Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (27 page)

A paunchy, old man pushed out between thick, red curtains. Amy looked at Niall expectantly. "We're here for the ring that he, that I left," he said. "How much to get it back?"

"Dae ye haeve yer ticket?" the man asked.

Ticket...ticket.... Niall remembered the stub he'd seen last night, and pulled it out of his—Shawn's—billfold. He had a moment's panic, digging through the bits of paper, before he recognized it.

The man fingered it. "A thousand pow-unds. I remember ye."

"You got a thousand pounds for my ring!" Amy exploded. "That's not what you told me!"

"I'm sorry," Niall muttered. Chanty wrassler! he cursed Shawn again. "I'll make it up to you." He placed Shawn's checkbook on the counter. As he did, he realized Shawn would say, and not mean, the exact same words. It upset him.

"Nae checks," said the man.

"You remember me," returned Niall, disgusted at pretending to be Shawn. "You know who I am." He pulled himself to his full six feet. He was a future laird, and Shawn—despite his personal misdemeanors—appeared to be a man to be reckoned with in his own right. He called on them both for a solution.

"Nae checks." The man set his jaw stubbornly.

"I'll pay you more than you require," Niall said. "But I need the lady's ring."

The man placed his hands firmly on the counter, pushing his bulbous nose close to Niall's. His mustache bristled. "Payin' extra dooz me nae guid if the check doesna clear!"

"But you know who he is," Amy insisted. "Shawn, show him your ID. This is Shawn Kleiner, the headliner with the American orchestra. His picture is all over Inverness."

"You know where to find us," Niall added. "We're at the castle down the road apiece."

"We'll be in Inverness for another week," Amy added. "Call the director and confirm it with him.

"I dinna ahk-cept checks," the man repeated.

Niall saw, not the counters or goods or a man who had possibly been cheated in the past, but another obstacle between himself and Hugh and the safety of those he loved. He looked around, remembering Amy's explanation of pawn shops. He had arrived in this time with nothing of value to trade. Still, he searched the shop, hoping for inspiration. Peering closely in the display case, the details of the jumble of items came to him: an old dagger; a heavy, gold necklace; delicate chains hung with jewels; countless gold and silver coins, some quite worn; a flower bed of rings, sparkling in more colors than the castle gardens.

"Aer ye interested in antiques?" the man asked, following his gaze.

"Aye." Niall pointed to the dagger. "It looks to ha' been a fine piece. Tell me about it."

"Shawn, who cares about some old knife?" Amy whispered. "I want my ring back."

He waved her off, ignoring the irritation that roiled off her like steam.

"'Tis over three hoondred years old." The man pulled the dirk up to the counter top. "It belonged to Clan Morrison in their heyday. See the jewels in the handle?" He regaled them with tales of the Morrisons for ten minutes.

"Aye." Niall nodded, touching the jeweled hilt. "How much?"

"For its age and condition, two hoondred fifty pounds, an' a bargain a' tha.'"

Niall hefted the dirk, testing its weight and balance. It was a good one. It would serve well in a fight. His own dirk, not so elaborate, but much older—and the man seemed to value age—and in better condition by far, nestled snugly in the sporran he had insisted on carrying on his belt, over Amy's protests. If he could get back to his own time, however, he would need his dagger. His eyes roamed over the other things in the case. The jewelry? He fingered the crucifix around his neck, the one intended for Allene. He wouldn't part with it.

Amy heaved an impatient sigh.

"Care to see the coins?" the man asked.

"Aye," Niall said, his mind working.

The knife disappeared back inside the glass case, and the tray of coins slid silently up to the counter top. "1857," the man said proudly, lifting a battered piece. Niall admired it, listening intently to its history. The man slipped it back in its place and pulled out another and another, giving dates and histories. Niall fingered the coins with respect, and studied them through the magnifying glass the man offered.

"This is a waste of time!" Amy hissed, when the man disappeared into the back of the shop to gather his private collection to show Niall. "Just get my ring."

Maybe she was right, thought Niall, but the inner tugging to listen to the man was great. He clasped the crucifix around his neck, asking for help in getting back to Hugh. "Showing interest in another is never a waste of time," he said. The Laird had always said so. "Let's see what comes of it."

"I'm going back to the hotel," Amy huffed. "You can forget any more help if you don't get my ring back for me."

He watched sadly, as she pushed through the door into the sunlight outside, her black hair swinging, and left.

The man returned, friendlier and more enthusiastic than he'd initially been, with a large, flat case which he laid on the counter. "The whole history o' Scaw'lan', right here in these coins!" he raved. "The post-union coins." He pointed. "The Edwards, the Williams, the Charleses...." His finger traced back, fascinating Niall not only with his detailed knowledge of the coins, but of history, which was, to Niall, the future, of Scotland itself.

The man recited tales of the monarchs and other images on the coins, working his way backwards in time. He had an almost full set of coins for each king. "But here," he said, passing through the interregnum period after John Balliol's failed kingship—Niall's own immediate past, and he found it fascinating to hear it through this man's eyes, seven hundred years later. "We come to John Balliol. Don' 'spose ye learned aboot him in the States?"

Niall grinned. He remembered King John's visit to Glenmirril vividly, and the messenger arriving breathless at the castle months later, telling of King John's tabard being ripped bare by Longshanks, when Balliol refused to send troops for Longshank's war against the French.

"The coins seem to ha' been struck quickly in the first half of his reign. See how rough the die is? I've pennies from the first and second halves of his reign. But the ha' pennies.…" He indicated two empty slots, awaiting their treasures. "I've sairched the internet, with nae luck."

A word caught Niall’s attentive ear. "Inverness?"

"Inter-
net
. Shairly ye've heard o' the internet?" The man grinned at his joke.

"I haven't," Niall said.

"Aw, go' won," the man protested. "Ye're havin' an old man on. A world traveler like yerself?"

Niall spread his hands in apology. "I’ve been so busy practicing for concerts," he said. "I miss things. Tell me about it."

"Why, you can find anything a' tall on the internet! Anything you want to know, just put in the words, and out it comes on the screen. Ye shair ye're not havin' me on?"

"I wouldn't do that," Niall said. "Where can I find this internet?"

"On yer computer, o' coorse. Ye do knoo what a computer is?" He narrowed his eyes.

Niall nodded, warding off the man's suspicion. But he repeated the word—
computer, computer
—over and over, to remember. Now he'd have to find out what this computer was. "So you can find anything except the penny you want on the internet?" he asked, bringing the subject back.

The man shook his head vigorously. "Och, 'twill turn up. Someone has one, and someone will want to sell it."

"How much would such a coin be worth to ye?"

"Hoondreds o' pounds!"

"What if I could get them for ye?" Niall asked. "The two for your collection and more, too. How much?"

"What? Both o' them? The first and second 'alves of 'is reign?"

Niall nodded.

The man's eyes lit up. "Dae ye really think you could? I would ha' to see its condition."

"Like new." Niall couldn't resist a grin. "Like it came off the mint a few years ago at most. Much better than what ye have here."

"In the condition you see here," the man said, "four hoondred each. More an' its as guid as ye say."

"Aye, it's as good as I say," Niall assured him. "I've the ha' pennies you're lookin' for. I'll trade them for the ring and the extra in cash."

"If it's as guid as ye say, aye," the man agreed. "Bring it to me."

Niall dug in his sporran. The man's eyes widened. "Ye don' mean to say ye carry it wi' ye!"

"An' why wouldn't I carry my money with me?" Niall asked, in equal surprise.

"Ye canna be serious." The man eyed him briefly before his attention flew to the pile of coins Niall dropped, clattering, on the counter. He stared, then gaped, reaching for his magnifying glass and running his finger tenderly over them. He raised his eyes to Niall's. "This canna be real! The impressions are like new. They must be frauds!"

"Ach, noo!" Niall said, angrily. He reached instinctively for his dirk, slamming it on the counter. "I'm no liar nor cheater!" The old man pulled back, eyes wide, grabbing belatedly for his own coins. Niall remembered these people carried no weapons. The man, he realized, with shock, thought he was going to rob him!

"My apologies," he said quietly. He pulled back the musicians' accent, hoping the man hadn't noticed his slip. "It is the custom where I am from. I forgot myself. I'll not hurt you nor take your coins." He pulled the crucifix from under his shirt and held it out. "It's Him I'd be answering to. I do not lie nor cheat."

The man stared, enthralled, at the crucifix. "'Tis medieval, too, is it not?"

"Aye," said Niall. "'Twas made by the monks of Monadhliath in 1297 to be passed down through the Campbell family. 'Tis not for sale."

"Aer ye cairtain?" asked the man. He turned the light on it, and fingered it reverently.

"Certain," said Niall.

"Beautifully done," the man said. Niall slipped it off over his head, and handed it over. The man studied it with the magnifying glass, the figure of Christ and the narrow white piece inset in its back, ran his fingers over it, and turned it over and back again.

"1297, you say?"

Niall nodded.

"In forty years in the business," he whispered, "I ha' ne'er seen such a beautiful piece, and kept so well! Five hoondred pounds."

Niall met his eye firmly. "'Tis not for sale."

"A thousand."

"'Tis not for sale."

"A shame." The man's eyes caressed the piece. "If ye ever change yer mind, the offer stands."

Niall reached for his dirk, still on the counter, but the man, reassured now, laid his own hand on it. "From the Highlands, late twelve hoondreds, early thirteen hoondreds," he said in awe. "Or an incredible counterfeit. This handle is made of antler, is it not? How d' ye come by these things?"

"My father gave them to me," Niall said.

"An' ye carry them wi' ye."

"What's the point in havin' them an' I don't use them?"

"May I look?" At Niall's nod, he picked it up. He felt its blade, touched its handle, and studied it through the magnifying glass. "It looks as real as any I've ever seen," he said.

"'Tis," Niall assured him. "'Twas made in the Year of Our Lord 1301 and given to my Lord James Campbell by the Laird of Glenmirril. On his death, it passed to his son, Niall. 'Twas used in the cattle raids against the thieving MacDougalls and killed the son of Lord MacDougall's younger brother in 1314."

Having copied the man's style of weaving detailed stories around his pieces, Niall thought it sounded better in the telling, than the actual events. The man's death rattle, the pull of his body against the dirk, came to him at odd moments, though he'd had no choice in defending himself.

Clearly, however, the man appreciated the telling, and it seemed to lend weight to what was, after all, a rather ordinary dirk, much like those carried by the other lords.

"Amazing!" the man said. "An' how did it come to your father?"

"The ha' pennies," Niall reminded him, pushing them closer. "Look them over and satisfy yourself. I promised the lady her ring."

The man gathered the coins and took his time, turning them over and studying them from every angle under his magnifying glass and a strong lamp. At last, he snapped off the lamp and looked up with a broad smile. "I'll gi' ye the ring and two hoondred fifty pounds."

"The ring and five hundred." Niall pulled the coins back.

The man's jaw dropped. Then a gleam came into his eye. "The ring and three hoondred."

"It's like new," said Niall, with the grin of a wolf, and a locking of eyes. "Ye'll never find another like it. The ring and five hundred."

"Three twenty-five."

"There's a coin shop down the street. They'll no doubt recognize their value. A shame not to complete that fine collection."

"They won't pay it. 'Tis not worth that."

"Not to them. But to you?" Niall let his gaze slide to the empty spots in the collection.

"Three fifty."

Niall collected his coins and turned to walk out the door.

"Five hoondred!" The man bustled back around the counter, blocking the door.

Niall said nothing.

"Five hoondred and the ring, an' a necklace to match."

Niall smiled, the smile of a lamb this time, and turned back. He dropped his coins on the counter with a pleasant clinking. The man disappeared between the curtains, and returned with a bundle of cash and the ring. He placed it in Niall's hand, glinting blood red in the dim light.

From a tray of necklaces, Niall took his time choosing a delicate chain with a matching garnet teardrop. It would be perfect against Amy's skin.

As he reached for it, a crucifix caught his eye, tucked away in a dusty corner of the glass case. Wooden, with a detailed figure of Christ, it reminded him of his own. "That, too." He pulled the cash back out of the bundle he'd just been given, to pay for it.

The man reached into the case, and quickly had it wrapped up. Niall slipped it into the jacket's deep pocket.

At that moment, Amy burst back into the shop.

"Still here?" She yanked a bundle of cash from her purse. "I'll get the ring myself, but don't ever ask me for anything again. Don't even expect help at rehearsals. It's over between us."