Page 18

“Claire! We’re home!”

Claire flew off the couch as bounding footsteps echoed up the stairwell. Before she could get to the door, Cam burst into the living room, smiling from ear to ear.

“I’m free, lass. Free!”

“That’s wonder—”

The breath swooshed out of her as he scooped her into his arms and laughing, spun her. Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around his neck and his head bent toward hers. Expecting a quick smacking kiss, she puckered up, only to have his lips land firm and smooth, unhurried on hers. As she marveled at the deliberateness of his kiss, luxuriated in the surprise of it, his hand slid to the back of her neck, and his tongue swept across her lips. Mindless and melting, she opened to him on a sigh.

God, he felt sooo good. And he was safe and free.

“Uhmm, I guess we can discuss this another time.”

Mr. Brindle?

Claire reared back from Cam as if his kisses had seared her—which in a way they had—and found Mr. Brindle standing in her doorway grinning. As heat raced up her neck, she swatted Cam’s arms. “Put me down!”

When he did, she waved Brindle in with a shaking hand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were standing there, Mr. Brindle. Please come in.”

Cam laughed. “Aye, Brindle, come in. We’ve much to celebrate.” Taking Claire by the hand, Cam acknowledged Victor’s presence with a nod and led her to the couch where he sat on the arm.

“Brindle was positively brilliant, Claire. Ye should have seen him. But how are ye feeling? Is the fever gone?” He placed a hand on her forehead. “Ye look a bit flushed, lass. Are ye all right?”

Oh, better than all right and her flush had nothing to do with the flu. “I’m fine, Cam.” To their attorney she said, “Please take a seat and tell us what happened. Victor and I have been biting our nails.”

Victor, eyeing Cameron with overt suspicion, muttered, “Speak for yourself, sweetie.”

Not about to have her dear friend put a damper on her or Cam’s high spirits, she said, “Be nice, or I’ll recommend you highly to Sara Townsend. She’s remodeling. Again.”

Mrs. Townsend, a too-rare customer, was an infamous micromanager when it came to any purchases for her home, truly believing she was blessed with exquisite taste. If she did, it was all in her mouth. She’d tried to buy Claire’s baroque mirror, but on learning the woman planned to knock it apart and use the framing for a doorway, Claire refused to sell. And when everything went wrong with her decorating, which it invariably did, she blamed the decorator in stage whispers all across town. She could ruin a good reputation in days, the public taking socialites at their word.

Victor shuddered. Claire smiled. Gotcha.

Cam reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a driver’s license. “Look, I’ve an identification card as well now.”

She gave Brindle a questioning look and he shrugged. “I figured while I had him I’d kill two birds with one stone. At least now if he’s arrested again, he’ll have something to hand over.”

Claire scowled at Cam. “But there won’t be anymore arrests, right?”

One corner of his mouth lifted and a single dimple took shape. “I pray not. In any event, we should celebrate. May I pour some of that wine ye’re hording in yer cabinet over the food box?”

Her jaw went slack for a moment. “You’ve been looking in my cabinets?”

Totally nonplussed, he nodded. “Aye. Had to do something while ye slept and what better way to ken the way of things here?” With that he strode to the kitchen.

While he banged cabinet doors, she mumbled, “The man is impossible.”

Brindle nodded. “Yes, but very true to his time.”

Frowning, Victor asked, “Which time? The Jurassic?”

Shooting a warning glance at Brindle, Claire said, “He means Cam’s more like his predecessors than he is his contemporaries.”

“Didn’t I just say that? The man’s beer and wings, Claire. Even his attorney agrees with me.” Victor held out a hand to Brindle. “By the way, I’m Victor Delucci, Claire’s friend and until recently,” he slid a scathing look in her direction, “her closest confidant.”

As Brindle and Victor shook hands, Cam returned with four wineglasses and an open bottle of merlot. He poured a splash in one glass and handed it to her. “Just a wee bit for you, lass, until ye’re on yer feet again.” He poured healthy amounts into the rest, handed them out, then slapped his forehead. “Ack, I forgot Mrs. Grouse!”

When he ran out the door, Claire put down her wineglass and clutched her hands in her lap. Dreading the answer but needing to know, she asked Brindle, “How did it really go today?”

“Much to my surprise, he did very well, answered honestly, and had the court eating out of his hands by the time the gavel came down and the case was dismissed.”

“Did he tell you why he stole the boat and went to the bird sanctuary?” Brindle had told her that much during her third call to him. That’s when she’d also learned Cam had been charged with resisting arrest. Again.

“Yes, but it comes under the heading of attorney-client privilege.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” She was the one writing the checks … via Tavish. Sort of. “He’s a breathing anachronism with a short fuse and I assume the arresting officer was armed, yes? Someone could have been killed.”

Brindle shook his head. “The incident wasn’t that dramatic. MacLeod merely snatched back what he thought was rightly his from the warden. That ticked the man off and suddenly our boy was in cuffs.”

“Oh.” Cam hadn’t come out swinging like he had the last time, which boded well for his future here, should the witch be right and there was no returning for Cam. And well for her, if for no other reason than she wouldn’t be bailing him out of jail every time she turned around. “Do you expect the March trial to go as smoothly?”

“We can only hope.”

Before she could ask him about strategy, Cam returned, saying, “Mrs. Grouse will be along shortly.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Guinness. As Cam popped the top off the ale, she risked a glance at Victor and found him giving her his I told you so look. Annoyed he’d actually gloat, she turned her back to him and found Cam smiling at her, his gaze slipping from her eyes to her lips, which caused her stomach to inexplicably flip. She found herself suddenly wishing their company away.

As if reading her mind, Cam winked and heat rose up her neck. Hoping a distraction would work before anyone noticed she was turning red, she raised her glass. “A toast to the best lawyer in Boston!”

After everyone cheered and sipped, Victor rose and raised his glass. “I have an announcement as well. You’re looking at the new designer for the Berkley Hotel.”

Claire squealed, “Oh, Victor! That’s wonderful news.”

He bowed, grinning from ear to ear. “Thank you. It’s a dream come true.”

“When do you start?”

“I’ve already started. Haven’t slept a wink since I received the call.”

“So you’re not going to Los Angeles tomorrow?” To Cam and Brindle she said, “Victor is one of twelve designers who’ve been invited to do competitive showroom displays for the Design Convention. The winner receives a spread in Bella Homes and an all-expense-paid trip to some exotic place like Maui or the Virgin Islands.”

Victor grinned. “I’m going out to L.A. The hotel owners actually insist upon it. They know my winning would add cachet to their project.”

“That’s fabulous.” She raised her glass again. “To Victor’s new hotel and to hopes of his being named Designer of the Year!”

After a second round of cheers, Victor pawed through his coat pocket. “Before I forget, I wanted to give you the keys to the truck, just in case you sell that lovely armoire downstairs and need to deliver it before I get back.” Keys jingled as he told her, “Remember to pump the gas pedal three times if you want it to start and for God’s sake park on the right side of the street. They’re predicting more snow this weekend and I don’t want it towed.”

“You’re so sweet! Thank you. But how will you get to the airport?”

“I’ll take a cab.”

As he set the keys on her end table, Mrs. Grouse came toddling through the door, her divine German chocolate Bundt cake in hand. “What did I miss?”

An hour later, Mrs. Grouse had returned to her apartment and Cam was waving good-bye to Brindle and Delucci, a man he was developing a decided liking for despite Delucci’s obvious distrust of him. The man did care deeply about Claire’s welfare, and he’d inadvertently solved Cam’s transportation problem. Aye, a lovely man, that Delucci.

After locking the door and setting the alarm, Cam took the stairs two and three at a time, looking forward to some time alone with Claire.

He found her in the kitchen, cake plates at her elbow, her hands in her sink full of bubbles and goblets.

Ack! “Drop the goblet, lass.” He scooped her into his arms, making her squeal.

“Put me down!”

“Nay. Leastwise not until I have ye where I want ye.”

He carried her into the living room and settled at one end of her deep-seated sofa, his back resting on the padded arm, his legs stretched out on the cushions, then made room for her betwixt them. As he wrapped his arms about her, he said, “Comfy?”

She huffed but settled, her back to him, her head resting on his shoulder. “You like having your own way, don’t you?”

He grinned. “I’m a man.”

“That you are.” She looked up at him then, a mysterious smile taking shape.

“A bodle for yer thoughts, lass.”

“I was thinking about how much my life has changed since you arrived.”

“Greatly, I should imagine.”

She twisted sideways, her hand settling at his waist, her fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had to think about anyone besides myself, you know. I’m not saying I prefer being alone. I don’t. That’s just the way things turned out. I’m used to eating out more often than in because I can’t justify messing up the kitchen just for myself. I did laundry on Mondays, paid bills and did banking on Tuesdays, Wednesday I check the paper for coupons … well, you get the idea. You could set your watch by my schedule.”

“And now ye barely ken the day of the week.”

She laughed, looking at him through stormy green eyes. “That about sums it up. And you?”

He wrapped a lock of her glossy hair around his finger. “ ’Tis rare for me to find myself alone. I’m accustomed to the sounds of men and animals, but when need be, I could always find quiet, to think in peace. Here, there isna quiet. Here, there’s a constant hum.”

She frowned. “It’s silent now.”

“Not so. Ye canna hear sirens and such at the moment, but if ye listen, ye’ll hear water running in the pipes that heat this place or Mrs. Grouse running water. Ye’ll hear the hum of the food box and the light buzzing in the kitchen.” He grinned as he ran a finger along the fine bones of her wrist. “Even in the dead of night ’tis never truly quiet here.”

She cocked her head, listening. “I never heard the refrigerator before, but now that you mentioned it—”

“The constant drone makes it difficult to ponder a heart’s desires. And speaking of desires … What do ye lust for, lass?”

She sighed, making him that much more aware of the soft press of her breasts against his chest. “First, I’d like my shop to succeed beyond my wildest dreams.”

Which wouldna happen unless she had people coming into the shop. Humph. He must think on this. “And?” Surely there had to be more.

“I’d like to marry a good man and settle down in a cute house. One with working plumbing, a fireplace, a rose garden, and maybe a dog in the backyard.”

All good wishes for a woman as fine as she. Mayhap if he could make the first come true, the rest would follow naturally.

“And I want to have a child.”

“Only one?”

“No,” she laughed. “I’d prefer a dozen, but don’t want to appear too greedy just in case someone really is listening.”

Ah, a cautious lass to be sure. “I havena doubt that all yer wishes will come to pass. Ye’re a verra bonnie lass, Claire MacGregor, with much to offer.”

She smiled but without the usual light in her eyes. “Maybe in your world.”

“Nay, in any world.” And why—kenning he must leave—did the thought of her lying with another cause something in his middle to churn and curl upon itself like a nest of snakes? Ack.

She threaded her long, slender fingers through his and asked, “So what were your wishes before you ended up here?”

“Dare I admit they amounted to little more than to gorge to my heart’s content on battle, food, and lasses?” Pure folly on his part given what he’d learned from the library’s books. “My time would have been better spent kenning the hearts and minds of those in power and mayhap none of this would have come to pass.”

“So what did you do all day?”

“I trained men for war and led them into battle.”

“How old were you when you started this?”

“I was fostered out to the MacDonald clan at the age of seven.”

“But you were just a baby!”

“Nay, ’tis simply the way at home. A lad needs to ken all he can and often the father hasna the heart to be as stern as he needs to be or he may not have the skills to train his sons. And, more goes on within the great halls than sons should see betwixt his parents. ’Tis better that they are away.”

“Like what?”

He fingered a lock of her hair. “Like parents in their cups. Many a keep has only one main chamber. And many a tupping goes on in dark corners.”

“By tupping do you mean …”

“Aye.”

“Ewww.”

“Precisely why ’tis better the whelps are off.”

She looked up at him, a frown marring her brow. “Did you have to go to war often?”

“Often enough to ken what I’m about, but our conflicts rarely last more than a week. Most often they’re resolved within a day, bloody as they are.” When she shuddered, he said, “Dinna fash. More often than not, all is quiet about Rubha and I’d help as needed in the fields and less often on board our ships.” He really enjoyed being on board The Bride, but rarely had an opportunity to do so. Should trouble strike, he had to be with his men, not out to sea. Or here. He heaved a sigh.

She wiggled until they were nearly eye to eye and touched his cheek. “Cam, what are you going to do if Sandra Power is right? If there is no going back?”

He picked up the hand that touched his cheek and kissed her palm. “She isna. Canna be.” His people needed him. Needed the information he’d garnered. He would find his way home. There were psychics all over the city. He’d already spoken to several—unfortunately three were outright charlatans and one had told him the same thing the Salem witch had—but there were others. He had another appointment in just a few days. Surely she—a witch too busy to see him sooner—would ken the secret. Which meant he had a great deal to accomplish and precious little time in which to do it.

“But what if—?”

“No ifs, love. Only when.” He ran his thumb over the soft fullness of her lower lip, his blood heating as he did so. God, she was lovely. And because of it, he could do naught but tell her, “I will be loathe to leave ye.”

Her eyes became a bit glassy as she looked deep into his and admitted, “I don’t want to see you go. I’m growing accustomed to having you around.”

I shouldna, I really shouldna.

Aye, but she was his for the taking. He could see it in her bonnie green eyes. And he wanted her, desperately wanted to run his hands over the length of her sleek thighs and up onto her fine hurdies to ken if they were as wonderful to touch as they were to look upon. Wanted to feel the weight of her wee breasts in his palms, to ken whether or not her nipples were cinnamon or as pink as her lips. Aye, he wanted her with a yearning he’d not experienced in years, which rattled him.

“Cam.” Her gaze shifted from his eyes to his lips as she cupped his cheek in her hand. Watching her tongue peek out, then disappear before she caught her bottom lip betwixt her teeth, his groin swelled uncomfortably. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, I should tell you that I’d love you to kiss me again, but we’d better not. I don’t want you to catch the flu, too.”

“Lass, ye forget I’m invincible.”

Kenning any reservation on her part stemmed from her concern for his welfare, the door to his conscience slammed shut. Hungry for a taste of her, he lowered his mouth to hers. Tasting wine and woman as her lips parted on a sigh, he delved deeper, relishing the slick softness of her mouth, unable to keep from wondering if he’d find the same sweetness between her thighs.

As his kiss deepened, Claire twisted and stretched out along the length of him and her hands found their way to his neck where they tugged on the ribbon holding his hair. When it fell away, she buried her fingers in his hair and he pulled her closer as he’d been dreaming of doing since he’d kissed her oh-too-briefly in Salem.

She tasted sweet, of wine and Mrs. Grouse’s cake.

Delightful. His hand slipped up her ribs, seeking her breast. A heartbeat from his goal, she suddenly jerked upright.

“Aa-ah CHOO! CHOO!” She gasped, then coughed, a wracking sound that made him cringe.

God’s teeth, what an arse he was!

He gently thumped her back. “There, there, lass.” Here she was barely out of hospital and he had naught on his mind but tupping her blind.

Scarlet, her eyes watering, she flapped a hand at him. “I’m … fine. I just need to catch … my breath.” She swung her legs off the couch and sat, elbows on her knees, with her head in her hands. “Damn. I’m so sorry. I thought …”

Claire shook her head. Hell, she hadn’t thought at all. She just wanted Cam, wanted him on her, in her, with a yearning that had made her mindless and selfish. And because of it, he’d likely get the flu now, too. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

She sniffled and straightened. “Sorry. I thought the worst was behind me.”

He rubbed her back. “Ack, ye poor wee thing. ’Tis all my fault. I never should have kissed ye in the first place, ye still being as sick as a dog and nae in ye right mind.”

Her laugh came out in a bark and started the coughing all over again.

Why me, Lord?

When she was finally able to breathe again, she looked around the living room wondering where Victor had put her prescription.

Cam jumped up and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get ye medicine.”

“Thanks.” The man was not only incredibly sexy and a great kisser but a mind reader as well. What more could a woman ask?

He returned with the amber bottle and spoon in hand. Scowling at the label, he read, “Phenergan expectorant with codeine. Take one teaspoon every six hours as needed. No refill.” He held them out to her. “Take four. ’Tis a wee spoon.”

Imagining what four would do to her failing common sense, she laughed again, which set off another coughing fit.

“Easy, lass.” He grabbed the bottle from her, and muttering under his breath in Gael, poured a dose into the spoon and held it to her mouth. “Open wide.”

She opened like a hatchling and the liquid hit the back of her tongue, making her gag. God, it was putrid. Seeing him tip the bottle over the spoon again, she held up a hand. “Enough, Cam. Please, no more.”

“But—”

“Trust me. One is plenty.” Any more and she’d be tossing cake all over her worn but lovely Persian carpet. Heaving a sigh, she came to her feet. “I need to lie down for a while.”

“Of course.” He followed her into her bedroom and pulled back the covers. As she kicked off her shoes he fluffed her pillows. “Lass, I’m glad yer home.”

“Me, too.”

When she settled into the deep feather mattress, he covered her and tapped the tip of her nose. “Sweet dreams, love.”

Because he’d called her love again, because he’d stood guard over her at the hospital, because her toes curled and shivers ran down her spine whenever he kissed her, she took back every evil thought she’d ever had about him. Even about him being arrested. Again.

As soon as he closed the bedchamber door, Cam strode to the kitchen to take a second look at Claire’s calendar.

Humph! He had seen a pattern when he’d first glimpsed it. Every Sunday and every other Thursday for the last month Claire had called a glazer to come and repair her windows, which meant the deevil’s buckies would likely hit again tonight.

Ack! So much for his plans for making a raid on the game park. ’Twas just as well, he supposed. He needed to practice driving a bit to be sure he kenned the way of it. The last thing he needed was to be caught by the police with reived venison and then have to face Claire’s wrath atop it. But on the morrow he had to make the raid, come hell or high water. A storm had been forecast for Sunday.

He opened Claire’s knife drawer, pulled out a short and long blade and tucked them beneath his belt since the wide silver tape—what Claire called duck tape, though why he couldna imagine, since it no more resembled a duck than he did a feather—was sitting on her workbench downstairs.

Armed as best he could manage, given his blades were still held by the sheriff, he tiptoed to Claire’s room and peeked inside. Seeing her breathing had settled into the deep, easy rhythm of sleep, Cam closed the door, scooped up the keys Delucci had left on the side table and headed for the stairs.

At the second-floor landing, he pressed an ear to Mrs. Grouse’s door. Hearing the teevee, he knocked. A moment later, she opened the door.

“Cameron, is something wrong with Claire?”

“Nay, she’s fine and asleep. I dinna mean to alarm ye, but I think the lads who’ve been breaking her windows will strike again tonight. I intend to nab them before they can throw another brick but will need to lurk outside to do it.”

Her hand flew to her throat. “Oh my! Do be careful, dear. They might be armed and I don’t want to see you hurt.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Mrs. Grouse, do I look like a man who’ll be either careless or harmed?”

She smiled up at him. “No, dear, you don’t.”

“Would ye be kind enough to keep an eye on Claire, keep an ear to the door should she call out?”

“Of course. Oh! I almost forgot. A package and letter arrived for you this morning. Wait right here and I’ll get it.”

A moment later, she handed him a box and missive, both addressed to Cameron Grouse. Ah, ’twas the supplies he’d ordered from You Shop teevee. When the helpful sales representative had asked for a security number, Cam, not kenning her meaning, had asked Mrs. Grouse for help. She’d supplied the number, one her husband had once apparently owned. Verra considerate of her, truly, else he wouldna have been able to acquire the special card.

As he headed downstairs, his package in arm, she called after him, “Do be careful, dear.”

He waved over his shoulder and lied, “Always.”

In Claire’s work room, he pocketed the glossy credit card, then cut open the box and found the blades he’d ordered. Pulling them from the wrapping, he discovered they all could do with a wee bit of honing but were adequate and sturdy nonetheless. He pulled Claire’s carving knife from his belt and replaced it with the foot-long blade the salesman had called a buoy knife, of all things. The shorter blades he secured to his upper arms beneath rings of duck tape, then grabbed the cast iron bar Claire used to pry open crates.

Outside, he spied a large white truck bearing the sign VIVID DESIGNS BY VICTOR parked at the far right corner. “Thank ye, Victor.”

Inside the vehicle, it took him a moment to get comfortable and to pump the pedals three times as Delucci recommended. When the engine roared to life, he blew through his teeth. So far so good.

He pulled down on the stick as he’d seen the taxi driver do, only to have the truck growl in response. Humph! Mayhap he needed to press a pedal as well. He pressed down on the go pedal, the truck unexpectedly charged backward, and a godawful crack ensued. Startled, he jerked his feet off the pedals. The engine coughed, sputtered and finally fell silent.

Shit! Who would have kenned driving could be so difficult?

He got out.

The steel pole supporting the light looked none the worse for his ineptness, but the same couldna be said for the tail end of Delucci’s truck. Ack. He should have noticed the front wheels were cocked.

He climbed back into the truck, straightened the wheels and turned the key again, thankful when the engine roared back to life.

This time, he jerked the stick as fast as possible past the R—which apparently meant retreat —and down to the D, which he prayed meant drive.

To his monumental relief, the truck lurched forward.

Hallelujah!

He made his way out onto Huntington Avenue where he managed to turn right clipping a snowbank but missing the parked cars. Two streets later he turned left. A short while later, his confidence growing, he turned left once again.

As he rolled along at an amazing speed, he blew through his teeth. ’Twasna so hard after all.

When he rolled past the Velvet Pumpkin, he laughed. Claire would nay doubt pitch a fit if she could see him sitting in the driver’s seat.

He drove by three more times, then pulled into the place he’d vacated, shut off the engine and got out, only to see he’d placed the truck too far from the sidewalk. Ack!

He got back in and moved the stick to the R. After a good bit of lurching forward and back, he got out and was pleased to see the truck was reasonably close to where Delucci had placed it.

Ha! No moss on this stone.

Now to find a good spot to wait out the deevil’s buckies.

Crouched next to the stairs fronting the house facing Claire’s home, Cam tensed each time a vehicle turned onto the street. Seven rolled past without incident before a long, blue car came into view. When it slowed and red light fanned out turning the snow-packed street crimson, Cam shrugged off his breachen feile and pulled the long blade from his belt.

When the car door closest to Claire’s shop flew open and the driver turned his attention to the passenger, Cam bolted from his hiding place. Three long strides and he wrenched open the driver’s door.

“What the—”

Cam grabbed the driver by the throat before he could finish his exclamation and hauled him out, his blade to the lad’s neck.

Hearing his friend cry out, the lad standing on the curb with a bottle in his hand spun around to face him.

Cam glared at him. “Put it down or I slit yer friend’s throat.”

Bug-eyed, the bottle-wielding youth froze, his gaze darting from Cam to his friend, then back again.

The driver, his back straining to ease the pressure Cam was exerting on his neck, shouted, “Do as he says, man!”

“Slowly,” Cam informed the youth on the sidewalk, “or blood spews.”

The youth, his gaze locked on Cam’s blade, held out both arms and slowly lowered the bottle to the sidewalk.

“Back away.”

The youth did as he was told, and Cam marched the driver, now reeking of fear-laden sweat, around the car to where the tall uncapped bottle stood. Seeing a thick green liquid inside, his heart tripped. “Ye marly pokes of shit!”

The bloody bastards were going to throw a fire bomb. Picturing the chaos and flames, imagining Claire and Mrs. Grouse trapped above, Cam growled deep in his throat and wrenched the lad’s jaw to the side, ready to cut.

The youth standing on the sidewalk, apparently kenning his intent, shouted, “No, man! You can’t kill him for throwing paint! It’s paint, man! Just paint.”

Cam’s head jerked around. So they weren’t trying to burn Claire out? Just wanted to make more of a mess? Not trusting them, Cam picked up the bottle and threw it into the car’s open door.

As green liquid splashed in all directions coating the interior but naught else happened, the youth in his grip keened, “Shit, man! My mother’s gonna kill me.”

Ha! Were he at Rubha he’d do more than kill the pair. He’d take a whip to them, then throw them in brine. But he wasna home and should call the police, but then he’d have to explain his blades and would likely end up being arrested again himself. Humph! What to do, what to do?

Aha. “Yer wallet. Now!”

The driver yelped, reaching for his back pocket. “Shit, man, you’re cutting me!”

“I’ll sever yer friggin’ head if ye dinna make haste.”

The lad finally held out his purse. “Take it all, man. Just let me go!”

“Take out yer license.” When he did, Cam barked, “Hold it up where I can see it.”

Cam memorized the name and address, noting as he did that Manuel Gaza was sixteen years old, auld enough to ken better. He grabbed the wallet and pulled out the thin bills, not bothering to count them. “The bank notes,” he hissed, “are restitution for the windows ye broke in the past.” He spun the lad, lifting him off his feet, one hand clutching his collar so he could look the bastard in the eye. Glaring, his teeth bared, Cam growled, “I ken where ye live, ye wee bastard. If I so much as catch scent of ye again, I’ll go to yer home and destroy it and all yer mother holds dear, ye included. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

The lad, decidedly pale in the lamplight, swallowed convulsively. “Ya, man, real clear.”

Cam shoved the driver backward, sending him sprawling at his friend’s feet and threw the license and wallet after him. “Now get yer sorry arses out of here before I change my mind and kill the pair of ye where ye stand.”

They scrambled into the car and were gone, their wheels squealing. Watching tail lights flare as they slid around the corner, Cam tucked his knife into his belt.

“The wee bastards should be conscripted onto a bloody man-of-war.” There was naught like trying to stay alive to focus a man on what was really important.

Inside, he placed the bank notes in Claire’s money drawer and headed upstairs where Mrs. Grouse greeted him at the first landing, her eyes wide. “Oh my word, Cam! I saw the whole thing through the window. Very impressive dear, but why did you let them go?”

“I’ve had my fill of police, Mrs. Grouse.”

“I quite understand, dear, but you let them off too easy.” She crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I’d dearly love to call their parents.”

“Ye can do that?”

“Yes, if I knew where they lived.”

Cam laughed. He really should get some sleep for he’d get none on the morrow, but then there was still much to accomplish this night. “Mrs. Grouse, may I come in? We’ve a call to make. I also wanted to talk to ye about a plan I have for bringing more people into Claire’s shop.”