Chapter 8
Cameron
Diary of an Incompetent Fugitive
Today, I will not run into Maggie McGregor.
Not even once.
I’m going to remain invisible, efficient, and impossible to catch.
James Bond can move over.
I woke up with this plan.
It’s an excellent plan because how exactly is my grandmother supposed to force me to do something I absolutely do not want to do if she can’t get her hands on me?
The simplest solution would be to leave the castle altogether, except I’m waiting for important documents that are supposed to arrive by courier, and I can’t afford to delay a sale just because I’m afraid of facing my grandmother.
So I’m going to have to avoid her until the paperwork arrives.
I mentally review Maggie’s daily schedule.
She has breakfast in the dining room at eight o’clock.
After that, she makes her rounds through the castle to make sure everything is in order.
Around ten, she settles into the sitting room to read her correspondence.
At noon, she has lunch.
The afternoons are less predictable, but she usually remains in her private apartments.
So if I stay in my office until ten, use the service staircase, and avoid both the sitting room and the dining room, I should be able to survive several hours without enduring another interrogation about Clementine Fraser.
My plan is flawless.
I get dressed quickly and carefully open my bedroom door.
The hallway is empty.
Excellent.
I creep toward my office as though the floorboards themselves might betray me.
I arrive without incident, close the door behind me, and release a relieved sigh.
Phase One: Operation Ghost.
Status: Successful.
I sit at my desk, turn on my computer, and begin working on a video edit.
In reality, I spend most of my time watching the clock like a secret agent waiting for the perfect moment to infiltrate enemy territory.
Ten o’clock sharp.
This is it.
I cautiously open my office door.
The hallway is empty.
Maggie is probably inspecting the guest rooms at the far end of the castle.
I head for the service staircase, the one nobody ever uses except the staff.
Narrow and discreet, it’s perfect for a covert operation.
I descend silently, reach the bottom, and gently push open the door leading to the kitchen corridor.
Victory.
Just a few more feet and I—
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
I freeze.
I know that sound.
It’s the sound of hooves on hardwood.
Slowly, I turn around.
Hamish is standing in the middle of the corridor staring at me with that calm expression that seems to say:
Found you.
“No,” I whisper.
“You are not bothering me right now.”
Hamish calmly walks toward me.
“Hamish. Stay there. Don’t move.”
The sheep keeps advancing, his hooves cheerfully clacking against the floor as though his goal is to alert the entire castle to my presence.
“Shh! For God’s sake, can’t you walk quietly?”
Hamish stops directly in front of me and studies me with unsettling intensity.
“What do you want?”
No answer.
Naturally.
I sigh and continue toward the kitchen.
Hamish follows.
Every step echoes like a war drum.
I carefully open the kitchen door and peek inside.
Aunt Isobel is standing by the range.
She turns as soon as I enter.
“Good morning, Cameron.”
“Good morning, Aunt Isobel,” I reply with what I hope sounds like casual confidence.
I head for the refrigerator.
“Looking for something?”
“Just a snack.”
I open the fridge, grab some cheese and bread, and turn to leave—
Only to discover that Hamish has stretched out directly in front of the door.
I stare at him.
“Hamish. Move.”
The sheep closes his eyes.
“Hamish. I’m serious.”
No reaction.
Isobel turns around, amusement dancing across her face.
“He looks comfortable.”
“Yes, thank you. I had noticed.”
I place the cheese and bread on the counter and crouch down beside him.
“Come on. Up. Now.”
Hamish opens one eye, looks at me, then closes it again.
I try nudging him with my foot.
Nothing.
The sheep doesn’t move an inch.
It’s like trying to relocate a boulder.
I try tugging on his wool.
Pushing him.
Nothing works.
He remains exactly where he is.
“How much do you actually weigh?” I grumble.
Isobel laughs softly.
“He’ll only move if you ask nicely.”
“What if I ask rudely instead?”
She shakes her head without answering, wearing the unmistakable expression of someone who knows she’s right and you’re wrong.
I sigh deeply.
“Perfect. Wonderful. So now I have to climb over a sheep.”
I lift one leg and attempt to step over Hamish without touching him.
Naturally, that’s the exact moment he decides to stand up.
My foot catches in his wool.
I lose my balance, windmill my arms frantically, and barely manage to catch myself on the doorframe.
Isobel sets down her dish towel.
“Everything alright?”
“Yes. Yes. Absolutely fine.”
Straightening, I take a breath and try again with significantly more caution.
This time I succeed.
Finally.
I glance back at the cheese and bread I left on the counter.
Carefully leaning over Hamish—while making sure to stay out of biting range—I retrieve my supplies.
Yes.
Success.
I’m finally on the right side of the sheep, and I have provisions.
“See you later, Aunt Isobel!”
“Cameron?”
I stop instantly.
“Yes?”
“Maggie’s looking for you.”
I try to remain expressionless.
“Oh?”
“Yes. She wanted to talk to you this morning.”
“About what?”
Isobel gives me a small smile.
“I think you know exactly what.”
I leave the kitchen before she can add anything else.
Hamish follows me.
Phase Two: Survival in Hostile Territory.
Status: Compromised.
I head back up to my office using the service stairs, with Hamish at my heels.
Every clack of his hooves reminds me that I’m being hunted.
Before I can stop him, Hamish slips into my office.
I shut the door and sigh with relief.
Then Hamish settles down...
Under my desk.
Given his size, there’s barely any room left for my legs.
“Are you kidding me?”
Hamish rests his head on his front paws.
“If you make one sound, or display even the slightest inappropriate behavior, I swear I’ll...”
I trail off, unable to think of a remotely credible threat.
The sheep studies me with deep, thoughtful eyes, and I have the disturbing impression that he understands every word I say.
I point a finger at him.
“I swear you’ll regret it.”
Apparently my threat lacks conviction because Hamish simply closes his eyes.
I sit down and try to focus on work.
Impossible.
I check my phone notifications every thirty seconds while remaining alert for any sound coming from the hallway.
I eat the food I smuggled back from the kitchen.
Around eleven o’clock, I hear footsteps outside.
My heart immediately starts racing.
I leap to my feet and frantically scan the room.
Where do I hide?
The closet?
Too obvious.
Behind the curtain?
Ridiculous.
But it’s all I’ve got.
The footsteps draw closer.
I rush to the window, slip behind the heavy velvet curtain, and hold my breath.
My feet are sticking out.
Of course they are.
I shift them to line up with the wall, but the position is more suited to a ballerina than a six-foot hockey-built man, and my legs begin protesting immediately.
I grit my teeth.
Physical suffering is preferable to facing my grandmother.
The door opens.
“Cameron?” Maggie calls.
I don’t move.
I hold my breath as long as possible.
“Cameron, I know you’re in here. Your phone is on your desk, not to mention the remains of your sandwich.”
I roll my eyes.
Rookie mistake.
I hear Maggie crossing the room.
Her footsteps come closer.
“Are you hiding behind the curtain?”
I close my eyes.
Maybe if I can’t see her, she can’t see me either.
“Cameron, come out.”
I remain perfectly still while attempting to breathe as quietly as possible.
“I have all the time in the world, you know. But judging by the courier downstairs carrying documents for you, you probably don’t.”
At that moment, my brain runs through the complete list of every insult I know.
And there are far too many.
I surrender and emerge from my hiding place.
Maggie looks at me with an expression suspended somewhere between amusement and disapproval.
“Were you actually hiding behind a curtain?”
“No. I was... inspecting the window.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. To check the insulation. We should have Nate take a look.”
I tap the glass.
It squeaks faintly.
Maggie raises an eyebrow.
“Cameron, we need to talk.”
“I’m extremely busy. As you just pointed out, a courier is waiting for me, and—”
“This will only take a minute.”
Lie.
This is going to take twenty minutes.
Minimum.
Maggie sits in the chair opposite my desk without waiting for an invitation.
“And don’t worry about your documents. Jamison is taking care of them.”
Of course our butler is taking care of them.
The man is professionalism incarnate, right down to his perfectly groomed gray hair.
I run a hand through my own hair, which is anything but perfectly groomed.
“I’m hosting a dinner on Saturday night to celebrate Callum and Jane’s return. I’m so excited to see Charlie.”
Maggie’s eyes light up when she mentions her first great-grandson.
I refuse to be softened by it.
I know exactly why she’s here.
To make me suffer.
“Uh... okay.”
I stroll toward my desk with what I hope looks like casual indifference and retrieve my phone.
That treacherous device whose very existence betrayed me.
I glare at it resentfully before grabbing the remains of my sandwich and swallowing them whole.
“Clementine Fraser is invited,” Maggie continues.
I choke.
“Grandma...”
“You’re going to convince her to attend.”
“She already refused to come to the castle. Twice.”
“I know. Which is why this time you’ll be more... persuasive.”
I rub my face.
“How exactly am I supposed to do that?”
“I’ve been told the two of you had a drink together at the pub.”
Thank you, Ewan.
“That was simple politeness. Nothing more.”
“Moira MacTavish says you looked very... comfortable together.”
Curse Moira MacTavish.
“Moira MacTavish says all kinds of nonsense.”
“Clementine Fraser seems like a charming young woman.”
“I suppose.”
Maggie leans forward slightly.
“Do you think she’s pretty?”
I nearly choke again.
This time on my own saliva.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question, Cameron.”
“I fail to see how it’s relevant.”
My grandmother smiles.
And I shiver in terror.
“So you do think she’s pretty.”
“I didn’t say that.”
She laughs softly.
“You didn’t deny it either.”
“You think I can bribe her with compliments?”
Maggie rises, smooths her skirt, and looks me straight in the eye.
“You’ll find a way to convince her. I’m certain of it. You’re intelligent, Cameron.”
She heads for the door, then pauses at the threshold.
“Oh, and Cameron?”
“Yes?”
“Stop hiding behind curtains. It’s beneath a McGregor.”
Then she leaves.
Under my desk, Hamish lifts his head and looks at me.
“You,” I mutter, “are a traitor. You could at least pretend to be on my side. But no. You work for her. Obviously. She sends you to spy on me.”
Hamish stares at me.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
Hamish lowers his head back onto his paws.
I sigh.
“And now I’m talking to a sheep. My life is truly pathetic.”
Wait.
Could pity be a viable strategy with Clementine?
I shake my head.
She’s just going to refuse again, and I’ll be hearing about it for the next two decades.
Phase Three: Escape.
Status: Total Disaster.