by Lynn Kurland
Secondly, she was free of all the twenty-first-century modus operandi that had guided the every move of the women he'd dated. He hated prissy women. He especially couldn't stand prissy women in linen suits who brushed seats off before they sat, were afraid of ballpark hot dogs loaded with condiments, and for whom anything less than a hired limousine was just unthinkable.
He never wanted to go to Tiffany's again under duress, never wanted to attend an exhibition of important art featuring strange substances plastered onto canvas in even stranger ways, and most especially never wanted to attend another glittering social gala where everyone air-kissed and made pointed references to the lengths of their yachts moored in the Mediterranean. Swords and plaids were starting to look good to him, and he actually couldn't imagine a better day than one spent lounging in the heather and perhaps stirring himself for a little haggis for dinner.
He was beginning to wonder if he'd spent too much time in the company of Highland males.
Which led him back to thoughts of the lady in question. She was a breath of very fresh air. The day before had been a revelation. He'd spent hours with her in front of the computer, finding her pleasure to be a tangible, contagious thing. How could he not be captivated by her? She laughed when she pleased, cursed when she pleased, and looked at him as if she were pleased. When she was angry, she said so. When she was sad, she cried.
And when she dressed up for her portrait, she was breathtaking.
He stood in the middle of the bailey and gaped at her as she walked across the dirt toward him.
Girlfriend, hell.
He wanted to make her his wife.
He wondered what kind of reaction that announcement would get. He suspected that now was not the time to make it. Maybe later, when he didn't mind her running away from him.
For the moment, he was content to stare at her and wonder if he would ever again catch his breath. He'd noticed the picture of that dress in the book, but he hadn't realized it would be her choice. The navy of the gown was stunning against her fair skin and the gold embroidery brought out highlights in her hair he'd never noticed before. She was nothing short of exquisite.
"You're beautiful," he managed.
She blushed and looked down at her dress. "Aye, the dress is lovely. Thank you for the idea."
"You could be wearing a burlap sack, and you'd be just as lovely. It isn't the dress."
"Oh," she said, smiling up at him. "Thank you."
"My pleasure." He started to hold out his hand, then realized he shouldn't, so he shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat as if he'd meant to do that from the start. "Ready?" he asked.
She looked up at the sky. "We'd best do this before it rains. I'm sure the painter wouldn't appreciate that."
"No doubt. Maybe we'll have him finish it at the inn. That'll be easier on him."
He walked with her to the garden, where the artist in question was blowing on his hands and looking anxious to get to work and probably get out of the cold. Thomas stood back and watched Iolanthe seat herself on the bench. He wondered if the painter with his trained eye could see things Thomas couldn't. Iolanthe looked perfectly normal. The only thing that was perhaps even a bit odd was the perfection of her dress and the way the breeze didn't touch her hair.
He looked at her sitting there with her gown about her and her hair spread out over her shoulders and an uncomfortable pain began in the middle of his chest. If he hadn't known better, he might have thought he was having a heart attack.
Was it longing he felt?
No, it was hell.
He thumped his chest and scowled. He'd once heard a definition of hell and it was want to, but can't. Want to go to heaven, but can't.
Want to have this woman for his, but can't.
Hell.
He wanted to look away from her, but he couldn't. All he could do was just stare at her with what he was certain was a look of pure, naked hunger. Never mind her body—though that would have been nice as well. He wanted her soul, wanted it as he'd wanted nothing before in his life.
She turned her head briefly to look at him.
He saw her mark the expression on his face, digest it, then watched the realization dawn in her eyes. He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd turned away either in dismay or disgust.
But she didn't.
He saw, for a brief moment, his own longing mirrored there, and the sight of it floored him.
And then, before he could move, speak, or breathe, the painter squawked.
"Don't move!" he said urgently. "Keep that exact look on your face. Don't change a thing!"
The man began to paint frantically. Thomas wondered if that was such a good idea, slapping that paint around so vigorously, but who was he to tell the man his business? Iolanthe wasn't moving, so neither did he. He found he couldn't look away from her. The longer he stared at her, the more she was all he could see, until he felt the oddest sensation. It was as if he'd left the trappings of his mortal frame behind, and he was looking at her, spirit to spirit. Time ceased to exist. If he could have made that moment go on forever, he would have been a happy man.
How long he stood there staring at her, he couldn't have said. It had to have been quite some time, because when the painter sat back and drew his hand over his eyes, Thomas realized he was so stiff he could hardly move. He shifted on his feet and heard his bones creak.
"Incredible!" the painter exclaimed.
Thomas went to stand behind the man and look at the portrait.
And he closed his eyes in self-defense.
"Bugger, but she's a stunner," the painter breathed.
He couldn't have agreed more.
"Thomas?"
Thomas opened his eyes and looked at Iolanthe, still sitting on the bench. "You should come look," he said. "I think."
"I've just begun," the painter warned. "I've still the background to add."
Thomas couldn't have cared less about the background, but he supposed he shouldn't say as much.
"I daresay I'll want you back to capture more of the dress," the painter added.
Thomas watched Iolanthe come around to stand next to him. She looked at the painting, rough as it was, and caught her breath.
"By the saints," she whispered. "Is that how you see me?"
The woman on the canvas was not only breathtaking, she was haunting. Thomas wasn't sure how the man had done it, but in a few brush strokes he'd captured every bit of passion, poignance, and desire that seemed to vibrate in the air around his subject.
"Yes," Thomas said simply. He took a deep breath and spoke to the artist, to whom he planned to give a big, fat bonus. "You've done an amazing job. What else do you need from us?"
"Nothing more today," the man said, picking up his brush. "I'm going to just work on the background. I need time to recover."
"Don't we all," Thomas muttered.
"And what is that to mean?" Iolanthe asked sharply.
He smiled briefly at her. "Nothing. Let's go for a walk."
She looked at him closely but came with him just the same. Thomas found that words were simply beyond him, so he walked with his love out of the castle and down the road. And when they could have stopped at the inn, he continued to walk. Thoughts churned inside his head. He knew he had to get them out, but he had no idea where to begin.
"Are you planning to walk to London?" she asked.
He stopped, turned, and looked at her. "I love you."
She blinked. "What?"
"I love you."
She spluttered for a moment or two, then stammered out a reply. "You... you're daft."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because ... because you cannot mean it."
"Of course I can. I do." And then an unpleasant thought occurred to him. "Are you trying to tell me that you don't care for me?" he asked. "That I didn't see in your face what I just saw five minutes ago?"
She started to speak several times, then simply shut her mouth and glared at him.
"Well
?"
"If I did tell you I loved you, what would it matter?" she asked plaintively.
"It matters."
"It's hopeless!"
"That, Iolanthe, is where you're wrong," he said with all the conviction in his soul.
"I'm a ghost!"
"You're a woman."
She stomped around in a circle, then came back to face him. "You've lost what little wits you had left after listening to that compressor of yours."
"Actually, I think I've finally had the most coherent thoughts of my life in the past few minutes." He looked at her searchingly. "Can you love me?"
She took a step backward. "I don't want to speak of this."
"Can you love me?"
She took another step backward. "There is nothing to be gained by discussing this."
Thomas ground his teeth. "Running away will not solve anything!"
That at least stopped her.
"I wasn't running away."
"You were thinking about it."
"Ah, I see," she said. "Now 'tis my mind you know as well as your own."
He sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair. "Iolanthe, we need to talk about this."
"And I say we do not," she said stubbornly.
He turned and walked away, blew out his breath, and then returned. He stopped in front of her.
"We have to talk about how we're going to make this work," he said wearily.
"Make what work?"
"Don't be obtuse."
She blinked as if he'd slapped her. "You forget that I have no learning. I've no idea what that means."
He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. A person is being obtuse when they refuse to look at what's right in front of them. I think we need to talk about how we're going to make this relationship work. I think you're ignoring the fact that we need to. That's being obtuse."
He watched her walk away and stare out over the fields. She wrapped her arms around herself and stood there for quite some time in silence. He would have given much to have been able to go to her, put his arms around her, and tell her that everything would work out.
He wished he could have been sure it would.
"Iolanthe," he began, taking a step or two toward her. "I'm sorry. Please—"
"Thomas! Oh, Thomas McKinnon!"
He looked to find Mrs. Pruitt bearing down on them, waving a piece of paper over her head. Well, so much for their precious privacy. Thomas sighed and waited until Mrs. Pruitt had come to a full stop in front of him.
"Your company," she said briskly, handing the paper to him. "It's going under. You'll have to catch the next flight to New York."
Thomas took the piece of paper and read what was written there: Your company. It's going under. You'll have to catch the next flight to New York. Perfect, he thought grimly. Out of all the words in the English language and all the different ways they could have been put together, those were certainly the only ones that would have brought him running, and his company president knew it.
He looked at Iolanthe, who still stood with her back to him. He folded the paper up and went to stand behind her.
"I have to go to New York," he said.
"So I heard."
"Come with me."
She turned to look at him then. A single tear rolled down her cheek. "You must be mad," she whispered.
Maybe he was. He considered all the arguments he might use to get her to come with him, but the simple fact was, he would be putting her out in public for public consumption. He couldn't be lucky enough for everyone they encountered not to notice that she was a ghost.
Passport. She didn't have a passport.
And then another thought occurred to him.
"Ambrose came to America," he said, "and I'm fairly sure he didn't fly in a plane."
"A plane?" she asked. "Are those the metal birds that fly so high in the sky?"
"Yes," he said gently. "Up there a little higher than Mount Everest, which you steadfastly refuse to believe is as tall as it is. If Ambrose can do it, can't he show you how? You could meet me in New York. We could go to the theater. Walk in the park. There are a million things to do in the city."
She took a step backward, never a good sign.
"I couldn't."
"Couldn't?" he asked. "Or won't?"
The moment the words left his mouth, he wished he hadn't said them. He held out his hands to stop her from leaving.
"That was a stupid thing to say," he said quickly. "I can't blame you for being hesitant. New York's a huge place. Even I get overwhelmed there now and then."
She looked primed to vanish.
Thomas tried a smile. "Come talk to me while I pack?"
She shook her head. "I shouldn't. I understand the garrison is coming back soon. I should be at the keep when they return."
"But—"
She smiled, but it was the falsest smile he'd ever seen. "Godspeed, Thomas," she said. Then she vanished.
Thomas stood there for several moments until he realized the heavy breathing he was listening to wasn't his, it was Mrs. Pruitt's. He turned and looked at her. She was watching him with something akin to pity.
"Change never comes without price," she said sagely.
Change.
Thomas shook his head, then rubbed his hand over his face. He took a deep breath and blew it out.
"You're right," he said. "It's never easy."
"Easier for some than others."
Well, much more advice like that, and he'd be jumping off the parapet himself. He nodded, then walked back to the inn with Mrs. Pruitt. It took him only a few minutes to throw clothes in a bag, book a flight, and be on his way out the door with sandwiches Mrs. Pruitt had packed for his journey.
He paused before he got into his car.
But the garden on the side of the house was empty. As was the driveway.
He was tempted to go up to the castle, but that wouldn't have served him. If Iolanthe didn't want to be found, she wouldn't be. And what good would it do to talk anymore, anyway? There was fantasy, then there was the brutal reality of their situation. He didn't believe she didn't have feelings for him. He might love her, and she might love him, but that didn't change the fact that he was mortal and she wasn't. Talking wouldn't change that.
But it might change how they dealt with it. Not that he was overly fond of endless rehashing of relationship details, but he couldn't deny that something had to be done. They couldn't go on as they were.
But later. He would fix the disaster in New York, then he would come home and they would work it out.
And hope to heaven they could find a solution.
Chapter 20
It was two days before Iolanthe had the courage to go back to the inn. She knew Thomas wasn't there. She knew this because the garrison had returned from their holiday, demanded to know where she'd hidden him, then gone to look for him themselves. They'd returned from the inn, disappointed and empty-handed. It had left them wandering restlessly about the keep. She told herself that she walked down the road simply to have some peace from their grumbles. But in truth, she wanted to be somewhere Thomas had been, somewhere they had passed time together in a pleasant manner.
She missed him.
She walked slowly along the way in the late evening, up the little road to the inn and around to the back gate. The kitchen light spilled out onto the garden path. Well, at least someone was still awake. She walked through the door without another thought and then came to a teetering halt when she realized that her kin were entertaining.
A woman sat in the kitchen between Ambrose and Hugh, chatting with them easily, as if she knew them well. Iolanthe looked at her and noted immediately that she was mortal. Perhaps she was a frequent guest at the inn. But to be so familiar with her kin? There had to be another answer.
"Do ye let him do his work, gel?" Fulbert was demanding. "Ye know I've much to say to ye on the subject."
"He works plenty," the woman assured him.
"Ye'll answer to me if
he doesn't," Fulbert warned.
"Leave off, ye bloody Brit," Hugh growled. "She's my wee granddaughter, and I'll not have ye distressin' her."
Iolanthe stood there staring, openmouthed. This was someone of Hugh's kin?
Ambrose looked at Iolanthe. "Well met, daughter. Come sit with us, won't you?"
Iolanthe sank into the proffered chair, unable to take her eyes from the other woman. She wasn't unlovely, Iolanthe supposed. She had an abundance of red hair, and green eyes. Those were nice enough, but there was something that struck Iolanthe as very familiar. She stared at her for several moments in silence.
Then the woman smiled and Iolanthe knew her identity before anyone spoke.
"Megan MacLeod McKinnon de Piaget," Ambrose said, pointing toward the woman. He smiled at Iolanthe. "Might I introduce you?"
Iolanthe could only nod weakly. Thomas's sister. What, by the very saints of heaven, was she doing at the inn?
"Megan, this is Iolanthe MacLeod. She's kin of mine up the way. Iolanthe, Megan owns the inn. She's just come north for a little holiday and to make certain we haven't overrun the place."
Megan laughed at him. "You know I just came to visit my two favorite grandfathers." She looked at Fulbert and winked. "And my favorite great-uncle."
Fulbert scowled at her but said nothing.
Megan turned to Iolanthe. "It's nice to meet you," she said with an easy smile. "I suppose all this makes us related as well."
The sight of Megan's smile made Iolanthe miss Thomas all the more. She wondered how she would stand looking at the woman much longer if this was the reaction she would inspire.
"Aye," Iolanthe managed. "We're kin through your mother."
"She's your aunt," Fulbert said.
"Half-aunt," Ambrose corrected.
" 'Tis all the same when it comes to ye foul Highlanders," Fulbert grumbled. "Breedin' and carryin' on till the rest of us find ye hemmin' us in on all sides."
Megan only laughed. "Aren't you married to laird Ambrose's sister, Fulbert?"
Fulbert looked primed to say something nasty, but he buried whatever it was in his mug.
Iolanthe watched Megan banter with all three men and wondered how often she had come to the inn and Iolanthe had never been the wiser. She had missed out on much by remaining at the keep all those years.