The small number of clansmen who knew what had transpired—and what had been avoided—were in a celebratory mood, and Abby had ordered a lavish supper of roast beef, smoked ham, asparagus, and toasted pears in her private dining room. Duncan, who had damned it all and claimed the seat next to Abby, was enjoying some very fine whiskey and watching her eyes sparkle as she repeated the story of her wayward farm wife, well, at least a heavily edited one.
One of Rosston’s men passed along Rosston’s greetings, saying he was awake and resting comfortably in his room. Jock reported that his crew had put the finishing touches on the crumbling chapel on the Esk that would convert it, at least for the time being, into a rustic Kerr fishing lodge. Sir Alan would while away a day or two knee-deep in Duncan’s not inconsiderate charm and some of the best fishing waters in all of Britain.
All was well.
At evening’s end, Abby excused herself to drop in on Rosston and thank him for his help—though Duncan rather hoped there would be some arse kicking as well. And she had instructed Duncan to take the secret passage to her room once the halls emptied, which was why he was currently taking the steps on the main staircase two at a time, whistling.
“You seem rather happy,” said Nab, whom he found bent over a pair of dice on his bed when he entered his room.
“I am.”
“What was the private supper for?”
“What’s the word on the street about it?”
“Huh?”
“What do the men think it was for?”
“Well, they know Rosston was stabbed. He says it was a soldier. But some of the men think it was you.”
Duncan rather liked that. “If that were true, I doubt Lady Kerr would have been quite as willing to include me in the supper invitation.”
“Unless it was a battle for her hand. Like Penelope and her suitors.”
Duncan lifted a brow, not just at the reference, which surprised him in an unschooled boy in the eighteenth century, but the implications. All of Penelope’s 108 suitors had been murdered by her returning husband. “I certainly hope you’re assuming I’m the Odysseus in this contest.”
“I might be, but the men are staking you at seven to one against.”
“What?!”
Nab grinned. “I’d be betting myself, but you still havena paid me.”
Duncan tousled the boy’s hair. “I’ll be paying you, ye wee thieving fox. Give me another week. Speaking of fox, what sort of information has Rosston been pumping you for on me?”
“The usual. Where you’re from, for one thing.” Nab crossed his arms around his knees. “I’d like to know that myself.”
Duncan took a seat near the boy. “It’s not far. My grand-da lived a couple of miles from here.”
Nab looked away. “I know you’re not from around here. Not really. It’s all right if you don’t want to tell me.”
Duncan was speechless. His reticence had hurt more than just Abby. “It isn’t that I don’t want to tell you, Nab. It’s just that there are things that even one’s business partner…”
Nab scooped up his dice and hopped off the bed.
“Stop,” said Duncan. “I’m from Scotland. I grew up in Edinburgh. I’m just not from…now.”
Nab turned, eyes narrowed.
“I’m from a time ahead of this one,” Duncan said. “I was called here by…well, that part’s still a little unclear, but I suppose the answer is a combination of me, Lady Kerr, and Undine.”
He was glad he’d thrown in Undine. It wasn’t till he’d mentioned her name that Nab relaxed his scowl slightly. The boy’s face was a mixture of desire to believe the fabulous tale and fear Duncan was mocking him.
“Prove it,” Nab said tentatively.
“Oh, I see. First, you want the truth, then you dinna believe it. What do ye want to know?”
“When does that fat old queen die?”
“Tut, tut. Disrespectful, even in a Scotsman. And the answer is 1714.” Duncan sifted through the faint remnants of his secondary school history lessons. “More or less. Followed by a long line of King Georges—Georges of every shape and size.” He sized up Nab with a gimlet eye. “I should think you’d live to see the third one, who, by the way gives Anne a run for her money in the rotundity department. But he’s actually best known for a war he wages on America.”
“America?” Nab hooted. “Ruffian upstarts. They wouldna stand a chance.”
Duncan chuckled. “Aye, well, it wouldn’t matter if I told you they lost or won. You have no way of proving me wrong.”
A look of concern came over the boy’s face. “Oh God, you’re not an American, are you? That’s not why your accent’s so odd?”
“Are you impugning my Scottishness, ye cad? I am not an American by birth, nae. A bit by sensibility, though, I fear. They have a hell of a fine idea about liberty. Keep your ears open when you’re a grown-up. As a Scotsman, I think ye’ll like what you hear. Now swear to me. Ye canna tell the men what I told you. Ye canna tell your friends. Ye canna tell your ma. Ye canna tell anyone.”
“I never tell my ma anything.” He held up his hand. “I swear.”
“And with that”—Duncan glanced at the clock—“I believe I shall take my leave.”
Nab rolled his eyes. “Another secret mission?”
“In a particularly rewarding engagement.”