He pointed out the window. “If ye’ll look between the two hills, you’ll catch a glimpse of the engineering marvel that is the Forth Bridge.”
“Crosses the Firth of Forth,” the gunman elucidated, then leaned back to give me a better view out the window.
“Can you see it now?” he asked.
“A beautiful sight, that,” the driver said proudly.
“Um, yeah.” I stared out the window to my right. “It’s beautiful.” And it was. Dramatic and impressive. On my last visit to Edinburgh I’d taken a tour of the city, during which I’d learned firsthand that Scotsmen were fiercely proud and knowledgeable of their history and heritage-and their bridge. The tour guide had positively gushed as he explained that the Forth Bridge was one of the world’s first major steel bridges. Its unique cantilever design was considered a miracle of modern technology back in the 1890s.
But what in hell did that have to do with me and these men and this cab? What was I doing here? I furtively checked my watch. I’d been on the road with these would-be kidnappers for less than ten minutes and still had no idea what they wanted from me.
The cute gunman noticed me looking at my watch and tapped the driver’s shoulder. “We should get her back.”
“Aye,” the driver said.
“But we’ll need your word on this matter, miss,” the third man said.
“Okay,” I said hesitantly. I was willing to agree to almost anything, but God only knew what he was going to insist upon. They all seemed a little nutty, as though I’d stumbled upon a Freemasons’ mad tea party.
The gunman held up his finger. “First, this notion that our Rabbie might’ve loved a royal Sassenach bitch?”
The third man glared at the gunman, then said pointedly, “You’ll pardon Tommy’s French.”
The gunman, Tommy, grimaced. “Ach, pardon my French, miss. But it’s daft.”
“Makes no sense a’tall,” said the third man, shaking his head.
The driver nodded. “Aye, Rabbie was a great lover, but he would’ve drawn the line at a snooty English royal.”
“Och, aye, he was a lover, he was,” Tommy agreed, chuckling. “He loved many a lass.”
The third man laughed. “Aye, that’s our boy Rabbie.”
The laughter stopped abruptly as the driver wrenched the wheel. The cab lurched to the side of the road and stopped. The two men beside me tensed up, and I started to panic as the driver maneuvered himself around to face me.
“Understand, miss,” he said. “Robert Burns was a Freemason, a well-known dissenter who supported both the French resistance and your own American Revolution. He was a Scottish nationalist and a harsh critic of the Church of England. He never would’ve consorted with the auld enemy, and that goes double for the royal family. This you must believe.”
“All right,” I said, talking slowly as I nodded. “I see your point. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not very familiar with the history of your country, so I appreciate your patience with me.” I would’ve said anything at that moment to get back to the hotel. But the more I thought about it, the more it seemed that the legend of Robert Burns and the princess was too good to be true.
“Do you mean it, miss?” the driver said.
“Absolutely,” I said. “And I want to apologize for upsetting you. I didn’t realize that what I was saying might be so offensive.”
“Ah, see there?” said the third man, slapping the back of the driver’s seat. “She didn’t realize what she was saying.”
“I didn’t,” I said promptly. “I swear. I’m so glad you’ve enlightened me. And now that I know the truth, please believe I’ll never again say anything contradictory to the facts.”
“There’s a fine lass,” Tommy said, patting my knee fondly.
“Thank you,” I said, determined to make eye contact with each of them. “I really appreciate knowing the truth.”
The driver breathed a sigh of relief. “We’ll thank you as well, then. We didn’t know what else to do when we heard you were spinning tales but try to appeal to your higher principles.”
By kidnapping me? I thought, but resisted saying it, instead asking, “How did you hear about me?”
“Anonymous phone call,” the driver said with a shrug. He settled back behind the wheel and started the car, leaving me to wonder who had made that anonymous phone call. It could’ve been anyone attending my workshop, but my money was on Perry McDougall.
We drove the five miles back to the Royal Mile in silence. When they reached the drive in front of my hotel, Tommy turned and faced me.
“We’ll come in with you and spring for a pint to celebrate.”
“Oh, no!” Dear God, just let me go in peace, I thought. But I squeezed out a smile and said, “I would love to, but I injured my ankle earlier and should probably soak it in Epsom salts.”
“You’re injured, miss?” the third man said.
“It’s probably nothing serious, but I should take care of it.”
“Are you sure it’s not serious?” Tommy said. “Harry’s a doctor.”
I gaped at the third man.