Page 27 of Death at a Highland Wedding

“Yours, of course.”

“Which is…?”

I shrug. “Surprise me.”

“Your challenge is accepted.” He reaches down into the shadows under a hedge and takes out a basket. “This is my brand of nonsense. A moonlight picnic. Just the two of us out on the heather.”

Good thing it’s dark, because my cheeks definitely heat at that.

“And the coos?” I say.

“Tucked under their blankets, sound asleep in the barn.”

I peer up at him. “So the coos were a lie?”

He lifts the basket. “Onward. We have a picnic to enjoy.”

NINE

We take great care with our route. We stick to an obvious footpath, and when the moon ducks behind cloud cover, we wait until it returns so we can watch for traps. A lantern would have been wise, but anyone spotting lantern light would have been suspicious. I guess it’s better to die in a mantrap than get caught sneaking around with an actual man?

I can joke, but it’s safe enough. We’ve seen the traps, and we aren’t going to accidentally step in one unless we wander into the long grass, which we do not. We follow the footpath until we’re on a small rise near a lake. From here, we have a perfect view of the estate grounds stretching in every direction, rolling hills and stands of trees, with the admittedly impressive house in the backdrop.

Gray opens the basket and pulls out a small bottle of whisky. Seeing it, he hesitates.

“I had this packed earlier,” he says. “That was before dinner and before your whisky sampling. Perhaps I ought to have packed something else.”

“Like port?”

He smiles. “Except port.”

“Whisky is fine. I don’t think we tried that one.” I examine the label. “Oh, wait. We did, and that was my favorite. Excellent choice.”

Gray pours us each a glass and then empties the rest of the basket.

“You went on a pilferingspree,” I say as he pulls out a veritable midnightbuffet of breads and cheeses and meat. “Okay, I forgive you for the lack of coos.”

“Cows.”

“Coos. That’s what I said.” I take a bite of bread. “It’s the accent.”

“We have the same accent, Mallory.”

“Bite your tongue. I have the accent of a Scot without your hoity-toity education.” I take another bite and swallow. “Can I just tell you how weird it was to wake up and not only have another voice but an accent I can barely understand?”

He purses his lips. “I had not thought of that. Yours is very different then?”

“Very. Wanna hear me do it?”

“Of course.”

I clear my throat, drop my voice, and concentrate on hearing a Canadian voice. “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”

“That is… interesting.”

“Flat, you mean. Compared to yours. It doesn’t even sound like the North Americans I’ve met in this time period. The evolution of language.”

“Does mine sound like Scottish people in your time?”