Or return to the worksite as Ian coldheartedly suggested.
The dressing-down his friend delivered the previous night still stung. Aye, they’d lived most of their lives as friends and brothers. Aye, they both had reasons to hate. And true, Finn could see well enough that Ian’s revenge hadn’t brought him the satisfaction and relief he’d hoped it would.
That wasn’t sufficient rationale for Finn to abandon his own vengeance. He’d worked here for over a year, in a position that chafed each and every day. He labored to build a pile of rubbish to house a man who had betrayed his fellow Scotsmen to side with the English. For what? The off chance that the villain he sought would come here one day?
Live for the future. Ye have a chance. And if ye dinnae take it, I swear, I will bloody well hate ye forever, too.
Ian’s petition, while it pricked, wasn’t without merit. Finn could leave this place behind. Save his lifelong friendship. Return to the shambles of his home. Build a new one where his children could grow and thrive.
He could, if he were convinced it was the right thing.
He had been, staunch and true. Until he’d met Aila. Until the moment he first kissed her, he had been fully committed to the task he’d set himself to and dedicated years of his life toward fulfilling. That kiss and each one that followed breathed life back into his shriveled soul. Tamped back thoughts of revenge with the taste of her lips. Sweetness, goodness.
Hope.
Bugger it all, she tasted like hope. Springtime to come. The promise of a joyful future if he were to give in to it. That hope begged him to sweep her into his arms and carry her off to share a better life together. A happier one.
He could love her. It would be so easy to simply take that last step and give in to the emotions she roused in him. He could love her and shed the hate that had consumed him for so long. Forget the past and look forward. Already his commitment wavered.
He could.
“Bloody fooking hell.” Finn ran his fingers through his hair. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what held him back from the bliss that could be his if he relinquished his vengeance. “Och, my head’s mince. I dinnae ken what is best.”
A soft chuff and bump against his thigh drew his attention and found Aila’s dog seated before him with one paw on Finn’s leg, staring at him with solemn brown eyes.
“Rab. What are ye doing here?” Finn crouched down and rubbed the dog’s loose scruff as he’d seen Aila do. He scanned the area again, still unable to locate her. “Where’s yer mistress?”
The clink of metal against metal sounded as he pet the dog. Finn caught a pair of silver disks in one fist, noticing the leather belt that circled the shepherd’s neck. The disks were attached to a metal loop near the small buckle that closed the belt. Catching one between his fingers, he saw that there was something engraved upon it. “Rab. 147 Newhaven Rd, Leith,” he read.
An address? Why? There was a series of eleven numbers following the words that provided no enlightenment as to what he was seeing. His brow furrowed so deep he felt the strain of it across his scalp. Massaging it away, he looked to the additional disk that hung behind the first. The engraving on this one was so bizarre, Finn had no idea what to think of it. It read:Please call my mum, she’s ugly crying right now.
Ugly crying? What did that mean? He might well have been reading Greek for all the sense it made. There was only one person who might provide the answers. Someone who was in many ways as much of an enigma.
“Where’s yer mistress, Rab?” he asked the dog, feeling a fool for doing so in earnest rather than rhetorically. “Where’s Aila?” Eyes wide and dark with the joy of hearing his mistress’s name, the dog hopped on all fours as if on leaf springs and bounced down the avenue and back again with an enthusiasticwoo-woo-woo. “Aye, then. Lead the way.”
Finn would have more questions for Aila than he’d imagined when he found her.
* * *
“Ye ready here?”
“Aye.” Tris grinned at her through the faux beard she’d added to the disguise they’d assembled for him. “Doctor Who’s Miracle Cureis ready to open shop.”
Aila had stayed with Boyce, held his hand so he wouldn’t be alone until the beeps slowed to a continuous buzz. Until the jagged line flattened. The decision of what to do with him was difficult. There was no way for her to return his body to his own time. With a heavy heart, she’d opted to have his body cremated. She’d brought his ashes back with her to spread in the river next to his mill. Although the people in the village — and his sons, were they ever to venture home — would believe he’d disappeared and never know the truth of what happened, he’d have his rest in his highlands, not hers.
Whatever plan Donell had for her, she now had one of her own, and she refused to consult him on the matter after he’d toyed with her and Finn so cruelly. She would set things in Inveraray to rights. No one else would lose their life to the poisoning. The most common treatment was potassium iodine to block the absorption of radiation in the thyroid. Thankfully the tablets were only a Google search away. She’d spent hours grinding enough of them down to encompass her estimate of the numbers of villagers affected for the recommended duration of treatment. Figuring out how to convince the afflicted, wary victims to take them had been far more difficult. Thankfully, Tris and Brontë offered their help.
Brontë’s skills and her own in their respective theater specialties finally proved applicable in real life. With careful makeup, prosthetics and wigs, the young, dark-haired couple had been transformed into a greying, middle-aged peddler and his wife. They’d scavenged the prop room at the Lyceum Theatre where Aila still worked for a handcart that had been used inFiddler on the Roofand filled it with leftover bolts of fabric and odds and ends from the costume shop. Along with glass bottles filled with “miracle cures” including rations of the iodine. Should their efforts be rejected, they were prepared to dump it in the village well with fingers crossed.
They’d come to the — albeit, irksome — conclusion that the villagers were more likely to believe in and buy from a man. Aila had faith that Tris would prove himself a capable salesman.
“Hopefully the rain will hold off long enough to get this done.”
“And to imagine it was springtime only a moment ago.” Brontë grinned. “Ye do get used to it.”
“Aye, right. I’ll meet ye in my bedchamber later to compare notes and plan next steps,” she reminded her friends. “Ye remember how to get there?”
“Yes, now go,” Brontë gave her a little shove. “We’ve got this. You’re the one with the hard job.”
