Finding Fraser(25)

As he walked away, I took the opportunity to slip my computer into my pack. It had become pretty noisy and crowded in the pub and was obviously not the place to do a little quiet planning. I was just sliding out of the corner when I felt a hand on my arm.

“D’ye trrrust me?”

An extremely small man stood beside my seat. His eyes didn’t meet mine, but glared straight forward, which meant they were glued to my chest.

“D’ye trrrust me, lassie?” he repeated.

“I—I …”

Craig walked back up, regarding us with a twinkle in his eye.

“Ah, Emma—I see ye’ve met Rabbie. Rabbie Rowanby, meet Emma the American.”

The small man’s hand remained in my face, so I leaned backwards and shook it weakly.

“The name’s Rowanby by birth,” he confided. “But everyone knows me as Rabbie the Gnome.”

He smiled, favored me at last with a straight look in the eyes and hoisted himself up into the seat by the beer, which was thankfully across the table. Unfortunately, Craig slid back in beside me, effectively blocking any easy exit.

“Another pink drink for the lady,” cried Rabbie, and then reached across the table to take my hand again.

Craig leaned over and poked him in the chest and I took his instinctive recoil as an opportunity to pull my hand out of his grasp.

“Never trust this man,” Craig intoned.

Rabbie glared at him a moment and then the two of them broke into helpless laughter.

I leaned back against the seat and took a sip of the drink that had magically appeared in front of me. This cranberry juice had added to it a generous helping of something that tasted distinctly of alcohol.

I smiled as Craig chuckled his way through an explanation of what a true, old and dear friend Rabbie was. The individual in question was still doubled over, laughing.

I guess one beer goes a long way in a small man.

“Rab, Rab—ge’ aholda yerself, man,” spluttered Craig at last. “Now, this young lady is lookin’ to find hersel’ a set of nearby standin’ stones on the side of a hill. Have yeh go’ any ideas?”

“Ach, yeh can have a look at me own stones, lass,” Rabbie replied, reaching under the table. “Fair fine they are, with one standin’ tall between ’em right now!”

I tried desperately to unhear that sentence.

“Rabbie Rowanby, behave yersel’,” scolded Craig. “This young lady has been kind enough to share her table wi’ the likes of us. There’s no need fer that sorta language.”

The tiny man’s face puckered in an entirely insincere expression of apology. But as much as he turned his mouth down, he could not still the evil twinkle in those eyes. I scootched a little further into the corner.

“Ah, yer right as allus, Craigy-boy. I see a beautiful woman and I cannae help mesel’.”

He tapped a blackened fingernail against his chin. “Hmmm. To tell yeh the gospel truth—and I seen me share of faerie rings around the north—there ain’t any circles on hillsides I can recall. Now, doon Fort William way, there’s a couple a beauts, mind …”

My bladder, by that time filled not only with my own cranberry juice, but also with this newer, strangely tastier concoction, suddenly made itself known to me. And as it did, the light dawned.

“Excuse me,” I muttered, head down. “Just have to go to the ladies’.”

Craig had to stand to allow me out. Rabbie jumped out of his own seat and advancing his leg, made a deep bow as I slid out of the booth.

“Jes’ round the corner, there,” he said, helpfully. And then not so helpfully: “Ye mus’ have a bladder o’ steel, lass! I’d a been t’ the bogs twice wi’ the amount of drink ye’ve got down yer gullet!”

I dashed to the washroom, the feeling of relief at escaping only mildly tempered by my own maybe less than steel-like capacity. There had to be a back door to this place—I could leave Craig and Rabbie to briefly mourn my passing before hitting on the next single woman they could find.

It wasn’t until I was washing my hands that I realized I’d left my backpack at the table.

“Hey, yer hoggin’ the sink, there. You mean tae vomit or summit? Ye look pale as a wee ghostie.” A blonde with half her head shaved and the other half in purple streaks finally sighed impatiently and elbowed me out of the way.

“No—I’m fine, fine …” I stammered, and jumped to one side. The paper towel bin was empty so I shook my hands off (which earned me yet another dirty look from Scottish Goth Girl), and headed back in.

The two men were deep in discussion when I arrived back at the table.