Page 20 of Undercover Infidel
Sullivan approached, offering a welcome distraction. “Good to see you again, Lex. How are you finding Scotland?”
“Cold but captivating,” I replied, watching as Tag drew Con aside, their heads bent in serious discussion.
Throughout brunchand in between topics of conversation with Dr. McLaren, who I was seated beside, I observed the group dynamics with both personal and professional interest.
These people—apart from Ambrose, my mentor, and me—operated as a unit, bonded by lifelong connections and shared secrets. Gus and David maintained a continuous awareness of their surroundings despite the casual setting. Sullivan, though newer to their circle, had adapted to their hypervigilance. Tag moved with contained power, every gesture precise. Once we were all seated, Mairi appeared to relax, morphing into the woman who’d watched the four men grow up and loved them all equally.
Ambrose remained the anomaly even with Dr. McLaren’s company. He spoke knowledgeably on various subjects but occasionally drifted mid sentence, his gaze turning vacant before he resumed with a slightly different cadence. When questioned directly, his responses came after small but noticeable delays, as if processing it through some internal filter.
I caught him watching me several times, his assessment uncomfortably penetrating. When our eyes met, he merely smiled and returned to his meal.
Shortly after brunch, he announced they’d be returning to Ashcroft.
“I will as well,” said Mairi, standing when he and Dr. McLaren did. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal to do before tonight’s festivities.”
“Festivities?” Sullivan questioned.
“Just a small gathering of local artists and friends—on behalf of Evelyn’s visit, of course,” Ambrose said with a dismissive wave. “Nothing that would interest any of you.”
“We’ll speak tomorrow,” Dr. McLaren said, squeezing my hand before thanking Tag and following Mairi and Ambrose out.
“How bloody awkward was that?”Tag said, leading us out of the conservatory.
I couldn’t have said it better. In fact, I expected, any moment now, that Con would also announce we were leaving, after which we’d continue our discourse about my consultation with Dr. McLaren. Not that I had any intention of backing down about it.
“Here is the library,” Tag announced as we entered a room that, unlike Blackmoor’s masculine space, had been preserved with the monastery’s original character—soaring ceilings, stained glass casting colorful reflections cross ancient stone, and endless shelves of historical texts.
“I’ve pulled a few volumes that mention the tunnel systems,” he said, motioning to several journals that were spread across a massive oak table. “Some date back to the 1720s.”
For the next two hours,we pored over fragile manuscripts and architectural drawings.
“The network is more extensive than I realized,” Con said, examining a partially obscured map. “If these markings are accurate, the tunnels extend beyond our three estates to several points along the coastline.”
“Strategic for smuggling during the uprisings,” Tag said. “The Jacobites were nothing if not thorough in their planning.”
Sullivan leaned closer, studying the faded markings. “I’ve read about similar networks beneath Edinburgh and Glasgow. The scale of these secret passages throughout Scotland is remarkable.”
“My grandfather used to tell stories about smugglers using these tunnels well into the nineteenth century,” Tag added. “Though I always assumed he was exaggerating.”
Con chuckled. “I said something similar to Lex about my grandfather. I thought he was batty. It’s interesting to me that my father never mentioned anything about them. He had to have known.” He traced an imaginary line on the ancient paper without actually touching it. “I wonder how many are still navigable. I would expect most would have collapsed or flooded over time.”
By late afternoon,David and Sullivan departed for Ashcroft, followed shortly by Gus.
“Something is going on with Nightingale. Typhon is tight-lipped on whatever it is,” Tag said, walking Con and me to the main entrance.
“Any theories?” Con asked.
Tag shook his head. “I’ve been unable to make contact. I’ve a bad feeling in my gut, as they say.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Con offered.
“Appreciated,” Tag answered gruffly.
I thanked him for inviting us to brunch when he continued walking with us out to Con’s vehicle.
“Talk tomorrow?” Con said to Tag before opening my door.
“We should do,” he responded.
