Dawn on a Distant Shore by Sara Donati Page B

fingertip,
Moncrieff traced the gouges on the table as if they were an alphabet he alone
could read. He had the hands of a man who earned his living with books and
paper and ink: fine fingered and unscarred. Nathaniel wished for five minutes
of his father's counsel, for he truly did not know what to make of Angus
Moncrieff.
    On the other side of
the room, the sailor roused and hobbled out, tossing a coin to Adele. The man
in the corner called for more ale and began to sing softly to himself: a German
lullaby or maybe a love song, slow and melancholy. Outside, a girl scolded a herd
of goats as she hurried them along, the sound of the bells clear and true in
the cold air.
    When Moncrieff looked
up again, his color had settled and his tone was calmer. "Aye," he said.
"You're right. I overstepped my bounds, and I apologize. But now ye're here.
You can ha' my help, or leave it. Which will it be?"
    Nathaniel sat back to
consider.
    Robbie had taken to
Moncrieff, and after thirty years in the bush Robbie was wary of strangers and
slow to give his friendship. He could make a mistake, certainly. But maybe he had
not. Elizabeth, who had a keen ear for things left unstated and no patience
with half-truths, had not been terribly worried by Moncrieff. She had put the
case before Nathaniel with her usual simplicity and clarity: If Hawkeye
decides he needs to go to Scotland, then he will go. However unlikely it seems
to us that he might want to do such a thing, he has the right to decide for
himself. And it was the truth; Nathaniel could admit it to her and to
himself, but he could not allow Moncrieff to see it in his face.
    There were other
truths that couldn't be overlooked: they had made an enemy of the man who was
their only link to the gaol, whereas Moncrieff had connections, and an idea.
    "First things
first," Nathaniel said. "Tell me what it is you want with my father
once he's free."
    "It's verra
simple," Moncrieff said softly. "The Earl o' Carryck would like to
find his heir before he dies. The laird's wish is that the land and holdings
..." He paused, and then went on. "And the title stay in the family.
Nae mair, nae less than that. What I want from your faither is an hour o' his
time, to tell him o' his kin, and his birthright."
    Nathaniel nodded.
"You'll have your hour. But listen first, and I'll tell you now what I
know in my gut to be true. Maybe my father was born a Scott of Carryck--you
seem to be sure of that, and I can't say you're wrong--but he was raised in the
wilderness and in his heart he's more Mahican than white."
    "And yet he
married a Scotswoman," Moncrieff said.
    "Who turned her
back on Scotland." Nathaniel leaned closer. "Listen to me. Even if
that earldom is rightfully his, he'll want nothing to do with it. He'll never
get on a ship for Scotland of his own free will. If he tells you that to your
face, will you leave here, and go home?"
    A flicker in the deep
brown eyes: anger or disbelief or perhaps just stubbornness. But Moncrieff
inclined his head. "Aye, if your faither tells me sae, I'll be awa' hame to
Scotland."
    "I'm not coming,
either," added Nathaniel. "I'll have no part of it. Are we clear on
that?"
    "Aye," said
Moncrieff. "Verra clear."
    Robbie clapped
Nathaniel on the back, laughing. "By God, laddie, ye should o' been a lawyer.
Angus, tell us wha' ye've got in mind."
    Moncrieff took a long
swallow and then pulled a kerchief from his sleeve to wipe his brow. "The
cook," he said finally, and in response to the blank look he got from both
of them, he produced a slanted grin. "Martin Fink, the Somervilles' cook.
He has a weakness for cards and whisky, a verra bad combination for a man o'
limited resources."
    Nathaniel frowned.
"Can a cook get us into the gaol, or our people out of it?"
    "Ach, nothing so
simple as that," said Moncrieff. "But he can let ye bide in Pink
George's kitchen, and that's where ye need to be, this evening. Giselle's invited
me tae one o' her parties, and she intends to have Otter