My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

  "I know people as well," she said defensively.

  "Do you?"

  She looked at him closely but could see no mockery in his eyes. She lifted her chin. "Aye. I saw Queen Mary once."

  He looked genuinely impressed. "Really?"

  "And James I, as well. From a distance, you understand. They never would have come to stay at this hall."

  "Fascinating," he said, putting aside his drawings. "I studied history, but I never thought I'd ever be hearing a firsthand account. Will you tell me more?"

  How was it—and the saints preserve her, why was it?— that such a simple expression of interest was enough to set her heart to pounding in her chest? By the saints, he was but a man—and a mortal one at that!

  But as he looked at her so expectantly, she found that she could do nothing but begin to tell him hesitantly about the people who had come her way over the years. Many were unimportant, but there had been a few before the troubles of '45. And during it all, he sat and watched her with rapt attention.

  "Amazing," he said.

  His frank regard made her unaccountably nervous. She had to force herself to sit still and not flee. She looked around frantically for some kind of distraction.

  "What of that Franklin?" she asked, grasping for the first thing that came to mind. "I suppose he was loitering over in the Colonies?"

  "Actually, he loitered quite a few places. He was quite instrumental in getting the Colonies away from George III."

  "I imagine His Majesty was none too pleased with him."

  "Probably not," Thomas agreed.

  Iolanthe frowned. "Was that who was king then? This George you spoke of?"

  "Yes," he said kindly, "that's who was king then."

  "Then tell me more. About them both," she commanded, hoping she sounded a bit aloof.

  And thus proceeded a very long afternoon for her. She heard all manner of tales about this Benjamin Franklin, then there was talk about currents and watts and other things she couldn't for the life of her fathom. Then came the illustrations with arrows and lines going in every direction.

  It began to give her a pain between her eyes.

  "Sorry," he said, flipping his page back to the one he'd begun at the first. "I get a little carried away with the whole construction business. Feel free to stop me if it gets to be too much."

  "Stop."

  He laughed as he folded up his book and turned himself to face her. Then his smile faded.

  "I owe you another apology."

  She wasn't sure what was more distracting: the lightness of his eyes or the darkness of the hair that fell down into those eyes. Or maybe it was that chiseled jawline that she found her fingers itching to touch. She'd never had such a thought in her life, and she could scarce believe she was having one now—especially given the fact that she could do nothing about it.

  "... apology?" he was saying.

  She blinked. "Apology? For what this time?"

  "For yesterday." He looked as penitent as she'd ever seen a man before, which hadn't been all that often, but he did indeed look sorry. "I didn't mean to take your name from you."

  The surprise and panic she'd felt the day before came back in a rush. "How did you know it?" she whispered. "I've never told a soul. I vow I haven't."

  "I just knew," he said, looking as baffled as she felt. "Sometimes, I just know things."

  "You're fey."

  That made him smile. "Actually, that's never a word I've applied to myself, but I guess it fits now and then." He tapped his book with his drawing pencil for a moment or two, then looked at her from under his eyelashes. "How did you come by your name?"

  She sighed. There was no use in either being angry with him for knowing or refusing to give him any more of the details. He would likely pluck them out of thin air just the same to spite her, "My mother gave it to me. It wasn't as if she was learned," she added quickly, "for she wasn't. But she loved words and how they sounded against her ear."

  "But it's a Greek word. Greece is a long way from Scotland."

  "My father's hall is not easily reached, true, but it always seemed to attract the odd visitor."

  "The secret of the keep and all that?" he asked with a smile.

  "Aye, that."

  "It must be a good one."

  "Most secrets are."

  He laughed. "Point taken. I won't ask for the details. Tell me instead of these visitors."

  "Minstrels, foreigners, scribblers of tales," she said with a shrug. "My mother learned their words and gathered them up in her heart. 'Twas from one of them that she learned my name, for he said 'twas a word for violet. That was the color of her eyes."

  "Which are your eyes."

  She nodded.

  He was silent for a moment before he spoke. "Will you," he asked slowly, "let me use your name?"

  She found, suddenly, that she couldn't answer him. No one had ever used her name, save her mother, and only when they were speaking for each other's ears alone. She hadn't heard her name from the lips of another soul in over six hundred years. Did she want to start now?

  With this man?

  At least, she decided finally, he had asked permission.

  "I won't use it in front of the others," he added. "I'll be discreet."

  And that, for some reason, made her feel as if she were making more of it all than she should.

  "You think I'm being foolish," she said.

  "I don't. It was something you would have given your life for, wasn't it?"

  "Aye," she agreed. "Likely so."

  "Then it's important to you." He smiled easily. "If you don't want me to use it, I won't."

  She found she couldn't speak.

  "But if you don't mind me using it, would you give it to me?"

  She closed her eyes and prayed for some return of her wits. After a moment, she opened her eyes and looked at the man sitting next to her, fully intending to give him a list of reasons why she couldn't do what he asked.

  Then she looked at him truly, saw the strength in his face, the kindness in his eyes, and found her heart softening with a frightening swiftness.

  By the saints, she was going to give it to him. She wanted to believe she was powerless to do anything else, but she couldn't even hide behind that weak excuse. She wanted to give it to him.

  So she took a deep breath.

  "My name," she said clearly, "is Iolanthe."

  "Iolanthe," he repeated with a smile. "Thank you."

  "You may use it," she added quickly, before she thought better of it. "Discreetly."

  "Of course," he agreed. "But I don't think any of the men would use it even if they knew it, if that's what worries you."

  She stood before she knew she meant to and wrapped her arms around herself. " 'Tis late. You should go."

  He stood more slowly, took up his coat and put it on. He gathered up his book, then paused and looked at her.

  "I won't abuse your trust."

  "See that you don't," she said with as much haughtiness as she could muster. "It isn't given lightly."

  "I'm well aware of that."

  She looked at him and wondered what was possessing her to keep her talking to a mortal who had no means of understanding her sorry existence, who would likely hammer in his nails, grow bored, and then leave. She hadn't the time for this kind of foolishness.

  "I'm going to Edinburgh for supplies tomorrow," he said quietly. "But I'll be back the day after to start work. If you have no objections."

  "Would such serve me?"

  "They would."

  It was tempting to push him, just to see how far she could.

  Then again, if he were there working, she might have a few more of his smiles.

  "Daft," she muttered with a shake of her head. She was daft and foolish and likely deserved whatever heartache came her way, for 'twas a certainty she would have brought it on herself. She looked at him. "Off with ye, ye silly man. 'Tis no doubt growing cold out."

  "Good night, Iolanthe."
<
br />   He smiled, then made her a little bow and walked away. She watched him go, then realized the bailey had suddenly become full of others who were watching her watch him.

  She swept them all with a glare and most of them suddenly found other things to do. A few hardy souls braved her look and continued to watch her with interest, but she took care of them with her most formidable scowl. Roderick was standing glowering against a wall, but she turned away before she had to listen to any of his babbling.

  She walked up the stairs onto the crumbling parapet and looked at the tower where Thomas McKinnon would build her a place of peace. She wished mightily that the deed was already done, for she certainly could have used a bit of privacy at the moment.

  She had just given her name to him freely.

  After so many centuries, 'twas a noteworthy event indeed.

  She stood there long after the garrison had settled in for the night. And once all was quiet, she sought out her accustomed place on the bench in the garden.

  It was a very long time before she closed her eyes.

  Chapter 11

  A week later, Thomas sawed through the last bit of the floor joist he was working on outside, then set the saw aside, straightened, and arched his back in a stretch. He'd gained an entirely new respect over the past couple of days for men who had built things with their bare hands—literally. He was starting to miss his power tools.

  Well, he'd made do with less in far more precarious places. At least the ground floor was done. Maybe the bottom floor had originally boasted dirt, but he'd decided on hardwood. The floor had taken him three days to lay, but it looked great. He and his help had since begun work on cutting the second-floor joists. Thomas knew he was pushing his lads probably harder than he should have, but he felt a sense of urgency about getting everything put back into shape as quickly as possible.

  It probably had something to do with the look on Iolanthe's face when he'd told her he was building her a room of her own.

  He laid down his saw and walked into the tower. The floor beneath him was solid. Now that the groundwork was laid, the scaffolding was going up for the next floor. He stood there and let the significance of it settle into his soul. It was a great deal like building a relationship. Groundwork, then construction of various levels, then the finishing touches.

  He shook his head with a smile. Too many comparisons between the restoration of the tower and his relationship with Iolanthe MacLeod would give him nothing more than a headache—and he'd already had one of those that had knocked him flat.

  Relationship?

  He stepped back out into the open before his thoughts led him down that path of no return. He saw the woman in question immediately, but he didn't do anything past dart a glance at her. It was probably safer that way. Even though she'd been watching him off and on for the whole of the day, he suspected it was more to make sure he didn't demolish anything rather than a desire just to watch him.

  He looked up into the sky and decided that perhaps it was time to pack it in. A look at the hired help he'd found in the village revealed two young men who'd probably had just about enough of looking over their shoulder every two minutes to make sure no ghost was about to jump them.

  Working on a haunted castle was hell.

  "Burt, Charlie," he called, waving them over. "Let's call it a day, okay?"

  They looked as if they'd been given a reprieve from the guillotine.

  "Be here bright and early tomorrow," Thomas said. "With any luck, the rain will hold off and we'll get the next floor laid. I'd like to be finished before the end of the week."

  Burt was looking about him nervously. "As ye will, sir."

  Charlie only gulped and nodded, his face a pasty white.

  Thomas smiled and clapped them both on the shoulder. 'Take a deep breath, guys."

  "But I've heard ..." Burt began.

  "Aye, so've I..." Charlie agreed.

  Thomas pulled out a fat wad of notes and divided them between the young men. "Listen harder to my money than you do to pub gossip. The scariest thing around here are the protestors outside the gates. They aren't very fierce, are they?"

  That seemed to distract the pair because they walked off, discussing whether or not they should have run over the three picketers who had stretched themselves across the entrance to the castle that morning. Thomas had been tempted, but had decided that perhaps protestoricide wouldn't look good on his record. He had to admit to dropping a chunk of wood or two on the men as he carted things over them, but could anyone really blame him for that?

  He smiled to himself as he gathered up his tools and stowed them inside the tower. Once that was finished, he stood at the doorway and looked over the courtyard. Iolanthe was gone. Oddly enough, he found himself feeling surprisingly bereft.

  And then it struck him just who he was missing.

  A woman who was a ghost.

  What in the hell was he doing? Looking for a woman who, for all intents and purposes, didn't exist? He leaned against the doorjamb and looked up into the late-afternoon sky. All right, so he could get used to seeing ghosts. He'd seen plenty of wacky things over the course of his life. He could get used to living with a bunch of Highlanders dogging his every step. He'd seen worse. Tiffany's tenacity would have left them in the dust.

  But being interested in Iolanthe MacLeod?

  The improbability of it all was almost enough to make him walk out through the barbican and go home.

  He was a flesh-and-blood man. He needed the same kind of woman. What made sense, at least in his head, was for him to go get in his car, head to Edinburgh, and look up the business associates he knew. Surely there would be potential introductions to datable women as a result. Hell, if worse came to worst, he could think of a dozen women in New York who wouldn't be opposed to flying over for the weekend, or longer.

  Get hold of yourself and walk through the front gates.

  Yes, that was what his head was telling him. And it wasn't as if his head had often led him astray. He used it for thinking quite often and found it completely satisfactory.

  Then again, his heart had led him to Maine and convinced him to build a labor of love there.

  Head. Heart. Which was in charge?

  He wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

  He stepped out into the courtyard and turned himself toward the gate. His head would have the first shot at keeping him sane. It would certainly make the most self-preserving decision.

  He was halfway to the gate when he stopped. Maybe he was being a bit hasty. After all, he wasn't committing to a lifetime with the woman. He was just going to be polite and say good-bye. For the evening.

  Then again, maybe he should just go and count himself well rid of potential heartache. After all, he'd ended numerous things over the course of his life—climbs and businesses both—and never looked back with regret. Life was all about endings.

  But, his heart argued, the house in Maine is all about beginnings.

  He stood in the bailey and argued with himself so long over what he should be doing that when he finally gave up in disgust, he found he had an audience. A very large audience. One that was watching him with various expressions of humor, irritation, and pity.

  He glared at them. "Got things on my mind," he said in his most manly fashion.

  The men were, almost without exception, apparently unimpressed.

  Thomas turned abruptly toward the garden. He was just going to be civilized—something Connor MacDougal would probably never understand. The rest of the men could think what they wanted. He would make nice with Iolanthe, then get the hell out of there before he really got in over his head.

  He paused at the entrance and looked down the pathway that hugged the wall. The afternoon had waned, but there was plenty of light to see the woman kneeling near the path's edge, weeding. He closed his eyes and swallowed, hard. He wanted to tell himself that he was losing it. What he really wanted was for there to be some reason why he was losing it.

  B
ut all he could think of was a woman who tended something she loved and lived an existence that wasn't of her choosing. And if that wasn't enough to break his heart, he was certain he couldn't imagine what would.

  He opened his eyes. Heart it would be, then.

  He walked along the path, then came to a stop next to her. She looked up at him solemnly.

  And he was forever and irrevocably lost.

  It wasn't her beauty, because that was something that perhaps could have been argued about. It wasn't even her life status, because many could have made a case for leaving her alone based on that alone. It was the dirt smudged on her cheek. It was the way her hair fell down her back in a fat, heavy braid with little bits of it escaping all over. It was a simple dress that matched the color of her eyes. It was the stillness, her stillness, that drew him in and made him want to be still as well. That was why he climbed, after all. For that brief moment of stillness high up in the air where he could be at peace. That he had found the same with another person was nothing short of miraculous.

  He knelt down next to her. "It's beautiful."

  "The garden?"

  "That, too."

  She did smile then, and his heart broke a little at the sight. "It isn't much, but it passes the time." She returned to her digging. "Your lads survived the day."

  "Barely. I'm sure they'll have incredible kinks in their necks from swiveling them around to make sure they weren't about to be attacked."

  "I warned off the garrison," she said defensively.

  "I never doubted it," he said. "Some people are just a little intimidated by what they can't see."

  "And you aren't?"

  "I am lucky enough to see fairly clearly."

  "Is that lucky?"

  He considered how it might have been, had he not been able to see her, and his heart gave a lurch.

  "Actually," he said, "I think it is."

  She looked at him for a moment, then turned back to her work. "You're going now."

  "Well, no. I'd like to stay for a while, if you don't mind."

  She shrugged and pulled out a particularly nasty weed.

  "How do you do this?" he asked. "How do you make the garden?"