Page 26 of Priceless
Duncan took the lead again and we wound our way farther down the Mile, past pubs glowing warm with light and happy voices, past buskers tucking away their instruments for the night. At home, streets quieted when the sun went down. Here, even the rain couldn’t dampen the energy, it was just part of it—a little shimmer at the edge of my vision.
Our next stop was Canongate Kirkyard. I might have stayed back if not caught up in the flow of bodies. The gate creakedopen, and we poured inside. The gravestones here were spaced farther apart, the grass long and wet enough to soak the hems of my jeans. Duncan’s lantern skimmed across names carved in neat serif letters, dates worn too shallow to read.
“Ye know,” he said, “not all spirits stay in the kirkyard they’re buried in. Some roam. Some linger close to the people they loved in life. Others follow strangers for reasons we can’t guess.” His gaze flicked toward me then, just for a second, before swinging the lantern toward a weathered monument. “This here is the grave of Adam Smith, the economist. We’ve had many an experience at this spot.”
Again, he waited. We all looked around, wondering who would be accosted next, like a bunch of sailors trying to stay afloat, waiting for the next shark to choose its victim. I wasn’t the only one who was relieved when nothing happened.
Despite my hood, my hair was damp enough to curl by the time we moved on, but I was warm enough. Otherwise, I might have ditched the others and popped into one of those warm-looking pubs or gone back to my hotel. I was reasonably sure we had turned around somewhere and were heading back to home base.
Duncan ducked into another narrow alley. The path was so steep I had to angle my feet sideways to keep from slipping. When we were all bunched together again, Duncan told us about Burke and Hare, the infamous body snatchers. “Some still see shadowy figures carrying their grisly cargo through these very lanes.”
Apparently, the spirits of Burke and Hare were holed up in a pub that night, and the shadows remained shadows.
We didn’t have to go far from there to end where we’d begun, near St. Giles’.
Duncan gave us one last smile. “Mind ye should all say yer prayers tonight…in case someone follows ye home, hoping for a bit of comp’ny.” He doffed his cap and held it out for tips.
I said my prayer out loud when I dropped in ten euros. “If any spirits are listening, I pray they’ll follow the money instead of me.”
Duncan laughed and gave me a little bow. “Touché, love. Be certain to leave a review, and mind ye mention the Watcher!”
The group laughed, relieved I think, for a chance to lighten the mood. After a nod or two, we quickly drifted apart into the night, heading in different directions. The American couple waved goodnight before turning down a side street, their silhouettes swallowed quickly by a gathering mist that I would have avoided. Now that I knew where I was, I turned in the opposite direction.
Every so often, I caught myself glancing into an alley, half expecting to see Duncan’s lantern swinging in the dark. Or something else.
By the time I reached the lobby, my eyelids were heavy enough to make the floor sway. My room smelled faintly of clean sheets and furniture polish. I didn’t bother unpacking. I was so wiped out that I only spent a minute drying my hair, then fell asleep easily. My brain had shut down and my body with it. If a ghost, or Jocko, wanted my attention, they were out of luck. Even a wicked set of bagpipes couldn’t have woken me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jacob groaned himself awake and rolled to look at the clock. It was his usual waking time of half nine. He’d actually slept a few hours!
After leaving the bar and his “intervention” two days ago, he’d realized his folly and quickly shot a text back to Vonnie, assuring her he’d been lying when he’d claimed to be in love. That he’d been desperate for anything that might shut all their gobs and stop them worrying about drugs and gambling and the financial state of the business. He’d insisted he’d met no one—how could he when he was always at Jocko’s—and he might just need a couple of days off.
Obviously, I need a break from the rigamarole.
I'll haud the fort. Get yersel’ laid, for pity’s sake.
He winced at the coarse advice, but he knew it came from the wild lassie’s heart. It bothered her that he was alone in the world and more than once had suggested that taking on the widow would be better than having no one at all.
Somedays he was tempted to tell her he and Cora Woodbrey were dating, just to see the horror register on that cocksure face.
So, for a day and a half, he wandered around, nursing his phone, existing from one update to the next, reminding himselfthat her messages were brief because she was busy playing tourist. He drove down the coast of Loch Ness just for some peace. Changed the oil in the lorry, and got his hair and beard trimmed. While he was at it, he reckoned it was fine time he bought a new pair of denims and a new shirt or two. Ended up spending far more than he’d intended.
He’d have to be careful not to trot out the new kit all at once or he’d never hear the end of it from Vonnie and the team. But since that day was special, he showered and donned the new green shirt that matched his eyes—not that he noticed such things, but the cashier had. His new boots were buff black, so no obvious shine to them. The socks and kecks (underwear) were just for him, of course, but their soft, hole-less state only proved their purchase had been overdue.
He didn’t expect anyone, including Laira, to see them.
He’d come home with three new pairs of denims, two of which he hung in the back of the closet to keep himself from getting too uppity. He’d wear them only when they became necessary. The deep blue and russet shirts hung ready and waiting—an army at the ready.
An army to woo a woman. One for each day she was expected to stay in Inverness.
An expensive black shirt with a pinstripe he stuck with the extra denims. He couldn’t imagine needing it, but it was there in case Laira Harris required a candlelit supper or some such. But the fact was, he would be lucky if they had much of a chance to speak. After all, he couldn’t very well stalk her around the city and pretend to run into her again and again.
And yet, he had no better plan than that.
Jocko’s pub was on the list he’d made for her. The question was, would she follow it?
Already, she’d strayed from the plan—a ghost tour in Edinburgh on the first night. He wasn’t surprised by it, justmiffed that he hadn’t thought of that himself and added it to her list of possible itineraries. And though he was no tour guide for Scotland, he felt as if he’d failed both her and the country by omitting it.
