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stretched in an eager grin at the thought of doing something for him. "Of course, Rog—Mr. Wakefield! Anything at all!"
    Roger felt vaguely ashamed of himself, but after all, he argued, it was for her good as much as his. If she didn't leave, he was shortly going to cease being responsible and commit some act they would both regret.
    "Oh, thanks, Fiona. It's nothing much; only that I'd ordered some…some"—he thought frantically, trying to remember the name of one of the village merchants—"some tobacco, from Mr. Buchan in the High Street. I wonder if you'd be willing to go and fetch it for me; I could just do with a good pipe after such a wonderful tea."
    Fiona was already untying her apron—the frilly, lace-trimmed one, Roger noted grimly. He closed his eyes briefly in relief as the study door shut behind her, dismissing for the moment the fact that he didn't smoke. With a sigh of relief, he turned to conversation with his guests.
    "You were asking whether I wanted you to look for the rest of the names on my list," Claire said, almost at once. Roger had the odd impression that she shared his relief at Fiona's departure. "Yes, I do—if it wouldn't be too much trouble?"
    "No, no! Not at all," Roger said, with only slight mendacity. "Glad to do it."
    Roger's hand hovered uncertainly amid the largesse of the tea cart, then snaked down to grasp the crystal decanter of twelve-year-old Muir Breame whisky. After the skirmish with Fiona, he felt he owed it to himself.
    "Will you have a bit of this?" he asked his guests politely. Catching the look of distaste on Brianna's face, he quickly added, "Or maybe some tea?"
    "Tea," Brianna said with relief.
    "You don't know what you're missing," Claire told her daughter, inhaling the whisky fumes with rapture.
    "Oh yes I do," Brianna replied. "That's why I'm missing it." She shrugged and quirked an eyebrow at Roger.
    "You have to be twenty-one before you can drink legally in Massachusetts," Claire explained to Roger. "Bree has another eight months to go, so she really isn't used to whisky."
    "You act as though not liking whisky was a crime," Brianna protested, smiling at Roger above her teacup.
    He raised his own brows in response. "My dear woman," he said severely. "This is Scotland. Of course not liking whisky is a crime!"
    "Oh, aye?" said Brianna sweetly, in a perfect imitation of his own slight Scots burr. "Well, we'll hope it's no a capital offense like murrderrr, shall we?"
    Taken by surprise, he swallowed a laugh with his whisky and choked. Coughing and pounding himself on the chest, he glanced at Claire to share the joke. A forced smile hung on her lips, but her face had gone quite pale. Then she blinked, the smile came back more naturally, and the moment passed.
    Roger was surprised at how easily conversation flowed among them—both about trivialities, and about Claire's project. Brianna clearly had been interested in her father's work, and knew a great deal more about the Jacobites than did her mother.
    "It's amazing they ever made it as far as Culloden," she said. "Did you know the Highlanders won the battle of Prestonpans with barely two thousand men? Against an English army of eight thousand? Incredible!"
    "Well, and the Battle of Falkirk was nearly that way as well," Roger chimed in. "Outnumbered, outarmed, marching on foot…they should never have been able to do what they did…but they did!"
    "Um-hm," said Claire, taking a deep gulp of her whisky. "They did!"
    "I was thinking," Roger said to Brianna, with an assumed air of casualness. "Perhaps you'd like to come with me to some of the places—the battle sites and other places? They're interesting, and I'm sure you'd be a tremendous help with the research."
    Brianna laughed and smoothed back her hair, which had a tendency to drop into her tea. "I don't know about the help, but I'd love to come."
    "Terrific!" Surprised and elated with her agreement, he fumbled for the decanter and nearly dropped it. Claire fielded it