Free Highland Laddie Gone by Sharyn McCrumb

I mean.”
    Lachlan Forsyth hesitated. “At Tarbert,” he whispered. He was always afraid that sooner or later someone would point out that there were four places on the map of Scotland labeled Tarbert, but so far no one had caught on.
    Wylie frowned. “I’ve been thinking about this earldom business, Mr. Forsyth. You know—getting a castle and all for helping to sponsor the revolution. And it seems to me that it would cost a pretty fair bit of money to keep up one of them things, wouldn’t it?”
    Lachlan played his trump card. “Why, laddie, when we pull out of Great Britain and set up the republic—who do you think will get the North Sea oil rights?”
    His co-conspirator grinned. “Outstanding! One last thing, though. You’re not letting any of these Campbells into this, are you?”
    “What do you think?” said Lachlan slyly.
    “Good. I reckon when we take over, we can pay themback for the Glencoe Massacre, and Culloden, and all the rest of it.”
    “Spot on!” murmured Lachlan. God, these Americans are a bloodthirsty lot, he thought as the man sauntered away. One of them had even offered him some back issues of
Mercenary Times
so that he could order grenade launchers. At moments like these, Lachlan found it easy to convince himself that he was a hero for taking people’s money. At least he saw that they did nae harm with it. “Wise men buy and sell, and fools are bought and sold,” he said aloud. It was his favorite line from Walter Scott.
    Elizabeth, wearing a white sundress and sandals, looked considerably cooler and more self-possessed than she had before, but Cameron was too tired to care. He handed over Cluny’s leash, saying that he had run into Geoffrey and volunteered to take Cluny off his hands.
    “Where is Geoffrey?” asked Elizabeth, looking around.
    “Oh … he went off with some friends,” said Cameron vaguely. “He’ll catch up with us later, I expect.”
    Elizabeth frowned. “Okay. Well, would you like to go to the Hutchesons’ party? His new wife is Scottish, so I thought you might like to meet her.”
    “That might prove interesting,” said Cameron politely. And if she’s normal, he thought, then I can rule out the water-supply theory and assume that American insanity is genetic.
    “Do you know that man over there?” asked Elizabeth. “The one in the red kilt with the leather shield. He seems to be staring at you.”
    “I can’t think why,” murmured Cameron. “There are certainly enough oddities in this place without him—”
    “Shhh! Here he comes!”
    The husky warrior nodded to Elizabeth and, drawing close to Cameron, he hissed, “Couldn’t help noticing your accent as I went by, friend.”
    Cameron winced. The man had a voice like an untuned banjo. “Oh, yes?” he murmured, edging away.
    The stranger fixed him with a piercing stare. “Tell me,” he said hoarsely.
“Stands Scotland where it did?”
Another loony. And this one was wearing a sword the size of a horse’s leg. Cameron giggled nervously.
    “Stands Scotland where it did!”
the man repeated in menacing tones.
    “Ye—ees,” stammered Cameron. “Fifty-eight degrees north latitude, more or less. Go to Newcastle and turn left—”
    “You’d better learn the right answer, buddy,” the stranger drawled. “It could save your life someday.”
    Elizabeth watched him stalk off, the claymore swinging at his side. “What was that all about?” she whispered.
    “I think it was a geography quiz,” said Cameron wonderingly.
    Geoffrey took a roundabout way to the herding-practice meadow, reasoning that a quacking cardboard box might be hard to explain to the festival folks. There was no one in sight. With a last furtive glance toward the field path, Geoffrey scurried down the hill and set his container next to the wooden herding box.
    “Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
” he muttered, scooping out bones and feathers. After a quick wipe with his only cotton handkerchief, he shoved the