The Lost Boy and The Gardener's Daughter by Ian Todd

retreats.  I do not want myself, my property, or my daughter’s safety to be compromised by these ruffians,” The Duke growled, turning back tae the view.
      Silence.
      “But, er, well, er...” PC McTavish gulped.
      “You have a problem with The Duke protecting what is rightfully his, Mr McTavish?” Riddrie challenged him.
      “Well, er...it’s just the question of the legality of using poachers’ retreats, sir.”
      “Legality?  And what about my legal rights, McTavish?” The Duke demanded, spinning roond and glaring across at him.
      “Er, yes, m’lord, but poachers’ retreats were outlawed in the last century.”
      “Oh, I meant to ask you earlier, Mr McTavish.  Have your sons-in-law and those fine daughters settled in to their new accommodation in Ardgay yet?” Riddrie asked, as a sly smile appeared on John Sellar’s face, and the shoulders ae wan ae the Highland’s finest slumped.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
    Chapter Ten
      “It just doesn’t feel right, Saba,” Morven said.
      “What doesn’t?”
      “Me sitting here, getting paid for watching hunky men, stripped to their waists, hammering in marquee posts,” Morven replied, laughing.
      “I told you, you’re my personal lady’s maid for as long as I am in situ at the castle, which hopefully won’t be for long,” Saba replied, as the two ae them dipped their heids simultaneously and slightly tae the right as wan ae the marquee boys bent o’er tae pick up a wooden post in the field behind the church in Ardgay.
      “I wish I was rich.”
      “It’s not all that it’s cracked up to be, Morven, believe you me.”
      “But you’ve lived in America.  I bet you’ve met lots of famous people.”
      “Some.”
      “Pop stars?”
      “Rock stars.”
      “Like who?”
      “Graham Nash from Crosby, Stills and Nash.”
      “Never heard of them…or him.”
      “He used to play with the Hollies.”
      “Oh yes, my mum plays ‘Bus Stop’ all the time.  So, who else then?”
      “I don’t know.”
      “The Beatles...any Beatles?”
      “I said ‘Hi’ to John Lennon at a party my mother hosted once.”
      “Really?  What did he say?”
      “He said ‘Hello’ back,” she replied, and they baith burst intae a fit ae giggles.
      “Who else?”
      “I don’t know...lots of people.”
      “Who was your favourite?”
      “I met The Monkees once.  I even kissed Davy Jones.”
      “Oh, Saba, he’s such a darling.  What was it like?”
      “He had bad breath...either that or he had been eating garlic and onions beforehand.”
      “What’s garlic?”
      “It’s a…a vegetable.  It tastes great, but stinks for days afterwards.  The Italians and the French eat it all the time.”
      “Remind me not to marry an Italian, unless he’s a count.”
      “My mother’s marrying a Spaniard.”
      “Oh Saba, it all sounds so romantic.  What’s he like?” Morven sighed, snapping aff a blade ae grass and chewing oan the end ae it as she lay back oan the grass, looking up at the sky.
      “Slimy and creepy,” Saba replied, grabbing a blade fur hersel before lying back.
      “I don’t suppose you’ll need a personal lady’s maid when you go back to New York, will you?”
      “That’s the problem, Morven.  I don’t think I’ll be going back,” Saba sniffed.  “I’m not here through choice.  My mother shipped me back here because she was getting married to Antonio Barceló Rodriguez Gonzales, Count of who knows what pig-shed...”
      “Oh, Saba, that’s awful,” Morven said, rolling o’er.
      “And for me wrecking the apartment after having some friends around for a party one night that got slightly out of hand.”
      “Wrecking it?”
      “Some toad painted an obscenity on one of her old oil paintings.”
      “Was it an expensive one?”
      “It’s called Venus and Mars, by some artist called Botticelli.”