My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

  "We don't know when he died," Ambrose said firmly.

  "You don't?"

  "We've no idea."

  Iolanthe snorted. "Nor will we for some time to come, I'll warrant."

  Ambrose reached out and tugged sharply on her hair, then smiled pleasantly at Thomas.

  "Any other questions, lad?"

  Thomas looked at them both for several moments in silence. "I sense something very mysterious here."

  "Too mysterious for tonight," Ambrose said. "You'd be better off to investigate the McKinnon side of your family first, my lad. Full of interesting characters."

  There was obviously no more information forthcoming at present. Thomas looked at Iolanthe to find her industriously studying the fire. No help there.

  "All right," Thomas said, "I'll give in. For the moment."

  Ambrose rubbed his hands together. "Anyone for a tale or two of proper haunting?"

  Not subtle, but effective just the same. Thomas considered the matter for a moment or two. There was no logical reason for them to be so reticent about when one of their ancestors had died. Even if he was a ghost, he would have had a death date.

  Unless he hadn't died.

  Well, that was just too ridiculous to even contemplate. Ghosts were one thing. A man who had never died was another. It couldn't happen. Men died, and that was that. He leaned back in his chair and turned his attentions to Ambrose, willing to be distracted.

  He tried to listen, but he found that he couldn't keep his gaze from straying to the woman who sat next to him. After a while, he just gave up trying and stared at her unabashedly. He could hardly believe she'd agreed to come with him, that he had an entire evening to do nothing more than sit and stare at her in peace.

  Even stranger still, that he couldn't imagine anything he would have rather been doing.

  She glanced his way, then frowned. "What?" she demanded.

  He only smiled. "Nothing."

  "Cease."

  "I can't."

  "You won't."

  He shrugged. "Same thing."

  "It isn't."

  He shook his head with another smile. "Iolanthe, you are a very beautiful woman, and I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing right now than staring at you."

  "You ... you ..." She spluttered out a few more sounds, then shut her mouth with a snap.

  "You don't have to watch me do it."

  She looked at Ambrose. "Make him stop. Use your sword."

  "The boy is an excellent judge of beauty," Ambrose said placidly. "Am I to run him through for that?"

  She started to get up, but Thomas held out his hand. "Please don't go. I'll stop if you want."

  She resumed her seat with a frown. "Do something more useful with your time."

  Look up portrait painters in the Yellow Pages was his first thought. He wondered if she would sit long enough for a painter to do his work, or if she'd even consent to show herself for the same. But if she would, and if he could find the proper setting, he just couldn't imagine anything better to do with his money. He'd do something about it first thing in the morning. It would have probably been simpler to have had her photographed, but he suspected film wouldn't capture her likeness.

  That led him to wonder why it was that he seemed to be able to see her, even when she didn't want him to. Maybe his mother would know. He would have to ask her.

  Sometime when his father wasn't at home, obviously.

  He could just hear his father's roar of aggravation when he learned that his son was ... Well, what was he doing with Iolanthe? Dating seemed completely inappropriate—and rather impossible. Wooing was just as ridiculous.

  He drew his hand over his eyes and wondered if the lateness of the hour was getting to him. It was crazy to think that anything—

  "Thomas," Ambrose said sharply, "I'm for the pub. Step outside with me for a moment, won't you?"

  Thomas rose in surprise, excused himself, and followed the older man out the door. Ambrose turned the moment the door was shut behind them.

  "Mind your thoughts, my lad," he said quietly. "You're thinking them so hard, they're coming over as shouts, and I'm not the only one in the chamber who can hear them."

  Thomas felt his mouth slide open. There he was, doing it again. Gaping was starting to become a very bad habit. "You're kidding."

  "I am not. Now," Ambrose said, holding up his hand, "I'm not saying that our young lass in there eavesdrops. For all I know, she didn't hear a thing you were thinking. But I know I did, and my hearing isn't as keen as it once was."

  "Wonderful," Thomas said, wincing. "I never thought—"

  "Up late, are we?"

  Could things get any dicier? Mrs. Pruitt came trotting down the passageway and into the foyer. She joined the two of them and looked at Ambrose with undisguised admiration.

  "You're looking well, my lord," she said, batting her eyelashes.

  That was possibly one of the most unnerving things Thomas had ever seen. He looked quickly at Ambrose to find him darting furtive glances around as if he looked for an escape route—any escape route.

  "A pleasure, good woman," he said, plucking a cap out of thin air and plopping it on his head. "I've things to see to, you know."

  And with that, he turned and fairly bolted through the door. Mrs. Pruitt watched him go with a scowl.

  "Damn man," she groused. "He's always running off 'afores I can have speech with him."

  "Um," Thomas said, without a clue what to say, "maybe he has some haunting to do. Somewhere else."

  "Hrmph," Mrs. Pruitt said. She turned on her heel, stuck her nose up in the air, and marched off back to her room.

  Well, that was that. Actually, Thomas felt no compulsion to worry about either Ambrose or Mrs. Pruitt or any kind of relationship they might have together. Ambrose was the matchmaker. He could make his own matches. Thomas was in enough trouble as it was. He faced the sitting-room door and wondered if he dared go inside. Had Iolanthe heard any of his thoughts screeching her way? He wasn't sure if he was mortified or terrified. He wasn't used to either feeling, so maybe it didn't matter. He was damned uncomfortable, for whatever reason. Good grief, what was he supposed to do now? Stop thinking?

  He blew out his breath, opened the door, and went inside. He went and sat back down in his chair. Well, no time like the present to get things out in the open.

  "Can you read my thoughts?" he asked.

  She blinked in surprise. "Aye, I suppose I could."

  "Haven't you been?" he asked in surprise.

  "I haven't done it in"—she paused and scrunched up her face—"well, in years at least. Not since after the '45."

  "1745."

  "Aye, that." She shook her head. "Too many women crying for their slain men. 'Twas too difficult to listen to them and watch their dreams. I trained myself not to listen."

  He felt an intense sense of relief he sincerely hoped did not show on his face.

  "Should I start listening to your thoughts?" she asked, looking at him with something he could almost call a glint in her eye.

  "You shouldn't."

  "Ah," she said, nodding. "I understand."

  "Do you?"

  "I've no illusion about my visage," she said stiffly. "If you wish to think on its ugliness and all my other undesirable traits, then you're welcome to and damn you for it."

  He was going to make a concentrated effort not to gape anymore—maybe tomorrow when he'd recovered from today.

  "Iolanthe, how can you possibly think that's how I see you? I think you're stunning."

  She looked unconvinced.

  "Should I start telling you what I think more often?"

  She shrugged, but he suspected she wasn't as unconcerned as she seemed.

  "Then again," he said slowly, "maybe you'd be better off not knowing everything I think—"

  "Why not?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Well, because I was thinking, well, you know, um, about ... us," he finished as lamely as he ever had.

&nbs
p; She blinked. "Us?"

  "Us. You and me."

  She looked immediately and horribly offended. "Why, ye wee lecher," she exclaimed. "How can ye consider such—"

  It was amazing how her accent grew thicker the more irritated she became.

  "I wasn't thinking lecherous thoughts," he said, though now that she brought it up, he had to accept that having any kind of physical relationship with her was completely impossible and, well, it just didn't bear thinking about.

  He slapped his hands on his thighs and rose. "I think it's time for bed."

  She gasped. "As if I would share yours!"

  This was not going very well.

  "I'll go to my bed," he said, "and I'll show you the way to yours. That's all."

  She rose with a sniff.

  He scratched his head. It wasn't something he did very often, and he wasn't sure he was all that comfortable with having to do it. Did she want him to take her to bed? Did she just want him to want to take her to bed? Was she offended that he hadn't offered?

  "I'm confused," he admitted.

  "You're a man," she said haughtily.

  And that, he supposed, said it all. He took a small measure of comfort in realizing, as with a great deal of bafflement he led her up the stairs and down the hall to her room, that she was, despite her ghostly status, a woman, and as such was completely out of his league when it came to truly comprehending the depths of her thought processes.

  He paused in front of her door, turned, and looked at her. And then just the sight of her turned his stomach upside down and he promptly forgot everything he'd been thinking except that she was the most exceptional woman he'd ever laid eyes on and that he was very glad he'd brought her to his temporary home.

  "I hope you'll be comfortable," he said quietly.

  She nodded.

  "I'm glad you came."

  She seemed to relax a bit. "Thank you," she said. "I am, too."

  Before he knew what he was doing, he thrust out his hand. Hell, sixteen all over again and surely a bigger idiot now than he'd ever been then. But what was done was done, and there was no taking it back.

  Iolanthe looked at his hand for a moment, then slowly reached out and put her hand in his.

  He stared down at it, and for a moment, his entire world shuddered. It was as if he'd done this a thousand times before. He met her eyes and saw there the echo of what he'd just experienced.

  He felt no touch, though, and for some reason that was possibly the most devastating thing he'd ever felt.

  She pulled her hand away quickly and tucked both hands under her arms.

  "Thank you most kindly for the evening," she said formally. " 'Twas a pleasure."

  "You'll stay the night?" The words were out before he could stop them. He simply couldn't bear the thought of her going back up to the castle and, well, just being there out in the cold and dark.

  "Perhaps."

  "Please, Iolanthe. Please stay."

  She looked down. He would have given anything to have been able to put his hand under her chin and lift her face up.

  "I'll go back with you in the morning," he promised.

  She hesitated, then nodded. Thomas took that as a good sign. He opened the door, waited until she was inside, then shut the door behind her.

  Then he rubbed his hands over his face and walked to his room before he did anything else stupid.

  Like fall in love with a woman he could never have.

  Chapter 14

  Iolanthe woke and blinked at the sight of sunlight streaming in through a window. The sight was so unusual that she sat bolt upright in bed and looked about her in a panic. It took her several moments to realize where she was.

  At the Boar's Head Inn.

  As Thomas McKinnon's guest.

  She flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the canopy above her. That she should have a chamber at an inn was unusual enough. Not once during her lifetime had she enjoyed the like. That a man should be providing the same for her was nothing short of miraculous. That Thomas McKinnon should be that man was indeed the most improbable of all.

  She wondered if this counted as the rescue she'd always longed for.

  Nay, there was no sense in speculation about that, for naught would come of it but more to think on, and she had enough of that already. She rose and forced herself to look over her surroundings, just in case she didn't return. For whatever reason.

  The chamber was luxurious, to be sure. It was odd, but she'd never been inside any of the inn's bedchambers. She remembered vaguely when the inn had been built, but she hadn't come to look. Ambrose had, after his own demise, come to pay his respects when he'd come south for a wee holiday. He'd apparently found the inn to his liking, for he'd stayed for the subsequent centuries. She'd been inside the kitchen, of course, but never further.

  She didn't want to think about what that said about her importance.

  She dragged her hand through her hair. Perhaps 'twas best that she not give that any more thought. She fashioned a comb from illusion, then rose to look for a mirror. She found the private bathing chamber with a white bathing tub and what seemed to be the modern equivalent of a garderobe. She looked to her left and saw a mirror above a basin. It was adequate, but the light was poor. She looked up at the light-bulbs and Thomas's discourse on electricity and its ilk came back to her. She looked about her for the switch Thomas had claimed would bring them to life.

  It was by the door, and she stared at it for several moments before she mustered up the courage to try to work it. Moving things from the physical world was always excessively difficult. She had heard tell of those ghosties who could move things with naught but their wills, but she suspected that was a great deal of wishful thinking on the part of the talebearers. She did the best she could with what strength she had, which meant it took almost all that strength to push the lever up.

  And, miraculously, the lights kindled themselves as they were supposed to.

  The light fell down softly on her, providing a far brighter light than any poor candle she'd ever put flame to. She looked at her reflection in wonder. Her hair was pleasing enough, and she had a goodly quantity of it. Her visage was something she couldn't judge with objectivity, so she contented herself with deciding that perhaps she wasn't as ugly as her half-siblings had always said she was.

  Weariness came upon her almost immediately. It was what she deserved, she supposed, from having the vanity to wish to see herself by the light of those wee bulbs. She sat down on the edge of the bathing tub to catch her breath. Last night was the first time in decades she'd actually slept—and how pleasant it had been—and she suspected she would be sleeping again very soon.

  A knock would have startled her to her feet had she not been so exhausted.

  "Aye?" she called weakly.

  "It's Thomas."

  She couldn't move. Thomas knocked several more times, then the door opened a crack.

  "Iolanthe?"

  The sound of her name spoken by that man, she feared, might be her undoing. "In here," she managed.

  He came into the chamber, saw her, and rushed with a flattering amount of speed to her side. He knelt down.

  "You're pale," he said. "What happened to you?"

  She pointed up. "I lit the lights."

  He blinked at her for a moment, then frowned. "I don't understand."

  "Things from your physical world," she said with a weary smile, "are for the most part beyond my strength."

  "Then I should be impressed."

  "Aye, you should."

  She realized that Thomas was kneeling in front of her, looking at her in that searching way he had, and she was suddenly very nervous. She was quite sure she had never been this close to a man in her life—at least a man who had something besides ridicule on his mind where she was concerned. But what did he have on his mind? She thought back on his question of the night before. He seemed powerfully concerned that she not be able to read his thoughts.

  The tempta
tion was almost overwhelming.

  Then again, perhaps they would be unkind thoughts, and for some reason, believing that they might be such was almost too much for her to bear. There had been men aplenty, when she was alive, who had had naught but heartless words for her. Either that, or they'd been full of naught but unflattering offers to share their beds. She'd been too old, too tall, and too full of her own mind for any man to want her to wife.

  "Iolanthe?"

  "What?"

  "You were very far away."

  "Do you men," she asked tartly, "have any redeeming thoughts at all about any of the women you meet?"

  He seemed to consider his answer, which to her mind was admission enough of his guilt.

  "I think," he said slowly, "that you are without a doubt the most beautiful woman I've ever met, and I would like nothing better than to spend the day talking to you while I work on our castle. I'd like to have you tell me of your home in the Highlands. I'd like to hear about the past several hundred years that you've spent here on the border."

  "Hrmph," she began, but he apparently wasn't finished.

  "And while I'm listening, I'll be thinking about how lovely you are, and how your hands move when you're talking about something exciting, how your eyes turn a stormy gray when you're particularly irritated. I'll also be looking around for a suitable place for the painter I've hired to put his easel."

  She opened her mouth to tell him he was full of foolishness; then his last words sank in.

  "A painter?"

  "I'd like to have your portrait painted."

  She would have been certain she was hearing things, but she'd seen his lips move as well. "Me?" she asked in a small voice.

  "You."

  "But 'tis very expensive," she managed. "Those bloody artists will beggar you, if you let them."

  "I'll worry about the money. You worry about what to wear."

  She found herself rendered completely silent. That a man would throw away his hard-earned gold on such a silly... well, a more ridiculous idea she couldn't have come up with on her best day of thinking.

  A portrait.

  Of her.

  "The only thing is," Thomas began slowly, "do you think he'll be able to see you?"