Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (6 page)

She laughed. "You wore a kilt? Tell the truth: what's under them?"

He wiggled wicked eyebrows at her, and lifted the bed sheet. "I only know what's under mine. Come and see!"

She squealed at his wit, daring a peek and professing delight. "Is that why you wanted the orchestra to come to Scotland?"

"To show you that? Na, I could have done that at home."

She punched him. "Because of your family connection."

"Yeah, the family history thing's cool," Shawn said. "It was also convenient. I grew up playing the music we're doing. We did it in the re-enactment camps all the time."

"You played trombone in a re-enactment camp?"

He smiled. The feeling of putting on a show lifted momentarily. Remembering those camps gave him a brief happiness. "No. They didn't bring trombones into battle. I messed around with harps and fifes and things."

"Tell me about your father," she said. "You never talk about him."

Shawn turned away, rubbing his throbbing temples. "He died when I was in high school."

"I'm sorry." Her hands crept onto his shoulders; her breath brushed his neck. "Was he a lot like you?"

"His looks—those Scottish genes run strong. I'm his clone."

"Personality," she said. "Was he like you?"

Shawn snorted. "Nothing like me. He was a nice guy, and I can tell you, they do finish last." He sat up abruptly. He didn't want to have this conversation with Caroline. He wanted Amy. "Not much else to say. But mostly," he added with a roguish grin, changing the subject back, "I brought the orchestra here because I heard such good things about the women." He grabbed at her again, scattering more bills to the plush carpet. This time, she let him. His head pounded mercilessly. But it stopped her questions.

Glenmirril Castle, Scotland, 1314

The Laird straightened on his bench, stretching the kinks out of his back. If the dungeon had allowed any light in, he'd be seeing the sun reach over the mountains east of the loch. Dawn came early in June. As it was, he saw the same smoky shadows flickering on the same dusky stone and earth walls that he'd seen all night. He set the drill down, and contemplated how to move the items out without being seen. He twisted his neck this way and that, easing sore muscles. Finally, he rested his eyes on the completed projects. He smiled slowly, pleased. They would do. Yes, they would fool his enemies.

Now where to get the energy to face the day? He sighed. There were cattle to be seen to, and preparations for the castle men who would join Bruce. Meat to be smoked, mounts to be readied, weapons to be fitted. He pressed a hand to his throbbing temple. It was a job for a much younger man. Or at least one who had slept more than a scattered hour here and there, these past two weeks. He rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his hands, and stood up.

There was no younger man. Niall himself must not know of these preparations, lest he trust the wrong person. So he, the laird, would do what he must. His fake coughs and sneezes, letting his men believe he was ill, would explain away his exhaustion and the bags under his eyes, so that no one would suspect what really caused them.

He pushed out through the heavy wooden door, looked up and down the dank stone corridors, and locked it behind him.

He'd done what he could. Now if only Niall would do—for once—exactly as he was told.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Shawn lay on the bed, hands behind his head, scowling, while Caroline showered. He didn't like her asking questions about his father. He tried not to think about it. He sighed, glancing at the sun streaming through the window. It was higher than before; a little closer to the Scot's arrival. Time to count the money and get the trombone back before Schmitz found out. He sat up reluctantly. He paused a moment, squeezing his eyes against the headache, before pulling on a pair of boxer shorts covered in glow in the dark trombones.

Then he drew the bills to him, pulling them from under the covers, and from beside the bed, counting as he went.

One hundred and forty-eight pounds.

He found more under the bed. Two hundred thirty-six. He shook out the thick, blue comforter, and more bills dropped out. A few fives and tens, even a twenty. He smiled. He'd known his friends wouldn't let him down.

He crawled the length of the floor, searched under the bed again, and felt alongside the nightstand. A five fell from where it had caught between the bed and the canopy's draperies. He opened the nightstand drawer. There was a twenty. He vaguely remembered putting it there himself, and thanked fate for his own forgetfulness.

Three hundred and sixty-nine. He groaned, felt a renewed thundering of the timpani. He needed another thousand.

Caroline came out of the shower, wrapped in a large white towel. "Guess what I found!" she chirped, and showered him with fives and ones. "They were in my clothes when I picked them up this morning."

He counted quickly. Three hundred ninety-six pounds. He kissed her. She made a soft sound. "Maybe now they'll only beat up half of me," he joked, and kissed her again. "I can't thank you enough."

"Oh, you're doing very well," she said, and dropped her towel.

* * *

Shawn finished showering ten minutes after Caroline left, considering under the hot spray how to get another thousand pounds. He groaned at the answer that presented itself. But the orchestra needed him. He needed his trombone. He shook the water from his long, thick hair, and emerged from the shower into a bathroom of granite and stone fixtures, a hot tub shaped like a seashell, and thick white towels, twice as fluffy and soft as any other towels. He dried off, and drew on jeans and a polo shirt. Within five minutes, he'd convinced Jim, the portly second chair trombonist, to lend him his instrument. "Just for a minute," he said, and the man reluctantly agreed. Not that he had a choice, when Shawn demanded.

Shawn retreated to his suite. Amidst the luxury, he blew a few long tones. After a couple of harmonic minor scales, slow and relaxed, he blew a few garbled notes, waited several seconds, and blew another few, as awful as he could make them. He packed Jim's trombone away and headed into the hall.

Several orchestra members were there already, staring in shock at Shawn's room, as he'd known they would. Amy opened her door, wrapped in a fluffy white robe, with jeans showing underneath. Her dark hair hung to her waist, damp from the shower.

"Was that you?" asked Rob. "Where'd you get...?"

Shawn shook his head sharply. Rob stopped.

"Yeah," Shawn muttered under his breath. "That was me. I've got a problem. Come here." He pulled them both into the room Amy shared with Dana, a cool oasis of greens. He glanced back at the group in the hallway. Narrowly avoiding several shirts laid out for consideration, he plunked himself on Amy's bed, swathed in forest greens to match the room's decor, and dropped his forehead into his hands.

"What happened, Shawn?" Amy asked. "Is our trip canceled?" She gathered the clothes, yanking a pair of shorts from under him.

"No, I wouldn't cancel on you," Shawn said. "But I went to do a little playing, and the tinagle connector snapped." He covered his eyes, the epitome of despair, he hoped, and heaved a big sigh.

"The wha...!" A pointed glare from Shawn cut Rob off. He recovered quickly. "The tinagle connector? That's really bad."

"What's that?" asked Amy. She re-folded the clothes, and laid them back in her dresser drawer.

"It's part of the lever," said Shawn. "Inside the ball bearings that open up the F attachment. I can't play without it."

"Get it fixed when we get home," Amy said. "We're done here." She disappeared into the bathroom.

"No, we're not. Schmitz wants me to do another concert."

"So don't," she called back through the closed door. Seconds later, she reappeared, dressed in jeans and a royal blue t-shirt, pulling her hair from where it had caught inside, and looping it into a long, thick ponytail.

"Amy, you don't understand," Rob chimed in. "Everybody gets a big bonus if he agrees. Shawn's under a lot of pressure from everyone—
lots of pressure
—to do one more. Shawn, how much is it going to cost?"

"A thousand pounds." He dropped his forehead in his hands again. "I'm out of money and we don't get paid for three days. What am I going to do?"

Amy twisted her ring. Rob patted his pockets and pulled out his billfold, making a show of searching it. "Ten pounds," he said, handing a bill to Shawn. "Amy, you got anything?"

She marched across the pale green carpet to the window, staring out. "I do not have a thousand pounds," she said curtly.

"Oh, come on. Amy, you're always so practical. I bet you have plenty for emergencies. This is an emergency."

"Did it ever occur to you I might have my own emergencies?" she snapped.

"It's a drop in the bucket to save the whole orchestra. I bet your bonus will be more than that, and Shawn will pay you back," Rob said.

"No." She twisted the ring again.

"But Amy..."

She stared out the window, at the gardens behind the stone walls. "Go ask Caroline."

"Ouch!" Shawn sat upright. He was sure Amy hadn't seen them come in. "What are you saying?"

"Amy, you're not accusing Shawn...?" Rob said in surprise. "Not Shawn!" She turned to face him squarely. He dropped his jaw in astonishment. "You are! He didn't spend the night with her!"

"How would you know?" asked Amy. "She left with Shawn, and Caroline's roommate said she was out all night." She slid the ring up and down her finger in agitation. It flashed the light of the morning sun in Shawn's eyes. He tried not to stare at it, but it drew him, a starving man to succulent roast beef.

"How would...well, uh...." Rob fumbled for words. "How would I know? Because Caroline spent the night with me! That's where she was all night." A red flush crept from under his collar, spread up his neck, and over his face, to the roots of his white-blond hair. He stared and blinked at the gilt-framed pastoral scene on the wall.

"You?"

"Is that so shocking?" Rob blinked rapidly. But he looked her in the eye. "I'm not that bad looking, you know."

Amy cleared her throat, studying him. He was almost as tall as Shawn. In every other way, he was Shawn's opposite, with a wiry build, short-cropped blond hair, and blue eyes. Many women in the orchestra found him attractive. "I'm not saying you are," she said.

"Then give the man credit," Rob said in indignation. "He's always been faithful to you. Couldn't stop talking about you last night."

"She was really with you?" Amy asked.

Rob nodded energetically. The flush on his face deepened.

Amy stared down at her hands. Her lips turned down, tightening. She chewed at her lower lip and twisted her ring. Finally, she lifted guilty eyes to Shawn. "I'm...I'm sorry for accusing you," she said softly.

"It's okay," he said.

"And now his tintager conn...."

"Tintager?" Amy turned to Rob.

Shawn cleared his throat, drawing Amy's attention back. "Rob, the word is tinagle. You never can get it right."

"Yeah, sorry," Rob muttered.

"Whatever it is," Amy said, "I don't have that kind of money."

"Look, Amy, I wasn't asking you for money. I was just upset, having my horn break like this, and turned to the woman I love. Not for money. I wasn't.... Well, never mind. I'll see if I can fix it myself. Just hope I don't make it worse." He sighed heavily, his face forlorn. He walked to the door and opened it. Musicians milled in the hall. They turned, voices raised with a dozen questions, when they saw him.

"I won't be able to do the extra gig," Shawn told them dejectedly.

Groans went up. "Come on, Shawn. Why not?"

"This hurts us all."

"I was counting on that bonus to pay off my car repair."

"My trombone. Something snapped." He glanced back at Amy, trusting them to understand the significance of the look. "I don't have the cash till payday to fix it."

"Shawn!" Amy hissed. She yanked him back in. He pulled the door closed, shutting the three of them in the forest glen of a room. "I really don't have the money!" she said. "Why are you trying to put this on my shoulders?"

"I'm not," he protested. "Honest. You're my girlfriend. Is it so unusual I would tell you when something this bad happens? I'm sorry you thought..."

"I just don't have the money." She twisted at the ring again. She sounded less sure now.

He held back a grin. "But you could get it."

"How?" She started at her own words, and added quickly, "No, I can't. No, Shawn, no, don't suck me into this! I don't
want
to lend you money!" She dug in a drawer, took out socks, and jammed them on her feet, quickly followed by her tennis shoes.

"The ring!" Rob said.

Amy gave one sharp jerk to her laces and lifted her head to him in shock. "I am not selling my grandmother's ring!"

"Not sell it," Rob placated. "Just pawn it. We're here another week. We do the gig, get our regular paychecks and a nice bonus, and Shawn gets it back for you. No risk. Nothing to lose."

"This is my grandmother's ring!" Amy said. "I can't believe you would even suggest it."

"It's perfectly safe," Rob insisted. "I pawn things all the time at the end of the month. They hold it for two or three days, a week, whatever you need. I've never lost anything. You save the orchestra, you get everyone a nice bonus, all risk free."

Amy closed her eyes, shaking her head no, and took a deep breath. Shawn held his, watching her. Rob leaned back on the pillows of her bed, hands behind his head. She expelled the air. "Risk free?"

"They're all counting on you, Amy. You heard them."

"It would really be risk free? Completely risk free? This is the ring my grandmother left me. I loved her."

"I promise. Shawn will get it back, won't you Shawn?"

"Amy, you'd really do this for me? I honestly never meant to ask you for a thing like this. I swear I didn't." He stood up and crossed the room to take her hands in his. "I owe you big. I'll have it back for you in three days. Trust me."

"I didn't say I was going...."