My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

  "Where's he going?" Thomas asked.

  "He's deciding the number of years it will take him to turn you into something useful on the field," Iolanthe said pleasantly. "He'll likely have to take off his shoes and use his toes soon."

  "Thank you for the confidence in my abilities," Thomas said dryly.

  "In building? Aye, I have confidence in you. Swordplay?" She looked at him and shook her head. " 'Tis never an easy task, no matter if you're born to it or not."

  "I've done lots of impossible things in my life. This will be just one more."

  She had to admire his complete arrogance, and she vowed right then to try not to enjoy it overmuch when Duncan ground him into the dust, as he most certainly would. She leaned back against the wall and looked up at him.

  "So you have exploits?" she asked politely.

  He considered her narrowly. "You sound unconvinced."

  "You mortals lead a softer life now than we did then."

  He cleared his throat and put his shoulders back. "I climbed the highest mountain in the world. And the steepest as well. And believe me when I tell you, they aren't one and the same."

  She shrugged. "We have mountains in Scotland. They never seemed all that formidable to me."

  His mouth had dropped open, and he seemed to be straggling to take in air. His look of complete astonishment was enough to make her wonder if she'd just insulted him thoroughly.

  "Mountains?" he repeated with a gasp. "Mountains? You have hills. Bumps. Grassy knolls. I'm talking about mountains." He took a tiny rock and dropped it at her feet. "That's the highest mountain in England." He looked around him, then pointed to an enormous boulder. "That's the size of Mount Everest. It's huge. And the other, K2, is impossibly difficult. All right, so I admit that maybe K2 was pushing my skills a little—especially on the way back down—"

  "You couldn't just sit down and slide?" she asked.

  He was making those noises again, as if there simply wasn't enough air about him to aid him in breathing. She laughed at his consternation, and the look that earned her was enough to silence her abruptly.

  "You laughed," he said, sounding as stunned as he looked.

  "Aye, and I imagine I should be sorry for it."

  "Well, you just insulted a big part of what my ego's based on, but I'll forget that. You laughed."

  She shrugged with a smile. "I suppose so." She looked up at the sky and considered how long it had been since she'd done the like.

  That she couldn't remember was the pity.

  "Iolanthe, come back to the inn with me."

  The depth of her good humor enveloped her with such agreeableness that she could hardly say him nay. But perhaps she was being too hasty. After all, she rarely left her keep. It was where she felt safe.

  Not happy, but safe.

  "I imagine they have an empty room as well, with a comfortable bed," he added.

  Iolanthe sat there for what seemed to her a very long time, feeling the first chill of autumn brush across her soul.

  Change.

  The warmth of a comfortable house with family therein beckoned to her with a lure she found almost impossible to resist. There would be conversation there, companionship, laughter. No more haunting walls, keeping to the edge of the hall because she felt awkward with the men, wishing desperately for a place to sit that was hers alone and one where she was wanted.

  "I'll stay with you," he said gently.

  She looked at him, heard the earnestness of his words, and felt the strength and comfort behind them.

  "You won't be alone."

  Ach, but now the man was reading her mind. She looked up at the sky and considered how pitiful she was to wish for such simple things as those.

  "You have family there as well," he added.

  "Aye," she said, sighing, "but he's a blathering old fool."

  "But he loves you." He smiled down at her. "That has to be worth something."

  She rose. She could scarce believe the foolishness of her act, but she rose just the same.

  "You're coming," he said, sounding pleased.

  "If you like," she said with a shrug she hoped spoke volumes about her disinterest in the idea.

  "Yes," he said. "I'd like very much. Besides, now I can give you a proper appreciation of just what I've climbed. You're not nearly as impressed as you should be."

  And so she went with him, walked through the bailey and out her gates. She ignored the gapes of the Highlanders who lined the road as she passed, as well as the curses the MacDougal heaped upon Thomas's head. She ignored the fact that this was the second time in less than a se'nnight that she'd traversed these paths, when her usual visits never came more often than once a decade or so. And she most vigorously ignored the fact that she was walking along with a man at whose invitation she came.

  A man she could never have.

  But he was drawing her after him like a fey piper, and she followed with nary a thought in her head but for the pleasure of his company and the warmth that awaited her at journey's end.

  "Who are you?" She stopped at the bottom of the road leading up to the inn and looked at him searchingly.

  He only smiled and shook his head.

  Fey and daft, that's what he was, she decided as she followed him.

  And there she was, becoming just like him.

  Chapter 13

  Thomas sat in a comfortable chair in the inn's cozy little sitting room and savored both the fire at his feet and the company around him. It had been a remarkable evening, made all the more so by the people he had shared it with. He leaned back with a smile and replayed in his mind the events of the past handful of hours.

  He had walked back to the inn with Iolanthe, almost surprised that she had come with him, yet not surprised at all. It had felt right. His heart had been content, and even his head had stopped shouting the impossibilities at him. He'd opened the front door for her, then walked with her into the entry hall, remembering vividly the first time he'd done the same thing and seen Ambrose leaning against the sideboard. He'd never thought to be walking through that door with Iolanthe at his side. She had seemingly thought nothing of it.

  Mrs. Pruitt, on the other hand, had apparently thought a great deal of the occasion. She had taken one look at Thomas's companion, her eyes had rolled back in her head, and she'd started to slip toward the floor. Thomas had leaped around the counter and tried to catch her, but she'd stiff-armed him and dragged herself back upright. She'd put her shoulders back and produced her most businesslike expression.

  Thomas had requested the inn's finest bedroom to be prepared—at his expense of course—and retained for Miss MacLeod's personal use for as long as she cared to remain. Mrs. Pruitt had said, manfully, that it would be done at once. She had only given Iolanthe another look of intense speculation before she'd made for the stairs. Thomas had invited Iolanthe to sit with him in the library until dinner was ready. It had seemed the safest place to wait.

  Dinner had gone off without a hitch. Iolanthe had sat next to him, looking as corporeal as he, but not touching a thing on her plate. The Preservation Trio, as he'd come to affectionately call them, had managed to down their dinner yet gape at her at the same time. Finally, one bold soul had asked her why she wasn't eating.

  "Weel," she'd said, her accent as thick as pea soup, "ye ken hoo it is wit' a soor stoomach, aye?"

  There had been no more questions, but Thomas hadn't had any trouble imagining what sort of speculation their strategy session that night would include. It was possible they could have thought her nothing but a simple village lass he'd picked up on his way home.

  But how could anyone with two eyes in their head think that?

  After supper, Thomas had retired to the sitting room with Iolanthe, promising her a thorough explanation of how far Everest was off the ground. Midway through trying to describe to her just how high 29,000 feet was, he remembered the pictures in his suitcase. He had grabbed them, then returned to the sitting room only to find that he wa
s no longer alone with the woman of his dreams.

  Ambrose and Hugh were there, chatting pleasantly with her. Thomas had found that his chair had been appropiated by Fulbert de Piaget, Megan's uncle-in-law—the usual generations removed. Thomas had spent a ticklish moment or two glaring at the man pointedly before the shade relinquished the chair with several uncomplimentary comments about Highlanders in general and their descendants in particular. Thomas had resumed his seat with satisfaction, then looked to his left at the woman whose company he'd intended to have all to himself. So he didn't have her undivided attention anymore. He could spend the evening looking at her, and maybe that would be enough.

  She sat in an equally comfortable chair in the sitting room, with her long, slender fingers resting on the padded arms. Her dress was the same simple gown he'd always seen her in, but her hair tumbled freely over her shoulders and hung down in tight, heavy curls. The firelight played softly over her face, and he suddenly wished he had the talent to draw something besides very rough blueprints.

  She should be painted, he decided. Just like this. With her features at peace and a soft light bathing her in an Raphaelesque glow. She radiated stillness and tranquillity.

  "Why, ya bloody fool," she snapped suddenly, "what are ye blatherin' on about?"

  Well, most of the time. Thomas put his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Heaven help him if Iolanthe thought he was laughing at her. He'd already heard her give one of the other occupants of the sitting room the sharper side of her tongue.

  "Ye silly girl," Fulbert said stiffly, "what would ye know about it?"

  "I'm a Highlander!" she exclaimed. "And you and your bloody cohorts have been tryin' to steal my country for the past... um ... How long has it been?" she demanded, turning to Thomas.

  "Eight... nine hundred years?" he offered.

  She looked unconvinced—and irritated.

  "Maybe longer," he amended. "Much longer. I'm sure of it."

  The discussion—if that's what it could be termed—only deteriorated from there. Thomas looked at the other members of their little after-dinner party. No one seemed to find the name-calling and shouting to be anything out of the ordinary. Then again, Ambrose was probably used to the bickering. Hugh was alternately wringing his hands in distress and glaring at Fulbert de Piaget as if he meant to do him intense bodily harm.

  Fulbert, who was apparently Ambrose's brother-in-law by some unsavory quirk of fate (Iolanthe's characterization, seconded rather heartily by Ambrose himself), was an Englishman to the core and had no trouble defending his national pride. Every now and again, he would look at Thomas as if he expected some sort of aid to come from that quarter, then he'd mutter something about "bloody Colonists" and hop back into the verbal fray by himself.

  It eventually came down to Hugh leaping up and unsheathing his sword with a flourish, Fulbert jumping to his feet and casting his mug into the fire before he drew his own blade, and Ambrose bidding them take their quarrel outside. Once they'd gone, Ambrose looked at Iolanthe.

  "Nothing like a bit of stimulating conversation, eh, daughter?"

  "Aye, my laird," Iolanthe said, stretching happily. "Stirs the blood quite pleasantly."

  Thomas shook his head with a wry smile. Maybe after living in times where battle was the norm, a bit of enthusiastic talk was nothing but a diversion. Then he paused and frowned.

  "You aren't her father," he said to Ambrose. "I thought—"

  "She could use a father, don't you think?" Ambrose said. "Who better than me to take on the task?"

  Thomas looked at Iolanthe. "Where's your father? Or do you know?"

  "Or is that an ill-mannered question?" she asked.

  He held up his hands in surrender. "You're right. Sorry. I'm just curious."

  "Been bitten by the search-for-your-ancestors bug?" Ambrose asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  "Well, as a matter of fact..." Thomas began, then he looked at Ambrose suspiciously. "How would you know?"

  "Who do you think gave you your ideas?"

  Thomas wondered how much of the remainder of his life he would spend with his mouth open, gaping in surprise at something this crowd said. Judging by the number of times he'd been left speechless already that afternoon, it would probably be a good chunk.

  "You didn't," Thomas said. "You couldn't have."

  "I whispered a suggestion or two whilst you slept."

  "I thought those dreams were because of bad fish!"

  Fulbert appeared suddenly out of thin air with his chest puffed out. "Now, if we wants to talk about dreams, let me recount me visit to that Dickens chap."

  "Dickens?" Thomas repeated weakly.

  Fulbert looked at him archly. "You think he came up with the idea for those ghostly visits on his own? 'Twere me visits that gave him the inspiration for his story. And if I'd had me way, I'd have had the credit for it."

  Ambrose sighed deeply. "Leave off with your bragging, Fulbert. We've no stomach for it."

  "Better bragging than casting about for matches to be made," Fulbert grumbled, heading for the door. "Why he thinks that's a proper activity for us, I don't know." He disappeared through the wood with a final grumble and curse.

  Thomas looked at Ambrose. "Matchmaking?"

  "Would you care to hear about your ancestors?" Ambrose asked pleasantly. "I'm certain between the lass here and me, we can provide you with all the names you'd like. Fetch something to write with, and we'll begin."

  Thomas knew the subject was being changed, but maybe that was for the best. He wasn't sure he wanted to know anything more about Ambrose's dabbling in his dreams. Or his matchmaking activities. For all he knew, he was one of the intended victims.

  But if the match was to be made with the woman sitting next to him, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing.

  "Pen and paper, my lad," Ambrose said pointedly. "We'll give you such a list, genealogists worldwide will be green with envy."

  Thomas rose with a sigh and dutifully retrieved what was requested. He sat back down and grabbed a book to use as a makeshift desk.

  "Ready." He looked at Iolanthe. "What happened to your dad? Good end? Bad end?"

  "You're determined to know, aren't you?" she asked, but she didn't look overly upset by it. "He's rotting in the Fergusson's dungeon, or so I hear. Good riddance to him." She looked at Ambrose. "And who else haunts the place with him? He can't be the only one starved to death in that pit."

  "Ach, nay," Ambrose said pleasantly. "Many fine enemies, and a few allies as well, find themselves lingering there. And don't you know that Roger Fergusson still holds the key, even after all these centuries." He laughed. "Saints, but if that isn't a place to set a man's hair on end."

  Thomas listened in fascination as they discussed the men of Iolanthe's day, allies and foes alike, as if they'd just seen them yesterday. And while he listened, when he could keep from staring at the woman sitting next to him who looked happier than he'd ever seen her, he made a list of whatever names they discussed. Ambrose was right. It was a genealogist's dream come true.

  The conversation continued for quite some time as Ambrose and Iolanthe happily considered the nasty end of several people they apparently hadn't liked very much. They worked their way back past Iolanthe's father and then began to argue about who had been the first to discover the secret of her keep.

  And then they apparently realized they weren't alone, because almost as one, they shut their mouths. Ambrose began to hum a cheerful tune, and Iolanthe looked around the room as if she strove to memorize every stick of furniture on the floor and every knickknack adorning every shelf.

  So. There really was a secret to her keep.

  Well, Thomas was no fool. There were several mountains he had climbed where the best route to the top was definitely not up the front face. He could sneak around the back just as skillfully as the next man.

  "I think we forgot to list a few people," he said easily. "Iolanthe, you have siblings?"

  She shot Ambrose a quick look
, then turned to Thomas. She looked pathetically grateful to be talking about something else.

  "Aye," she said, nodding enthusiastically. "And half-siblings."

  "And their names?"

  "Well, there was my next younger half-brother, Angus. A whoring, drinking, witless fool if there ever was one."

  Thomas wrote Angus down, along with all the appropriate adjectives. "Any others?"

  "My elder true brother, Alexandir," she said, less easily this time. "He died childless. He was murdered by our enemies, and Angus took his place."

  Time to move on from there. Thomas didn't dawdle. "And your father's name was Malcolm, wasn't it?"

  "Aye."

  "And your grandfather?"

  "William. A wonderful man. His father was Jesse." She hesitated and shot Ambrose a look before she carefully continued. "Jesse's father was James."

  "How interesting," Thomas said, his nose twitching in appreciation of something definitely being up. So it had to do with James. But just what kind of secret could a Scottish keep have? He looked at them with a pleasant smile. "How about birth dates?" He would keep them talking, and sooner or later they would let something slip. He was betting on it.

  "Mayhap close enough to serve you," Iolanthe said. She gave him several dates, which he dutifully wrote down.

  "And death dates?" he asked. "Just for curiosity's sake."

  He looked up to find Iolanthe and Ambrose looking at each other with what he couldn't quite term consternation, but it was definitely collusion.

  "Ah," Ambrose said, "aye, we have those as well." He rattled off several dates, and Thomas wrote them down as well.

  And then he realized they'd left one out.

  "James?" he asked, looking up. "What about him?"

  "Let us leave James in peace," Ambrose said smoothly. "Now, his son Jesse—"

  "What's wrong with James?" Thomas asked.

  The two were conspicuously silent.

  "If you don't know when he died," Thomas said, "then just say you don't know."

  Ambrose looked at Iolanthe, then at Thomas.