Oliver dragged his sleeve acrosshis forehead, but that didn’t do anything to change his view of a vintage Highlander standing across from him holding onto, as usual, a perilously sharp Claymore, no doubt contemplating all the perilously life-ending things he might do with it.
He wanted extra credit for his current activity in the form of not only the Bugatti he was definitely going to have earned, but a decently sized house on the ocean. Perhaps one perched on some Italian bit of coastline in the south where the food would be delicious, the vistas gorgeous, and the art and culture sublime.
He was fairly certain they had antiques there along with their gelato and superb wine. Perhaps he could be prevailed upon to take up the reins of the work title he’d been awarded the day before he’d been sent off to his Holiday in Hades and exercise it in a southern clime.
I’m making you Vice President of Snoopery and Skulduggery, Derrick Cameron had said to him without so much as a hint of a smirk.Take this ridiculous raise and go book a holiday.
He’d thanked Derrick for the tuppence, ignored the man’s banging on about the beauties of time away in nature, and escaped to go hide in Cameron’s enormous office and have a nap on a rarely used sofa in the corner.
Ah, how cavalierly he’d later bid everyone a fondadieubefore heading back to his flat to call it an early night, not having a damned clue about the perils that lay in store for him.
And that had been just the contents of that bloody self-care manual. He was positive not even Derrick and the rest of thoseheartless sods could possibly have foreseen his lingering in 16th-century Scotland, shielding a Renaissance miss from her brother and a cousin or two who needed to have a few good manners beaten into them, and spending his morning sparring with none other than the future laird of the clan Cameron. The 16th-century clan Cameron.
He could hardly wait to drop that little nugget onto Robert Cameron’s lap when next they overindulged in scones with clotted cream to counter a late-afternoon energy slump.
At least Giles seemed to think he deserved to breathe a bit longer. That future Cameron laird rested his sword against his shoulder and nodded at Oliver’s sword which was, he would have pointed out to anyone who would listen, still in his hand and not lying six meters away from him.
“Nice steel,” Giles said. “A gift from your father?”
Oliver couldn’t even start down that road. If his father had seen him with a Claymore in his hand, he would have immediately gotten a case of the vapors and likely begun frantically quoting Oscar Wilde in an effort to restore balance to his witty, marginally titled world.
“Ah, nay,” Oliver said, scrambling for something close to the truth. “My adopted sister’s husband had it made for me.”
Which was true. Cameron had a blacksmith thanks to Zachary Smith’s having encountered that generationally maintained smithy in various ages and thereafter singing the praises of the modern smith. Oliver had the sword—still, it needed to be said—in his hands thanks to that man having made it for him and Cameron having left it propped up against the wall behind a Christmas tree at Cameron Hall a pair of years before. It wasn’t the first time Lord Robert had insisted they all come to Scotland and have a proper lad’s week away over the holiday, but that year had been different. Sunny had been there, for one thing, and there had been the added layers of suspicions confirmedand fealty pledged and Madame Gies outdoing herself with her menus. He hadn’t uttered so much as a peep in protest when she’d gang-pressed him into helping her with her baking.
He shook away the memory before it brought back others which might leave him overly maudlin, then looked at Giles.
“In Edinburgh,” he said.
“A fine city,” Giles said casually. “I’ve been a time or two.”
“A good place to be familiar with when you’re head of your clan,” Oliver noted.
Giles smiled briefly. “I’d rather be home, if you want the truth.”
That wasdefinitelya tidbit to file away for future sharing. Oliver nodded with a smile.
“Scotland is a beautiful place.”
“Have you traveled much?”
“A bit,” Oliver admitted. “Not as many places as I would have liked.” And that was perfectly true. He’d followed along as one of Cameron’s ducklings for a handful of years and the man hadn’t been shy about hopping off their damp, foggy isle to tramp about the Continent whenever it suited him. But he personally hadn’t quite found the right traveling partner for venturing further afield.
He wondered what a woman who had been willing to travel four hundred years into the future might think of a few very long plane rides to places where they couldn’t speak the language and wouldn’t easily fit into a crowd.
And since that was something he absolutely shouldn’t have been wondering, he dragged his attention back to the matter at hand which was distracting Giles Cameron long enough to catch his own breath.
“I’m unfamiliar with clan politics currently,” he said with absolute honesty. “I thought the Camerons and MacLeods weren’t necessarily friendly.”
“It depends on the year and how our larders look,” Giles said with a shrug, “though we don’t lift nearly as much cattle as my grandsire did in his day. I am ingratiating myself with the future laird here for a particular reason.”
Oliver nodded, then choked. “Wait,” he said, holding up his hand. “You want to marry one of his sisters?”
“Grizel,” Giles said with a nod.
And so the future laird of the clan Cameron would live to moon another day. Oliver immediately committed to adding whatever romantic aid he could to the current undertaking. “Does Grizel know this?”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Giles said slowly. “I can scarce speak to her until Mairead is wed and the chances of that happening are very small indeed. Unless…”
