she might be ready to go Donner party (the cannibal one, not the dinners at the lawyer’s house), but so far so good. This road merged into the old one at the foot of the hill where Canniebrae perched, but today seemed like a bad day to try a shortcut. She stuck to the winding road.
Without the confining car or the horror of horseback riding, she felt more of a sense of place. Clumps of snow plopped down from the branches above her, where somewhere up ahead a fox yapped and a crow cawed in response. The late summer birds had probably been stunned by the early snow, but the year-round animals had to be more used to this kind of weather.
As for her, she’d done a job in Paris in January that had nearly frozen off her fingers, and one in Helsinki where staying still enough to fool the motion sensors had been almost impossible because she’d been shivering so badly. Both of those gigs had involved climbing up the outside of a building, which had meant no parka, thin gloves, and the only good part of it – a full face mask.
Now her cheeks were cold, but the rest of her felt downright toasty. If this was how the semi-honest life was going to treat her, so far it was pretty nice. Especially the nights. Last night she hadn’t been hanging onto a ledge by her fingertips; she’d been hanging onto Rick. Nothing could beat that ride.
Aside from all the other thoughts traipsing through her mind as she turned up the old road to head toward the village, the Scottish Highlands were really pretty, and ancient, and not quite peaceful as much as biding its time, and she liked it here. Sure, she’d go stir crazy after a couple of weeks, but right now she was still discovering – or rediscovering – priceless works of art in the attic and elsewhere.
It took nearly half an hour, but the village finally came into sight through the trees. Samantha stopped to pull out the second and third pages of her map. The landscape looked a little different in the snow, but as long as there were no open holes she didn’t know about, tracking down her X-marks shouldn’t be too difficult.
Unfortunately, MacGyver the jeep was still parked at The Bonny Lass, which eliminated any plans of wandering in to ask to see how they stored their whisky in hopes of seeing the cellar. She could wait out in the cold for Rick and the lawyer to leave, skip the pub, or invent another reason for snooping around, or start with theory number two about the nearby hiding place. She clapped her gloved hands together. Number two it was, then.
Sighting the shallow ravine just west of the village, she lined her map up with the village’s main street and then trekked around through the deeper snow until she came up on the far side. She stabbed through the white stuff with the walking stick, using it as a solid ground detector, and followed the trail she made down to the ravine’s floor.
Back in Jacobite times, which would have been just prior to Will Dawkin’s appearance on the local roadways, churches frequently had hidey holes and escape tunnels. Those had been mostly for Catholics when Henry the Eighth had gone Protestant, but later they’d come in handy for anti-British agitators and supporters of old King James the Second and bonnie Prince Charlie. Those holes and tunnels would also have been useful for any thieves and smugglers looking to keep stolen goods somewhere safe.
The question was, had The Bonny Lass once had an escape tunnel, and did it still have one? She crouched, digging the stick into the side of the ravine. With the snow this wasn’t going to be easy, damn it. She would have to hope the warming trend continued so she could take another look tomorrow or the next day. If an opening was down here, it would be well hidden even under optimal conditions; anything obvious would have been found a long time ago.
She searched for twenty minutes, until the cold began sinking into her fingers despite the thick gloves. Tucking her hands beneath her armpits, Samantha straightened – then ducked again as a pair of heads came into view on the higher ground beside the ravine above her. Villagers on their way to lunch or not, she did not want to have to make up a story about why the future Lady Rawley was sneaking around in a ravine.
“Nae, I dunnae see anything,” a male voice said. “Are ye certain she didnae decide it was too cold and turn back?”
“I sent Freddie up to the widow’s walk,” Yule’s slightly distorted, mechanical-sounding voice came. “She’s nae come back up the hill.”
“Why do the bloody tourists think this is Disneyland?” the nearer voice returned. “We dunnae have animatronic deer, and the trails dunnae have railings or loos.”
The radio crackled again. “Miss Sam’s a clever lass. Keep yer eyes open. If ye’re listening, Jamie, dunnae tell his lordship. Nae until Rob makes his way along her trail to the village to see if he comes across her. And ye keep looking, Duncan.”
“Aye. I meant to spend the day drinking, but tramping through slush is just as fine, I reckon,” the close-by voice took up again.
“Thank ye, Duncan.”
“And what aboot the cousin, Yule?” Duncan returned. “He still looking for trouble?”
“Aye. But be patient. They’ll nae be here much longer.”
“He needs to go back to selling cars. It’s nae wise for a man to be so greedy.”
“He’s still hunting about the house, Duncan. I doubt he has the smarts to move past pulling up floorboards.”
“Ye’d best be right about that, Yule.”
Samantha stayed where she was until the footsteps and voices above faded. That was how Yule always knew where to be, even in a sprawling house with iffy electricity. That was how the villagers kept in contact with each other and with Canniebrae, even with intermittent cell service and one wi-fi hot spot for miles around. They’d probably come up with the walkie-talkie solution years ago, and she’d thought she was so clever to have Stoney send a box of them up for the
Canniebrae guests.
“Turtles are faster than you are, Sam,” she muttered to herself, too annoyed for a minute to even acknowledge that Yule and the Duncan guy had just confirmed that she was right. The entire village was part of this. Everybody knew about the treasure except for her, Reg, and the Viking. Well, just Reg and the Viking now, because she’d figured it out now – in theory, even if she hadn’t set eyeballs on anybody’s gold yet.
Taking out her own radio and plugging her earphones into it, she tapped the talk button twice, paused, then tapped it three more times. She counted to five, and the earbuds crackled twice. Letting out her breath, she switched to the channel two above three, which all the guests were using. She pressed the talk button again. “Stoney?” she whispered.
“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten everything,” his voice came back.
“I don’t forget anything.”
“Okay, okay. What’s up? And why are you whispering?”
“The villagers think I’m lost in a snow drift. They’re looking for me, and I don’t want to be discovered digging through mud looking for their gold.”
“Their gold?” he repeated, instantly picking up on that, as she’d known he would.
“Later. They have their own walkie network. See if you can find the channel they’re using. Be discreet. Yule’s in on it, too. I don’t know who else might be.”
“Roger that. What are you going to do?”
“Get found.”
That done, she moved back to channel three, pocketed the headphones and the walkie-talkie in separate pockets, and scooted along the ravine until it shallowed out beyond the village. This puzzle had just gotten a lot more complicated. From what she could piece together, it wasn’t just the owner of The Bonny Lass who knew where Will Dawkin’s loot was and had also been benefitting from it. It was probably the entire village and everyone between there and Canniebrae. If she knew one thing, people hiding treasure didn’t want it discovered, they didn’t want it taken away, and they really didn’t want publicity about it.
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