Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(97)

“Anders Iversen!” Duncan said. “Is that the man, then, that left Miss Livingstone high and dry?”

“Aye, one and the same.”

“He did no’ leave me high and dry.”

Duncan twisted around. Miss Livingstone stepped out of the crowd, dressed quite somberly, her glorious hair piled up under a hat. “I knew him for a scoundrel in the end,” she said. “Had I known that he and Davy Livingstone struck their wicked agreement, my father...my father would be alive now.” Tears welled in her pretty blue eyes. “I should have known! I should have realized what my father was about and I should have stopped him! Oh, but he was concerned that you’d find our stills, milord, for you’re a clever man, and my father realized the error of his ways. But it was too late! He feared you would punish us harshly, and the poor soul wanted only to save his clan.” A sob escaped her throat and she bowed her head and began to weep.

“I would no’ have punished you harshly,” Duncan demurred, feeling uneasy, and reached out to pat Miss Livingstone woodenly on the shoulder. “I donna understand, yet,” he said, moving away from her. Sobbing women unnerved him. “Why would this Davy fellow return to this island if he’d stolen your ship and your whisky and caused the demise of his chief, then?”

“Because the Campbells are searching everywhere!” Miss Livingstone wailed, throwing her arms wide. “Is it no’ true? He had no place to go!”

The youngest son of Bernt Livingstone put his arm around Miss Livingstone’s shoulders and pulled her into his chest, and she began to weep again quite loudly.

“Aye, but he should no’ have come here,” said MacColl through clenched teeth. “The men and women of this island willna stand for depravity. He was tried and judged for his crime, he was. He was hanged and now we’ll bury him.”

Duncan eyed the coffin. He eyed the mourners, all staring back at him. “How do I know it is Davy in there?” he asked, pointing at it. “Maybe you’ve hidden the whisky in there, aye?” he said accusingly.

MacColl looked at him as if were a precocious child. “Milord...you’re far too clever for such a simple ruse, aye? It would be foolish for any of them to try, as a man of your talents would discover whisky there. On my word, the spirits the Livingstones produced has been lost and the stills destroyed.”

Duncan agreed, he was too clever for that trick to work. Had he not just mentioned his suspicion? They’d be bigger fools than he thought to try and hide whisky right under his nose.

“If you like, milord, I can open the coffin,” said a man with a bushy beard, and moved as if he intended to do just that. He hesitated, and winced. “Fair warning to you, aye? His eyes were plucked out by the crows. They made quite a mess of it, they did.”

Duncan swallowed. “That is no’ necessary,” he said quickly. He tossed his whisky down his throat, then dropped his cup. It landed on a rabbit. God, he hated this island. “You’ve made everything verra difficult for me with your island justice, that you have,” he said irritably. “I should have liked to present the culprit to my uncle so that I might have the bounty. Now he’ll think I canna command the bloody lot of you. Where are my rents, then?” he demanded.

“I think we’ve come to an arrangement you might like,” said MacColl, and gestured to the path. “The Livingstones have at long last come to their senses. Perhaps we might speak of it in my salon, aye?”

Duncan glanced at the gathered and the rough-hewn coffin. “Anywhere but here,” he said, and yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose. As they moved down the path, the mourners raised their voices in a hymn.

*

AULAY DIDN’T KNOW how long he paced, but he was certain there had been carpet beneath his feet when he started.

“What’s that?” Catriona said, and vaulted from her seat on the settee, hurrying to Aulay’s side.

“What?”

She put a finger to her lips.

Aulay heard it then—voices. Many voices. It sounded as if they might be shouting. “God in heaven, it’s a fight,” he said, and whirled about, prepared to go and assist.

“No, they’re singing,” she said. “A hymn from the sound of it.”

He recognized it then. They were singing, all right, and the sound grew louder, coming closer, and people began to appear from the woods, scattering rabbits like leaves, their arms linked, all of them singing and laughing.

Mathais was the first to burst into the room. “It worked!” he shouted. “Campbell was utterly convinced!”

“The best performance was our own Johnny Livingstone,” Duff said, coming in next with several more and bowing to a slender young man, who blushed at the praise. “The crows plucked out his eyes!” he said, and laughed uproariously.

“If you ask me, the best touch was the corpse,” said Gilroy. “Mrs. Potter Livingstone was right—the mix of grass and kelp and seaweed makes an awful stench.”

The Livingstones laughed roundly.

“And Duncan Campbell believed it,” Aulay said incredulously. He’d thought the plan ridiculous, had argued against it, but had been overruled by the Livingstone clan.

“Aye, of course. There was a coffin before us, a freshly dug grave. Of course he believed it.” Gilroy laughed, then clapped his hand on Aulay’s shoulder.