Page 25 of Scotlander

Catalogue Kilt Man was real. And Balcraigie Castle was real. But neither of them had materialised in the form she’d anticipated.

Finn had come in a better-than-she-imagined/serial killer package. Confusing, but, for aesthetics alone, three points to Val.

The castle?

Nil points.

From this angle, it wasn’t so much a castle as a majestically formed pile of rocks. With windows.

She shot Finn an is that it? look.

His expression turned pained.

Before a dark, gnawing need to scream Take me back to the airport now! could set in, a delightfully plump, ruddy-cheeked woman in her mid-thirties appeared. She was hardy-looking in a way that suggested if someone asked her to make thirty blackbird pies by sunrise she’d smile and get on with it. She was wearing a dark blue version of the female guests’ dresses and was wiping her hands on a huge food-stained pinafore, her features wreathed in an open, happy smile. She was alight with positive energy.

‘Finlay! There you are! I’d thought for a wee while you’d absconded with our guests, you rascal!’

There was an edge to the comment. One usually reserved for family. (Or murderers.)

To her shock, Willa’s heart fell in on itself. Catalogue Kilt Man was married. Not that she wanted him for herself, but she had dreamt about him just enough to make letting go of her preconceived notion of him akin to detaching dog fur from Velcro.

A thought occurred. Maybe the reason this jolly soul looked like she could make pies was because she did make pies . . . out of Outlander superfans.

Before Willa could ask Finn if his wife was a cannibal, Gabe appeared, flopped an arm around her shoulders and murmured, ‘There you are, my luvvvvverrrrrr.’

It was then Willa realised she and Finn were still hand in hand. She’d been clinging to it as if her life had depended on it.

Crumb nuggets. Not only was she cheating on Gabe, she was cheating with Sweeney Todd. Wonderful. At least now she knew why he hadn’t been put off by her curves. (Had the boob grope been a tenderness test?)

She glanced across at Jeff to check whether or not he was wearing a dirk. They’d be able to defend themselves with Jeff on their side, right?

‘What’d I miss? Where are we?’ asked Gabe.

She answered ‘not much’ and ‘Balcraigie Castle’ at which he scanned the area, arched an are you kidding me? eyebrow at her and then, most likely courtesy of the painkillers, began to laugh.

‘Concha got us good, didn’t she, mija?’ He laughed and laughed and tugged her in close and gave her a kiss on the forehead, then pointed at the castle and laughed again. She supposed, if she let go of the whole room-service-and-hot-bath idea, it was funny. And to be fair, a more genuinely immersive lean into the olden days experience than she’d given the brochure credit for. Thread counts probably didn’t factor into accommodation guidelines back then. Or club sandwiches.

Shifting her weight so she could prop him up a bit better, she pressed her index finger to her lips and pointed towards the cheery woman.

‘Thank you, Shona,’ she was saying to the bagpiping teenager. ‘That was lovely.’ She clapped her hands to begin a well-deserved round of applause to which Jeff shouted, ‘Encore!’

Cheery woman ignored him and, to Shona, continued, ‘Dougie’ll whizz you back to the village, okay?’ She turned back to them, gave a surprisingly dainty demi-curtsey for a woman who was probably close to six feet tall, then beamed, ‘Well, hello, my lovelies. My name is Orla MacKenzie. I am your hostess here at the family seat, Balcraigie Castle.’ She shot a slightly crinkle-browed glance in Finn’s direction before turning her sunlit smile back on them. ‘May I be the first to welcome you to the Far-um.’

Far-um?

‘I thought we were on a farm,’ Jennifer whispered. ‘There was no way that road was leading to a proper castle. It explains the horse-poop smell.’

‘It’s cow muck,’ Fenella hissed back. ‘Trust me. Perfume of my childhood.’

Confirming Fenella’s claim, a cow mooed somewhere off in the darkness.

And then, as if to ensure Jennifer’s spirits weren’t dampened either, a horse whinnied.

They laughed and started an excited conversation about whether there was going to be horse riding or cattle rustling or both.

ChiChi hushed them both and tipped her head towards Orla who was glancing at her . . . was that a pocket watch? ‘You’re a wee bit later than we thought, but no bother. We’ll sort out your accommodation and then get a hot meal into you before you see to your jetlag and whatnot. Tomorrow’s going to be busy, so we need you well rested!’

Orla’s pure Scottish accent was like listening to a clear mountain brook wash through a sunlit glade. It cut through the cold, damp air and, against the odds, made Willa feel welcome. There was accommodation. A hot meal. And they would be attending to whatnot. How quickly her dream of a long hot bath and room service had been replaced with hopes of a roof and something – anything – warm to eat. Unless it was meat pie.