Page 17

What kind of a friggin’ idiotic country was this that a man had to have a license to dig a few clams? And how the hell was he supposed to ken there was a season? He’d never heard such blather in his life. Next they’d be telling him he needed a license to breathe. And he hadna resisted arrest. Ack!

Cam crossed his arms, leaned against the bars and stared down the corridor, his hopes for help arriving anytime soon slowly dwindling.

“Hey, man, what you in for?”

Cam glanced sideways at the thin, runny-nosed man leaning on the bars next to him, then back to the door at the far end of the hall. “Reiving.”

The man sniffled. “Reefers. Cool. I’m in for possession, too. They caught me with two bags of coke.” He cursed and sniffled again. “Just watch, I’ll get twenty years hard time. Shit, I’ll be fifty before I get out from behind bars this time.”

Cam stared at the man. He loved cola. Praise be to Saint Bride that he’d not been caught coming home from a shop with an arm load. There’d be no explaining a twenty-year imprisonment to Claire, though why she hadna warned him—

“MacLeod! You have a visitor.”

Hope soaring, Cam stepped back away from the bars. The young officer who’d questioned him on arrival fit the key in the lock and opened the door. “Hands out.”

Cam did as he was told and cold steel clamped around his wrists.

The officer waved him out and pointed left. “Through the door.”

He was led down a gray corridor and into a small gray cage where he found a frowning Mr. Brindle sitting at a gray metal table. As the barrister rose, the officer said, “You have fifteen minutes.”

When the officer left, Mr. Brindle waved toward the chair across the table from him. “Take a seat and tell me what happened.”

Cam sat, the cuffs on his wrists clanging as they came to rest on the table. “How’s Claire? Is she verra upset?”

Brindle scowled at him. “What do you think?”

“Ack, she should be resting, garnering her strength, not fashing over me.”

“I know.” Brindle shuffled the papers before him. “Says here you’ve been charged with trespassing on private property, unauthorized use of a boat, clam digging without a license on a state wild life preserve, and resisting arrest. What do have you have to say for yourself?”

“I say naught that I’m charged with is my fault, leastwise, it shouldna be. I didna ken the law about digging, didna ken that the wee boat wasna there for the using, and I certainly didna resist arrest.” He rubbed his breast bone, the place where the Boston officer had hit him with the stun gun and grumbled, “I learned that lesson the hard way.”

By sheer providence he’d been burrowing in a deep hole, trying to pry out a tenacious clam with his knife when the sheriff happened upon him and he’d been able to kick sand over the blade or he’d be facing more charges. But then Brindle didna need to ken that.

Cam placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward, his hands open in supplication. “Sir, I just wanted to get some clams for Claire. They’re her favorite food and the sea salt would have aided her healing. I’d gone to the public house she liked but they wanted a king’s ransom for just a wee handful. So I thought to dig some myself. I went to the shore and dug but to nae avail. Seeing the boat up the beach, lying face down as it would be at home for any to use when its rightful owner wasna using it, I borrowed it and rowed out to the far point thinking I’d have better luck where fewer people tread.” He shook his head still not believing he was in trouble with the law yet again. “I would have brought the bloody boat back. I’m nae thief.”

“I didn’t say that you were. So then what?”

“So there I was digging away and before I had a dozen clams in my bucket, the gaming sheriff—and who kenned ye could have so damn many bloody kinds of sheriffs—grabs me and slaps me in irons.”

Looking dubious, Brindle pushed his glasses halfway down his nose to look over the rims at him. “Says here you struck the game warden.”

Cam reeled back in his chair. “I did nae such thing! The man was naught but a wee shit. Had I struck him, I’d have leveled him and been on my way and not sitting here in irons. Nay, I just grabbed the bucket back from him after he’d taken it from me. I’d dug the damn clams. They were mine.”

Brindle rolled his eyes and took off his glasses. “Well, we’ve got some time before your arraignment. I’ll see what I can do to placate the boat owner … see if I can get him to drop the charge. Then I’ll speak with the game warden. I’ll explain that you’re new here, didn’t know that there were restrictions on clamming, and with any luck, I can get him to back off.”

“And if he willna?”

Brindle put his glasses in his coat pocket and reached for what Cam now knew to be a briefcase. “Then you and I, MacLeod, have another date at court.”

Claire glared at Victor as he sat across from her perusing an old Architectural Digest. “They should have been back by now.”

“Relax, Claire. These things take time.”

“Yes, and I’d know precisely how much time if you’d brought me to the court house like you promised you would. I don’t like being duped.”

“The doctor said he’d release you only on the condition that you went straight home to bed.” He looked up at her. “You’ll note you’re not in bed.”

“Screw you.” What if they wouldn’t release Cam on his own recognizance? What if he needed a character witness?

“You’re turning into a potty mouth, Claire.”

“Screw you and the horse you rode in on.”

As she reached for her cell phone, Victor put down the magazine. “Go ahead. Call Brindle. Annoy the man some more, so maybe he’ll walk out and leave MacLeod to his own devices. That what you want?”

Claire slapped the phone closed, tossed it onto the coffee table, and picked up the teddy bear Cam had given her. “Sometimes I hate you, you know that?”

“Hate’s an awfully strong word, sweetie. And beside, I know it’s not true. You love me.” He picked up the magazine again. “I’m still waiting to learn how you met this Highlander. He doesn’t strike me as your sort.”

“What do you mean by that?” Why wasn’t he her sort? Because he was handsome?

“I mean I’ve never seen you eye construction workers. I do, but you don’t. All that raw, pent-up macho, that buffed and tanned muscle, has never been something you’ve been drawn to. You ogle the civilized guys in suits.”

“You’re so full—What makes you think Cam’s not civilized?”

“An idiot could take one look into those steely blue eyes of his, grab hold of his callused paw, and know he’s pure blue-collar-and-beer and damn proud of it. He’s probably been in more bar brawls than you’ve got teeth.”

Claire pulled up her knees, pressing the bear to her chest, Victor’s assessment hitting a little too close to home. Cam did like his ale, and God only knows how many battles he’s fought. And she did too ogle construction workers. Sometimes. But not overtly, unlike some people she could mention. “I’ll have you know he speaks four languages and has very good table manners.” So there.

Victor arched an elegant black eyebrow. “Great, he can order wings in every dive from here to Bangkok, but he’ll still have beer with them and you’re still in over your head.”

“You’re such a snob.”

“No, I just grew up near the docks and know my men.” He rose and then settled at her feet, taking her right hand in his. In as gentle a voice as she could ever remember him using, he asked, “Sweetie, has he shared his past with you? Have you met his family? Or even his friends?”

“No.” And she never would. And that made her sadder than anything else. Made her heart ache, bleed for him. He was so alone. So very, very alone.

“Oh my God, you’re in love with him.”

Claire tried in vain to blink back the tears that suddenly sprang from out of nowhere, then giving up, buried her face in the bear’s soft belly. “Seriously dumb, huh?”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” Victor’s arms wrapped around her and her week’s worth of worry and fear took shape in chest-wracking sobs.

God, the whole situation with Cam was so appalling, and as impossible as it was improbable. She was in love with a man who needed her, might even care for her, but wasn’t in love with her and certainly had no intention of staying with her.

“Please tell me you’re not sleeping with him. You’ve only known him a week, don’t know where he’s been …”

She pressed a finger to his lips. Poor Victor. He lived in mortal fear of getting AIDS, got tested every six months even though he’d been in a committed relationship for years. Just in case. To ease his worry, she would have loved to tell him that Cam was probably the safest partner on the planet, but her dear friend couldn’t keep a secret to save his soul. “No, we’ve kissed but that’s all.”

And that’s likely all they’d ever do, so hellbent was he on finding his way back to his own world. He hadn’t done more than kiss her forehead since they’d spoken with the witch and then only because she’d been at death’s door.

And wishful thinking has never gotten you anywhere, girlfriend.

She scrubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, sniffled, and attempted to straighten the bear’s now soggy red bow. “I’ll be fine.” And she would be.

“I’m ready to hear from the defense.”

Wesley Brindle nodded to Judge Harry Brown, then leaned toward his client. “Remember, MacLeod, this is just an arraignment. Not a trial. Say nothing unless the judge or I ask you a direct question. When you respond keep your answers to yes or no. Is that clear?”

MacLeod nodded, and Wesley wiped the sweat from his palms and stood. “Your honor, I’m Wesley Brindle—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Brindle. I’m surprised to see you in my courtroom.”

“So am I.” He hadn’t set foot in a courtroom since he’d broken the back of the prosecution’s case against Donald Ripper, thereby setting him free. To his everlasting regret, not four hours after walking out of the court house a free man, the bastard Ripper held up a convenience store and killed the owner and an employee, a mother of three.

“I thought you didn’t take on criminal cases any more.”

“I don’t.” Translation: My client is not a criminal … although he’s walking a fine line.

“We’ll see about that. Proceed.”

Since he’d gotten the boat owner to drop his complaints, Wesley only had to deal with the resisting arrest charge and opened with, “Your honor, there is no crime here. My client, Cameron MacLeod, is the victim of an overzealous game warden.” He related MacLeod’s version of events as his client had related them to him. “A newcomer to our shores, he didn’t know there were regulations regarding public land use or use of a neighbor’s boat. He’d never imagined there might be, having been raised on an isle off the coast of Scotland where men fished and gathered as they could, where they had no electricity or indoor plumping. In truth, he’s a man out of his element.”

As he waxed on about his client’s good points—which were far too few in Wesley’s estimation—he detailed his client’s experientially limited adulthood, never lying but stretching veracity to the point of incredibility, while the judge kept his gaze on the defendant

Finally, the judge held up a hand. “Enough, Mr. Brindle. I get the picture.” He then addressed MacLeod. “Mr. MacLeod, if you had no electricity, how did you see at night?”

“Oil lamps.”

“And what kind of oil did you use?”

Shit. The judge was trying to trip up his client. Before he could register an objection, MacLeod responded, “Whale oil.”

“And how did you acquire this whale oil?” The judge looked directly at Wesley and arched an eyebrow, all but saying I have the son of a bitch now.

Wesley started voicing his objection to relevance, and MacLeod caught his arm. “Nay, I’ll answer the man.” To the judge he said, “We caught them.”

The judge grinned, obviously enjoying himself. “And how did you catch these whales, pray tell?”

As titters erupted in the back of the room, MacLeod said, “With our ships, of course. We have two.”

“Ah. Could you describe these ships, please?”

MacLeod shrugged. “Aye. Seventy-eight feet by thirty-six, single hulled, triple masts, their average tonnage is three thousand pounds—one slightly more, the other a wee less due to the cabins. They averaged eight to ten knots, but we could get twelve out of The Bride if the wind was blowing up her arse.”

The room erupted into laughter and the judge banged his gavel to regain control. “Any more outbursts and I’ll clear the court.”

Looking none too please with anyone, Judge Brown turned his attention back to MacLeod. “So how did you get the oil out of the whales?”

“Beggin’ ye pardon, sir, but ’tisna in the whale, sir, but ’tis the whale.”

MacLeod launched into his clan’s method for stripping the fat—including all the tools needed.

Wesley was about to interrupt, then realized his client was just warming up to his tale, had started throwing in humorous anecdotes to balance all the gore and stench he was describing in graphic detail. As MacLeod went on, giving them tips on the proper disposal of entrails, Wesley leaned back in his chair and relaxed. MacLeod, a one-man show, had his audience in the palm of his hand.

Within ten minutes the judge, looking a little bilious, held up a hand. “Enough. Thank you, Mr. MacLeod.” To Wesley he said, “Mr. Brindle, your client has proved your case. Case dismissed without prejudice.”

He slammed down the gavel and immediately bolted from the courtroom.

The audience erupted with hoots and applause, and MacLeod leaned toward him. “What now?”

Wesley opened his briefcase and shoved in the documents he’d prepared but would have no need for now. “It’s over. You’re free to go.”

MacLeod looked astounded for a moment, then broke into a broad grin and held out his hand. Wesley shook it, pleased that a client had handled himself well for a change. The judge had been right. MacLeod had won the case. Wesley had simply been window dressing, which suited him just fine.

“Thank ye. Truly.”

“You’re most welcome.” Not a bad day’s work, all in all.

But they still had another trial ahead of them. Perhaps if he donated a healthy sum to the police department’s Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund, he could get them to drop the concealed weapons charges. Handling the officer with the fractured nose would be a bit trickier, but …

Still grinning, MacLeod asked, “How much do I owe ye?”

Wesley smiled as he snapped his briefcase closed. “Not a thing. It’s been taken care of.”

Rather than looking pleased by the news, MacLeod’s brow furrowed and his jaw tensed. After a moment, he relaxed and asked, “Would ye happen to ken the easiest way to the Franklin Park Zoo?”

“You just take Route 1 South to 203 East and follow the signs. Why?”