Sara smiled. “I don’t. But I know someone who does.”
His round face broke into a big smile. “Ah, I knew I could count on you! Who is it? Is it someone I know? We must invite him here, by all means.”
She shook her head. “He was my professor in ancient Celtic history. He’s quite elderly now, confined to a wheelchair, and somewhat reclusive.”
Mr. Smith’s eyebrows knit together. “But wasn’t Celtic history mostly a study of Ireland? This is Scotland we’re talking about.”
Sometimes, it was hard to be patient with people and remember that not everyone had a love of history. Even if they did try to collect some of it.
“Scotland was first Pictland, of course, and the Picts spoke their own language. But the Roman word for the Irish invaders wasScotti.The language is very similar.”
His brow smoothed and he waved his hand in the air. “No problem, then. I will simply make a copy of this document and you can take it to him. And you might tell him he will be well paid.”
As he moved to the copy machine, Sara thought the money would matter little to the old professor—although, on an educator’s pension, he could certainly use it. But for him, the love of actually reading a document this old would be enough. She could hardly wait to see the look on his face when she showed it to him. Whatever it said, it was still a rare find for a historian.
“I’ll tell him,” she said as she accepted the copies and put them in her purse. She looked up as Mr. Smith’s butler approached the doorway, looking somewhat flustered, which was highly unusual.
“What is it, Benton?”
“A visitor to see you, sir.”
Smith looked annoyed. “I’m busy. He doesn’t have an appointment, does he?”
“No, sir.”
“Then send him away.” Mr. Smith picked up another piece of parchment.
But the butler hesitated, and Sara’s ears perked up. Alcott Benton had been a very proper English butler whose employer in Britain had some trouble with one of the Royals over a financial investment—apparently Benton had felt the need to be loyal and took up the point with the Royal’s butler—which resulted, ultimately, in his downfall. Mr. Smith had acquired him just like he did other unique objects. No one else he knew had arealEnglish butler. Sara sometimes wondered if Smith ever realized that half of what Benton said was insult couched in smooth words. But that he didn’t immediately click his heels and give that short deferential bow spoke louder than any words.
Smith looked back up. “You still here?”
Benton grimaced ever so slightly. “Yes, sir. The…gentleman…was quite insistent that he see you.”
Her employer was working himself up into throwing a theatric fit for not having his wishes carried out immediately, so Sara interrupted.
“Did he give you a card, Benton?”
“Indeed.” The butler produced it from the pocket of his short jacket with a rather flourishing air.
Sara smiled. When Benton had first come to this rather strange household, he had tried placing the mail and business cards such as this on a small silver tray—which Mr. Smith had carelessly put a sticky apple pie dish on. The pinched look on the butler’s face had been almost too much. Regency England and modern America just didn’t mix that well.
She looked at the card and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “It says he’s an archeologist. Lucas Ramsey. Specializes in medieval Celtic artifacts. ”
Mr. Smith pursed his mouth and let out a little whoosh of air. “How strange, since I just happen to be looking at one.”
“Not so strange,” a voice said from the doorway. “I was on the dig in the Highlands where your manuscript was found.”
Sara twisted around in her chair and was suddenly very glad she was sitting down. He was the stranger from the plane. The one who looked like he had been on the cover of a dozen bodice-ripper romance novels. Only today, he looked more like he might have stepped right out of history itself, even with the dark glasses he still wore.
His golden hair was pulled back with a leather thong. Without the distraction of wanting to run her fingers through it, she realized she was also looking at her rescuer. Black leather boots came nearly to his knees and his black jeans hugged and defined very well-muscled thighs. A crisp, white linen shirt, its sleeves rolled up over strong, tanned forearms, stretched across wide shoulders and tucked into a narrow waist. Across his chest he wore a red, green and blue tartan sash. Slung diagonally across lean hips was a leather belt and sporran. A Highlander come to life,sanskilt. Sara began to wonder if she was suffering from more severe jet-lag than she thought or if watching a repeat ofThe Highlanderlast night had suddenly gone to her brain. And she wasn’t sure she cared. This man was hot. And then reason kicked in and she sat up straighter.He was at the auction and on the plane with me.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Standin’ in this wee doorway at the moment, lass,” he answered with an easy smile and rich baritone brogue that reminded her of smoky wooden casks of smooth Scotch whisky and heather moors. “May I come in?”
“It appears you are, indeed,in, sir.” Benton raised his head and sniffed.
Mr. Smith laid down his paper and gestured. “Please have a seat.” He turned to the butler. “You can go.”
