missing lace.”
“Nay, nothing,” Derrick said with a sigh.
He had to suppress a yawn as well, but in his defense, he was bone weary from trotting back to a fairly respectable reenactment of sixteenth-century Scotland with James MacLeod the previous weekend, just to pop in on one of the man’s ancestors. He wasn’t sure how Jamie managed his boundless amounts of energy and enthusiasm. Just tagging along after the man for any length of time at all was exhausting. Crossing swords with him was terrifying and trying to keep up with his peculiarly accented Gaelic headache-inducing. If he hadn’t spent the past nine years shadowing Robert Cameron, he never would have managed the latter.
He didn’t particularly care to think about where he’d learned the swordplay—he still had the shadows of bruises and hints of scars to show for that—and there were times he heartily regretted ever having set foot on MacLeod soil and coming face-to-face with the laird of the keep there.
Then again, it made chasing down thugs seem like a relaxing afternoon spent lounging in front of the telly.
He looked at Cameron. “I think this could become rather messy.”
“Could it?”
“Very bad publicity for someone.”
“But you don’t intend for that someone to be you.”
Derrick took a deep breath. “No, I don’t. Wouldn’t want to sully the Cameron name.”
Cameron only smiled. “Of course not.”
“My laird might take me out and hack me to bits otherwise.”
“I’m sure you live in fear.” He rubbed his hands together purposefully. “So, what do you need on this little adventure of yours?”
Derrick hesitated. He needed backup, true, and the lads that worked for him were at his disposal, equally true, but he didn’t want to leave his cousin without any sort of security. And, after all, Cameron had been the one to gather to himself that collection of lads whose loyalty was unquestionable, who would have done anything for him, who had knelt before him in a particularly medieval way and pledged him a very formal sort of fealty.
Derrick considered the list. Ewan was their cousin, his and Cameron’s, and could have been mistaken for a lighthearted twit. Derrick knew what he was capable of in a tight spot, though, because he had been the beneficiary of that more than once. Then there was Oliver, whose murky past was an asset rather than a liability, and Rufus, who looked every inch the very skilled rugby player he’d been in a former life, and Peter, who floated through life as if he lived for nothing more than a delicate artist’s life but who was Derrick’s lad of choice in a good brawl.
“Take Oliver.”
Derrick looked at Cameron quickly. “But you—”
“Have a perfectly terrifying security detail,” Cameron said with a shrug, “all of whom have seen battle in one form or another and haven’t a clue as to who I am in truth. Sunny and I are perfectly safe. Besides, the lads have been working for you for almost a year now. How is this different?”
Derrick sighed. “I don’t know. It feels dodgier than usual for some reason.”
“Then take Oliver for security and Ewan for his charm. Or spare yourself the annoyance and leave Ewan in Scotland. Either way, call on the lads as you need to, of course.” He studied Derrick for a moment or two in silence. “What exactly is it that bothers you about this?”
Derrick dragged his hand through his hair, then looked at his cousin. “Have you ever felt like Fate was breathing down your neck?”
Cameron looked at him for a moment or two with absolutely no expression on his face, then he laughed. He was still laughing as Derrick cursed him and left his office. He pulled the door shut quietly behind him instead of slamming it because it was his laird inside, after all, and he was nothing if not a deferent vassal. He looked at Oliver, who had apparently found a plug next to a comfortable chair.
“Let’s go.”
Oliver unplugged his phone and got smoothly to his feet, his expression utterly impassive. Oliver at his most enthusiastic, as it happened. Derrick said good-byes all around and walked with Oliver from the building. He waited until they were outside before he looked at his partner in anti-crime.
“We’re going after the lace.”
“I suspected as much. North?”
“North.”
“Taking the Vanquish, are we?”
“No,” Derrick said, with feeling. “I don’t want some random thug dinging it.”
“Very well, I’ll meet you at the station, what?”
“That’d be lovely.”
“Destination?”
“Newcastle, but we’d best buy tickets for Edinburgh.”
“Throw ’em off the scent, eh?”
Derrick grunted. “Somehow,