“Whose croft is it on?” Rose asked.
“This is the common grazing ground on Frest.” Mr.Sinclair spun his arm around, indicating an oval grassy plot encircled by a drystone fence.
Rose had seen courtyards bigger than this, but she did not want to insult him by saying so. No wonder he had been so concerned about ensuring that she extend their grazing rights on Hamarray. But the revelation didn’t explain his current caginess or why a premonition kept skittering up and down her spine like an overindustrious spider.
“If the lump of earth is on common land, then I cannot imagine that no one has explored it.” Rose tried pushing Mr.Sinclair just a bit more. “It’s just too tempting sitting there, all hauntingly mysterious. It is practically shouting, ‘Come. Look at me! See what treasures I hold!’”
Mr.Sinclair chuckled, a deep rumbling sound. It seemed to roll through her, first lifting her and then sending her crashing down. She wanted to joke with him, truly and fully—tofeelthe laughter. She was tired of this game, tired of not knowing whether she could trust him. But she couldn’t allow herself to relax, not with this man who held so many secrets.
“If you are hearing voices from that howe, it is likely trows.”
“Howe? Trow?” Rose asked and then allowed a faint smile. She mustn’t let Mr.Sinclair see her internal strain. “I sound like I am reciting a child’s nursery rhyme.”
“Ahoweis Orcadian for a mound like that. That particular one is called Fornhowe. And a trow is a short misshapen creature who looks like a peedie little man. They are known to steal away fair maidens, so you might want to be careful around that particular mound, especially if they’re already calling to you.”
“A trow would probably throw me back. I can be rather trying at times. In fact, I take perverse enjoyment in being difficult.”
“I don’t think you’re as demanding as you think you are.” Mr.Sinclair’s simple observation, spoken with no artifice, had her reaching into her satchel for a cig to play with. This man’s ability to see past all her facades left her shaken, and not just because he could be a German agent. Spy or no, he was a danger to the parts of her that she kept hidden ... even from herself.
“What makes you say that?” Rose didn’t know why she spoke. It was a question that shouldn’t matter and might prompt answers she didn’t want to hear.
“Because you’re the first laird in over a century who’s seemed to give a shite about us crofters.”
She tapped her cigarette against the case, as if she had ash to knock off. She felt raw—like a piece of skin after a blister was popped. “Who says I give a shite?”
“You do,” he answered, his deep-blue gaze holding hers fast, “by standing here listening to me, by visiting the people of Frest, by agreeing to resolve the Sheep Problem ... and by sayingshiteinstead ofshit.”
She lifted the roll of tobacco to her mouth and sucked on it, wishing she could light up. She wanted to smoke her buzzing emotions into submission. She was here to uncover a spy ring, not secrets about herself—especially when the man unearthing them could be the enemy.
“Trows won’t scare off Myrtle either—not when there’s a mound to be explored.” Rose turned the conversation back to slightly more comfortable ground—for her at least.
“Like I have said afore, Fornhowe is naught but a dirt heap. Miss Morningstar is right to concentrate on the howe on the Flett croft. I try not to disturb the land around it, but a few times I have turned up odd objects with the plow. Your friend is welcome to take a spade to that mound if she wishes.”
Mr.Sinclair definitelywasdesperate to keep her away from Fornhowe, which made it all the more necessary for Rose to explore it. A nervous energy seeped into her, and her stomach soured as she thought of the secrets that she might discover. She did not want this man, thesepeople, to be guilty. But she could not ignore these clues—clues that would have made her excited just weeks before. Now she almost dreaded the duty she had so willingly assumed in the beginning, before the potential spies had possessed faces, identities.
“Wouldn’t your stepfather object to Myrtle digging around on your croft?” Rose asked.
“I can persuade him,” Mr.Sinclair said. “After all, it might be a chance for him to learn about the ancestors of his that he’s so proud of. He believes his father’s line has lived on Frest since time immemorial.”
Rose did not believe that the crotchety Mr.Flett would approve of anyone disturbing his forebears, especially rich American women. No, the only way the elderly man would agree to sacrificing the howe on his croft was if there was something more valuable worth protecting in Fornhowe. The so-called dirt heap definitely held the key to the islanders’ secrets, but the idea of uncovering them made Rose queasy.
She sorely hoped that whatever she discovered at Fornhowe wouldn’t point toward espionage but rather away from it.
Chapter 8
“Do we really need to explore this mound in the darkness? Maybe we should try our luck at being cat burglars and break into the windmill instead,” Myrtle whispered as they carefully picked their way up the hillside leading to Fornhowe. Stars dotted the sky, and a chill wind swept over Frest, causing the grasses to brush against their skirts. The full moon cast a pale, wan glow over the treeless landscape. Without the sun illuminating the powerful seas and white sands, the outline of landscape took even more precedence, rendering each odd bump even more mysterious. The white-gray standing stone near Fornhowe seemed to capture the light, throwing it back toward Rose and Myrtle. It was not hard to imagine fairy folk flitting about on an evening like this—or specters of the ancient human inhabitants drifting above the isle over which they’d once held complete dominion.
“Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly become superstitious,” Rose teased in hopes of lightening the mood—or at least uncoiling the dreadful tension twisting her gut. Her skittishness since the war seemed particularly inflamed tonight.
“Heavens, don’t bandy it about that I believe in the supernatural,” Myrtle said. “The males in my field will take it as more evidence that women do not have the proper scientific temperament to draw rational conclusions from the past.”
Even amid all of Rose’s other emotions, familiar rage burned through her at the unnecessary adversity that Myrtle had to face in her career simply for being born a woman. “I shouldn’t have teased. I’m sorry. I’m just anxious. No matter what we find under Fornhowe, I hope we will also unearth a finding of great archaeological import. Then you can show those stuffy professors how truly brilliant you are!”
Myrtle’s voice was laced with both amusement and frustration. “More likely they’ll accuse me of being little better than a grave robber when they find out that I crept through the countryside like a thief to make the discovery.”
“Technically, I do own this land,” Rose pointed out at the same time she stepped in a divot. Her foot twisted but not enough to injure it.
“Then why are we bumbling around with shuttered lanterns?” Myrtle asked.
