My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

  Iolanthe MacLeod.

  It was a beautiful name. No doubt it had been her mother to give it to her. One thing puzzled him, though. How could a girl live out a good portion of her life in the close quarters of a Highland castle without anyone knowing her name?

  Well, that was a mystery indeed. He suspected that the story would provide him a great many of the answers to the questions he still had about her.

  Assuming he could ever pry the story from her. After today, he wondered if she would ever show herself to him again. Maybe the next time, if there was a next time, he could just keep his big mouth shut. Not everything he thought had to come out in words. He could grunt and shake his head. He could just smile and nod.

  It would probably be safer that way.

  Or maybe he should just get to restoring the castle, keep his hands busy, and his conversation to a minimum. He wondered if it would be too late to root around in Mrs. Pruitt's shed. It was past time he got to work. It would be nice to have at least some part of the castle put together before it got really cold.

  He could only hope that the chill would come just from the climate.

  He sighed. It looked like another apology was in the offing.

  Chapter 10

  Iolanthe knelt in the midst of her herb garden, pulling weeds. That she had allowed weeds to grow there in the first place should have given her pause, but she steadfastly ignored any hidden meaning that might have been found in her actions. What she did know was that if she'd had the sense given a thistle, she would have been anywhere but where she was. She would have left the keep the night before and never returned. She would have at least ensconced herself in some bloody nook somewhere to keep herself out of eyesight of any prying soul who might happen by.

  A pity that she wasn't so wise, for there she was out in the open, kneeling with her hands in dirt that wasn't real, tending flowers that weren't real, and dreaming of things that could never be real.

  Such as a man to love her.

  She savagely yanked a particularly nasty interloper out. How much more wise she would have been to have spent her time regretting the moment of weakness she'd had when she'd agreed to let Thomas McKinnon ruin what was left of her poor keep.

  Well, should he be bold enough to return, she would merely ignore him. If he spoke to her, she would give him no answer in return. If he approached her, she would give no indication of having marked him. He would be less than nothing to her.

  That man who knew things he shouldn't.

  "Iolanthe is a lovely name, you know."

  She was up on her feet with her hands at Roderick's neck almost before she realized what she was doing. She shoved him, tripped him, and took him down to the dirt, all with her hands still clutching his throat.

  "Don't you ever," she said, banging his head smartly against the ground, "ever use that name again!"

  "But—" he gurgled.

  " 'Tis not yours to use! I did not give it to you."

  For all his preening, he was still a man and still stronger than she, notwithstanding their ghostly status. She found that much as she protested, her fingers were still pried away from his flesh and she was still pushed back until he could sit up. She jerked away from him and staggered to her feet. She stood, glaring down at him, her chest heaving.

  "Eavesdropper," she accused.

  "I wanted," he said, rubbing his throat and straightening his ruffles, "to make certain he did not take liberties."

  "With me?" she exclaimed. "You fool, I'm a ghost!"

  "Be that as it may," he said, rising gracefully to his feet and brushing off his trousers, "I felt I had a need—"

  "To eavesdrop, you despicable worm," she spat. "There is no term low enough to describe you."

  "It's Greek, you know," he said calmly. "Your name."

  "I know," she said haughtily, but in truth she hadn't. Her mother told her 'twas a special word that meant violet. She had no idea if it was a word for the flower or the color itself. As far as that went, she'd only ever seen heather, so she had been left to imagine another flower of even more brilliant cast.

  " 'Tis quite a lovely name. But," he added hastily, "I won't use it, if you forbid me."

  "I do forbid you," she snapped.

  "But you'll let him use it."

  She ignored him.

  "You didn't give it to him, you know," he pointed out. "Not freely."

  "I am," she said tightly, "finished having speech with you."

  "He took it from you."

  "I said, I am finished with you!"

  "May I call you Violet?" he asked, persisting in that infuriatingly polite way he had, as if he merely asked for a cup of tea and it would have been ungracious of her to refuse him. "Violet is a lovely name as well. I once had a lover named Violet—though she wasn't nearly as beautiful as you are, of course—"

  A sword suddenly appeared, protruding from his chest. Roderick vanished with a mighty screech. Iolanthe looked at Duncan as he resheathed his sword and made her a low bow.

  "At your service, cousin."

  Iolanthe's relief at being rid of Roderick was swallowed up in apprehension that Duncan had heard the conversation. She considered him. "Did you hear what he said?"

  He merely looked at her, his expression inscrutable.

  "Do you know?" she asked miserably.

  Duncan was silent for so long, she began to regret her question. She shifted uncomfortably.

  "Lady," he said finally, "I was there at your birth. I was passing fond of your mother. And, unlike your sire Malcolm, I wasn't afeared to try my hand at a name I'd never heard before."

  "Oh," Iolanthe said, nonplussed.

  "And I remembered it long after he'd forgotten it."

  She could hardly speak. "I see," she managed.

  "But I've never used it, out of respect for what I knew to be your wishes."

  She took a deep breath, moved almost beyond words by his loyalty. She tried a smile, but failed.

  "And what of the men?" she asked.

  "They know it now," he said with a shrug. "But I daresay none will utter it. Save the MacDougal, of course."

  "Of course," she murmured.

  "I'll see to whomever dares."

  She had no doubts he would. She tried another smile then and was much more successful at that one.

  "Thank you, my friend. Your discretion means much. Much more now that I know how long it has lasted."

  He only smiled briefly and inclined his head. "By the by, my lady, you'll be interested in what's coming up the way. I believe we've a guest preparing to assault the keep."

  "A tourist?"

  Duncan pursed his lips. "Nay, lady, not a tourist. I believe this one has come to stay for a bit."

  She blinked. "He's come already?"

  "This cannot surprise you."

  Iolanthe looked back over the garden at the wilting flowers still sitting on the bench where Thomas McKinnon had placed them. Though she couldn't say she'd accepted his apology fully, she couldn't deny that she had given him permission to begin his work. Of course, that had been before that startling bit of business in the chamber of her death. She wondered if that might be reason enough to withdraw her consent.

  "He is yet without the gates," Duncan added slowly. "Shall he remain there?"

  Iolanthe looked up at the sky, took a deep breath, then shook her head. "Let him do as he wishes." Perhaps if he was concentrating on his work, he would leave her be.

  Not that she cared either way. She fully intended to ignore him. He could bang away at all hours for all she cared. She would simply pretend he didn't exist.

  "Kinswoman," Duncan said, "this is your home."

  "I've given him leave to improve it as he likes," she said.

  "Hrmph," Duncan said, sounding unconvinced. "Very well, then. But I'll watch him closely, lest he make a nuisance of himself."

  She shrugged, as if she couldn't have cared less, and went back to her gardening. Duncan turned and walked off purposefully. There
was a part of her that almost felt sorry for Thomas, what with Duncan and his lads watching his every move. Perhaps he wouldn't even see them. Most mortals didn't. They walked through spirits without realizing what they'd done until they'd gotten a nasty chill.

  Then again, Thomas McKinnon wasn't most mortals. He saw very clearly indeed.

  She sat staring at the dirt for another half an hour before she found herself getting to her feet, dusting off her dress, and looking about for something else to do. She was restless. Aye, that was it. She needed a bit of a walk to soothe herself. And if that walk took her through the bailey, who could fault her for it? She made her way from the garden, fully intending to continue on her way out the front gates. But the sight in the bailey made her pause.

  Thomas was sitting in the dirt a goodly distance away from the tower he'd selected for his work. Roderick stood next to him blathering on about the saints only knew what. How did the man concentrate with all that nonsense being spewed at him? She knew she never could, which was why Roderick so often found himself skewered on Duncan's sword.

  She looked across the bailey, noting that the entire garrison was there, leaning against various walls and sharpening various bits of their gear. Connor MacDougal stood near the southwest guard tower, glowering. She was surprised neither by his choice of location—no one save him loitered at that place of evil if they could help it—nor by the expression on his face. She supposed Thomas was lucky Connor was a ghost. It would not have gone well for him otherwise.

  She intended to walk straight toward the gatehouse without turning either to the right or the left. But instead, she found herself crossing the bailey and stopping behind Thomas. Who knew what sorts of mischief Roderick was stirring up? She felt she had no choice but to see for herself and stop it if need be.

  "You're a poor artist," Roderick said with a sniff.

  "Yes," Thomas said placidly.

  "I could do much better."

  "I'm certain you could."

  Iolanthe watched Roderick scowl and couldn't help but wonder what he was about. Was he purposely trying to force a confrontation?

  "Your manner of dress is highly questionable," Roderick said disdainfully. "I wouldn't be seen in such low clothing."

  "I'm sure you wouldn't."

  "And I suppose you think your hair is far less unfashionable than it truly is."

  Thomas put his pencil down and looked up at Roderick. "Why don't you tell me what it really is you want to say? You're wasting your time trying to insult me."

  "Leave her alone," Roderick snapped. "She doesn't want you. She doesn't want you here."

  "You know," Thomas said evenly, "out of all the women I've ever known, the lady of this keep strikes me as the least likely of any to mince words. If she doesn't want me here, she'll tell me."

  "I'm telling you."

  "She can speak for herself."

  Roderick drew his saber with a flourish. To Thomas's credit, he didn't flinch. Iolanthe watched Roderick fumble for a moment with the blade, poke himself sharply in the arm with it, then spew forth a torrent of curses at Thomas.

  "I haven't finished with you," he vowed.

  "You and the rest of the garrison," Thomas said with a sigh. "Take a number."

  Iolanthe watched Roderick vanish with another curse. Indeed, the entire garrison seemed to have found other things to do, for she realized that she was alone in the bailey.

  Well, other than the man who sat in the dirt, drawing.

  The man she had vowed to ignore.

  So he thought her more than capable of speaking for herself. Perhaps she would then, especially about the events of the day before. Powerfully cheeky of him to have blurted her name out without warning.

  And powerfully unsettling that he'd known it.

  Just how had he known it?

  She turned that mystery over in her mind for a goodly while as she stood behind him and watched over his shoulder as he drew. Perhaps Roderick was more particular about his renderings than she, for what she saw looked skilled enough. She took a step closer and studied what Thomas had done.

  He'd drawn the tower before them, yet it was as if it missed the front of its walls, for she could see inside the chambers. There were three floors, as it had had originally. She watched as he drew various bits of furniture in the lower floors. The top floor, however, soon began to have some changes made to it. More windows were added. Once that was done, things began to appear inside: a chair or two; a tapestry frame; a table for working. It was very luxurious, to her mind.

  "Do you like it?"

  She jumped when she realized he was looking over his shoulder at her. "How can you see me?" she demanded.

  "How could I not?" he asked with a smile.

  There was no useful response to that, for she suspected that if she told him that he could have used self-control to his advantage, he would have spouted some sort of nonsense about... well, about something foolish.

  So she only grunted at him with what she hoped was a proper amount of disgust.

  "Do you like this room?" He gestured to the topmost floor.

  There was no point in lying. She suspected that he would know it anyway.

  "Aye," she said grudgingly. " 'Tis fine enough, I suppose."

  "Anything you would change about it?"

  She shook her head. A chamber so luxurious would have been far beyond the reach of her or anyone else she'd ever known in life.

  He tapped his pencil against the drawing. "I noticed," he began carefully, "that you didn't show me any place that was yours." He looked up at her. "When you showed me the castle."

  She blinked at him. "Mine?"

  "A room of your own. Where you go for peace, if you need it."

  "Why would I need such a thing?"

  "Don't you ever want to have somewhere to go to be alone?"

  She almost said, That's what the forest is for, but then she began to wonder why he was asking the question. He was idly drawing odd bits in the topmost chamber, things that would be pleasing to a woman's eye. She could scarce believe that he might set aside a place just for her, something he would build with his own hands for her comfort.

  A place of her own.

  What an astonishing idea.

  "A place for peace," she managed. "Aye, that would be nice enough, I suppose."

  His smile was truly the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. It made her want to smile. It made her want to wrap herself in its warmth. It made her want to do something else to cause him to grace her with it again.

  It made her want to check her forehead for fever.

  "Then this room will be yours," he said. He took off his coat and spread it out on the dirt next to him. "Will you sit with me?" he asked.

  Damn him, even a hint of that smile was going to be her undoing. All her fine resolves to keep him at a distance were somehow lost in the beauty of that smile. She found herself, fool that she was, sitting down next to him on clothing, though she surely didn't need to protect herself from dirt that would never in his lifetime or anyone else's sully her skirts.

  She sincerely hoped the MacDougal wasn't laughing himself ill. Then again, perhaps that would be a boon. If he were suffering in some corner of the keep, she wouldn't be forced to listen to him point out in words what a complete horse's arse she was being.

  "Are you interested in the details?"

  If it would mean more of his smiles, she supposed she was. "If you will."

  "All right then. Laying the floorboards will be easy," Thomas said as he pointed to his drawing. "I'm hoping the fireplaces will work—or that we can make them work eventually. Electricity would be nice, but it may be impossible."

  "Electricity?"

  He looked at her. "You know, power. Current."

  She looked at him blankly.

  "Lightbulbs?"

  She nodded uneasily, though she had no idea what he was talking about. There were those strange lights at the inn that seemingly had no flames, but she'd never thought to i
nquire as to what powered them. She'd assumed 'twas Ambrose or one of his lads about some mischief.

  Thomas put his pencil behind his ear and turned to look at her more fully. "When was the last time anyone lived here?"

  She stared at the sky thoughtfully. "Duncan could tell you with more exactness than I—"

  "1746," Duncan said, materializing in front of them. "After the slaughter at Culloden."

  She watched Thomas look at Duncan and blink a time or two in silence. Then he cleared his throat.

  "I don't think we've met," he said, standing up.

  "Duncan MacLeod," Duncan said, planting his feet a manly distance apart and putting his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Cousin to my lady. I will defend her to my dying breath."

  Well, that was a bit much, but Iolanthe couldn't help but feel warmed by Duncan's loyalty. She looked at Thomas to make certain he was receiving the tidings with the proper amount of respect.

  "I see," Thomas said, nodding. "I certainly don't intend to give you any reason to put me to the sword."

  Duncan grunted. "See that you don't, lad." He looked at Iolanthe. "I'll be nearby, in case you need me, lady."

  Thomas sat, watched Duncan move a goodly distance away, then looked at Iolanthe.

  "The MacDougal wants to decorate your gates with my various and sundry severed body parts, and now your cousin is warning me not to hit on you."

  She stiffened in surprise. "You would strike me?"

  "It's an expression. It means—well, never mind what it means. No, I would never hit a woman. You're safe with me."

  And for some reason she could not fathom—though she was certain it had come from the most ridiculous portion of her underused heart—she felt as if he spoke the truth.

  Thomas looked around as if he expected another interruption. When none materialized, he looked at her with a smile.

  "I was going to tell you about power."

  "Aye."

  "Well, there once was a man named Benjamin Franklin."

  She shook her head. "I'm not familiar with him."

  "I can tell you about him, if you like."

  She wasn't about to admit the full extent of her ignorance, but perhaps it was so apparent that there was no need. But still it did not sit well with her to be possibly considered less informed than he.