Page 28 of Highland Spy

“He does?” asked Bridget, feeling sorry now for the nasty trick she’d played on Caleb involving the Highland Chronicles. But then again, he was the one to start it by sneaking around, writing himself into the book.

As soon as they left, Bridget hurried over and stuck the book into her bag along with the quill and the bottle of ink. Her father was asleep on the bed and she needed to get away and think. She’d seen the lairds competing today in preparation for the finals that started tomorrow. The king had instructed her father to record the events, so she needed to write something about the contestants in the book before King Robert arrived.

Placing a kiss on her father’s forehead, she left the room, heading for the graveyard where she could record the events in private.

* * *

Caleb headed for the back of the castle with his bag over his shoulder and his pine marten in his arms. “I ken ye need to snoop around, Slink,” he told the animal. “But with so many people at the castle, I’m afraid ye’re goin’ to get trampled. We’ll go to the graveyard where no one will be. There, ye can nose around to yer heart’s content.”

When they reached the graveyard, he put the pine marten on the ground. Removing the bag from over his shoulder, he dropped it, and sat down next to it. Looking for his flask of Mountain Magic, he stuck his hand into the bag.

“What’s this?” he asked, pulling out the item to inspect it. “This looks like the chronicler’s bottle of ink,” he said. “Damn, I hope the ink didna spill into my bag.”

Peering inside the bag, he realized there was no ink in there at all. Picking up the bottle again, he saw that there was no cap. Reaching out, he stuck his finger into the bottle to find that there was no ink in the bottle at all. The inside of the jar was painted black to make it look like it was full.

“God’s bones, what is goin’ on here?” he asked aloud.

His pine marten busied itself climbing over the gravestones. Caleb saw a flash of red from his peripheral vision and realized there was someone at the far side of the graveyard, sitting with their back up against one of the headstones.

“Odd,” he said, wondering who would be here instead of at the festivities. He got up and silently snuck up on them. When he peered over the headstone, he was surprised to see Bridget and shocked because she was writing in the Highland Chronicles! He hoped to hell she wasn’t writing more nasty lies about him. “What are ye doin’?” he shouted, stepping around the stone and making his presence known.

“Och!” she shrieked, spilling the ink on the page, and grabbing for the bottle to steady it. She looked up and fear washed across her face. “Caleb?”

“Aye, it’s me, lass.

“Ye made me spill the ink!” she spat. “Why are ye spyin’ on me?”

“I’m no’ spyin’ on ye. I came to let Slink root around the graveyard. And if ye’re so worried about spilled ink, why dinna ye try this bottle instead?” He tossed the fake bottle of ink atop the open book. “Oh, wait, ye canna use that because it’s no’ real, is it? It’s only used to deceive everyone, the way ye deceived me by writin’ lies about me in that book.”

“Caleb, this isna what ye think,” she said, standing up with the book in hand.

“And what would I be thinkin’?” he asked her. “That ye are out to ruin the MacKeefe name? Because it sure seems that way to me.”

“Nay. I’m no’ tryin’ to do that. Ye dinna understand at all.”

“Oh, I think I understand. For some reason, ye hate me and refuse to have yer faither mention me in the Highland Chronicles. And since I mentioned myself by writin’ in the book, ye now want me to suffer. Well, I canna let ye continue this doitit game.”

“Doitit game? I’m no’ the one who started it.”

“What are ye writin’ about me now?” He stretched his neck, trying to see the page.

“No’ everythin’ is about ye, Caleb MacKeefe, even if ye think it is. I’m no’ writin’ anythin’ that concerns ye.” She hid the pages against her chest.

“I dinna believe ye.” He snatched the book away from her and looked down at the page to read whatever lies she’d concocted about him now. But to his surprise, it had nothing to do with him, just as she’d told him. Instead, she’d been writing about the competing lairds and talking about the preliminary rounds earlier, as well as each of the laird’s weak and strong points. “It’s no’ about me,” he said, still staring at the page in confusion.

“I told ye that! Now give me the book back.” She pulled it out of his grasp.

“Why are ye writin’ these things in the book when yer faither already recorded the information earlier. I saw him doin’ it.”

She didn’t say anything. Instead, she closed up the book and slipped it back into her bag.

A flash of a vision shot through Caleb’s head. Hadn’t Bridget told him that her father had been injured and couldn’t grasp things in his right hand and that he’d learned to write with his left hand instead? He remembered distinctively seeing Brigham using his right hand earlier today writing in the chronicles. Then he looked down to the fake bottle of ink still on the ground, and everything became clear.

“God’s eyes, lassie! Yer faither is no’ the one writin’ the chronicles . . . ye are!”

“Ye ruined everythin’, Caleb MacKeefe!” she spat, loading the rest of her things into the bag. She looked angrier than he’d ever seen her, and like she was going to cry.

“I ruined everythin’?” he asked. “Ye were the one to do that, lass. What will the king say when he finds out he’s been made a fool of, just like me? What will everyone say when they discover that the King’s Chronicler is really a woman?”