by Lynn Kurland
"Well..." Thomas said slowly.
"Drivel," Margaret said crisply.
"And you have a better idea?" Alex asked her.
"Why raise the poor lad's hopes when 'tis an impossible task?"
"Why not raise them? Where's your faith?" Alex asked with a smile.
"I have faith in my blade—"
"So," Thomas interrupted, "you're saying that if I go back in time and stop her murder, that there's no reason that she couldn't remember me?"
"No reason that she could either," Margaret put in grimly.
"Do you remember where you read the article?" Thomas asked Alex.
He shook his head. "Sorry. But it seems logical enough, when you think about how the universe is going forward and backward in time concurrently."
Thomas looked at Margaret. "What do you think?"
"I think that if you love the girl, perhaps you have no choice. But 'tis a very great risk you take. What if you take all the pains to rescue her, and she'll have nothing to do with you?"
Thomas didn't want to think about that.
"And can you wield a sword?" she continued. "You cannot go back without that skill. You'd last the space of ten heartbeats, then find yourself dead or in someone's dungeon."
"She has a point there," Alex agreed.
Thomas gave that some thought, then looked at them. "Will you teach me?"
Alex shook his head. "You don't want us—"
"He certainly might want me," Margaret interrupted haughtily.
"He wants Jamie, my love," Alex said. "Who better to teach him to fight like a Scot?"
"I suppose," Margaret conceded reluctantly. "I must admit that I've no complaints about his skill."
"See," Alex said, looking at Thomas with a grin. "My wife's glowing recommendation of my sister's husband. Now, if you were to ask Jamie, he would tell you that he's unequaled, in any century."
"And is he right?" Thomas asked.
"It's a toss-up," Alex said. "Margaret is without peer as well."
"Wise man," Margaret said, smiling sweetly at him. "You'll live to fight another day."
Alex looked at his watch. "They're five hours ahead of us, which makes it after midnight. I'll call Jamie tomorrow morning and talk to him." He looked at Thomas. "If you like?"
"Please do."
Alex smiled. "It'll all work out. It always seems to."
Thomas had nothing to say to that. The thought of actually being able to do something about his situation was so astonishing, he could hardly take it in.
"I think," he said, standing slowly, "that I should go back to my hotel and try to recover."
"Leave us your number."
"Do you think I'd do otherwise?"
Alex laughed and got to his feet. He extended his hand and shook Thomas's. "I'll call you after I've talked to Jamie. I'm sure he can help."
Thomas nodded, said his good-byes to both Alex and Margaret, then stumbled from their room. He made his way back to his hotel in a daze, his thoughts nothing but a jumble in his head. Just what was he going to say to Jamie when he finally met him?
Hello, cousin. I'd like to time-travel through one of the gates on your land. Do you mind?
If he hadn't been so desperate, the idea would have been too silly to contemplate.
He sat on the end of his bed, stared at nothing, and thought back on what he'd heard that afternoon. He could try to go back in time and rescue Iolanthe before she was murdered, and maybe it was possible to remember the future.
But if he changed the past, would she have a future? What good would all these machinations do him if Iolanthe couldn't remember him?
What if that little fridge over there was really stocked with booze and not just pop?
He sat there and tried to catch the breath he'd suddenly lost. He felt as if he'd just run a marathon. His legs were shaking, his heart was pounding in his chest, and sweat was pouring down his face.
So he might be able to get to her before she died.
But if he saved her, she likely wouldn't know him.
Damn.
Chapter 22
Iolanthe stood in the space Thomas had appropriated as his office and felt better than she had in centuries. She'd spent almost a week with Megan MacLeod McKinnon de Piaget and found her to be a marvelous companion. They had shopped in the village. Iolanthe had even ventured inside Megan's automobile and managed to keep from screaming as they traveled to a nearby village for different scenery. She hadn't braved Edinburgh, but Megan had assured her that perhaps it was better she go there for the first time with Thomas.
But even little ventures to a handful of little villages had widened Iolanthe's horizons. She'd learned to be unobtrusive in shops, to mask her ghostly condition, to avoid walking into and through things that would have bruised a mortal sorely.
She'd also discovered the pleasure of a nice change of clothes. No wonder Roderick found it so much to his liking. She and Megan had bought marvelous things called fashion magazines. They'd spent hours poring over clothes and shoes and ways to wear one's hair. Iolanthe had been scandalized by the pictures of women in scanty underclothing, but Megan had assured her it was nothing out of the ordinary. Iolanthe had remained unconvinced. She'd turned her attentions to the clothing she thought suitable and now found herself with dozens of ideas to try. Today she was wearing a long, patterned skirt with a dark blue sweater. It was lovely. It made her feel lovely.
Of course, clothes weren't the extent of the changes. Megan had been full of ideas on how to make Iolanthe's life more interesting. Books, music, art, travel. It was nothing Iolanthe had any experience with. She had been ashamed to tell Megan the extent of her ignorance, but Megan hadn't stood for any reticence. She'd grilled Iolanthe mercilessly, leaving no embarrassment undiscovered. But she had done it so gently and so relentlessly that Iolanthe hadn't been able to resist her. And when the true depth of her lack of knowledge had been plumbed, Megan had turned her lack into what seemed like an opportunity for great learning. Had Iolanthe not loved her before, she would have then. Which left her standing where she was at present, wearing clothes from the twenty-first century and using one of its handiest tools. She cleared her throat and gestured expansively behind her to what sat on Thomas's desk.
"This," Iolanthe said to the assembled, ragtag group of men clustered in front of her in the tower chamber, "is a computer."
There were several murmurs of appreciation and wise nods that answered that announcement.
" 'Tis shiny," one of the men said reverently.
"Handsome," another agreed.
"Fit fer tha rubbish bin," said Connor MacDougal with his usual disdain for anything he hadn't intimidated with his sword.
Iolanthe glared at him, then turned her attentions back to the more appreciative members of her audience.
'Today, I am going to learn to read," she announced. "And you are going to help me."
"I ken hoo ta scratch ma name," Connor said stiffly, "and 'tis enough fer me."
"Well," Iolanthe said, "it isn't enough for me." Truer words had never been spoken, to her mind. Now, were she to be completely honest, she hadn't been all that excited about Thomas's machine when she'd first seen it either. Beeps and strange-sounding voices coming from the little box, and a window filled with indecipherable scribblings? Never mind the astonishing pictures he'd shown her. On the whole, she'd found it less than impressive. She'd firmly decided it was beneath her to even investigate it further.
Then three things had changed her mind. Thomas had gone to New York. Megan had come to visit.
And she'd had the misfortune of eavesdropping on a handful of tourists from the Colonies.
She'd heard in glorious detail of the wonders New York had to offer. She surmised after listening for quite some time that 'twas a city definitely larger than the York that found itself in England, and much more interesting. Plays, music, and strange and exotic creatures called cabbies.
"And the women," one man had said with a raptur
ous sigh, which had earned him a sharp poke in the ribs from his lady wife. The poke hadn't deterred him or his male companions later when the women had gone off to examine the foliage in the forest. Iolanthe had listened with growing horror to the descriptions of the women. Intelligent, beautiful, rich, bedecked with jewels, and the equal of their men in every manner that counted.
And there she was, Iolanthe MacLeod, uneducated, unenlightened, and unalive.
Well, the last was nothing she could change. But the other things, aye, those she could do something about. That Thomas might not find her lacking.
It had unnerved her greatly when Megan had announced she needed to get back home to London. Iolanthe had come close to begging her to stay, but Megan had headed off that bit of groveling by promising to return often and see how things were going. She also introduced Iolanthe to the wonders of the modern telephone. Not that she would have been able to lift it on her own, but perhaps she might find someone to help her now and then. Megan had promised she would call Iolanthe often, then left the inn with tears in her eyes. Iolanthe had wept openly, then retreated to her chamber to mourn the loss of the first woman friend she'd ever had.
Her melancholy hadn't lasted long, though. She wasn't sure when Thomas would return, but she was certain it had to be soon. She wanted to be ready.
She had pressed Mrs. Pruitt into service by having her help with the computer. Megan had left Mrs. Pruitt with detailed instructions on how to get and keep the computer working. Megan had also shown Mrs. Pruitt how to work the magical connection that would feed the computer information from all parts of the globe.
Now, that was something Iolanthe wasn't sure she believed—the world being round, that was. Then again, she wouldn't have believed that little things set out into the sunlight would gather enough of what they needed to power a machine either. So she took the globe business on faith.
And now the reading. Mrs. Pruitt had agreed to give Iolanthe whatever aid she required—for a price. And that price was for Iolanthe to keep Ambrose captive in the sitting chamber long enough for Mrs. Pruitt to talk to him.
Iolanthe supposed a human's aid would be worth whatever it cost her, though Ambrose might have a different opinion. She'd found him soon after Mrs. Pruitt had set forth her terms. He'd balked at first, then relented when Iolanthe had told him what she stood to lose if he refused. He'd agreed with extreme reluctance to a meeting three days hence.
Mrs. Pruitt had told Iolanthe what to do, then departed for her chamber, where she said she planned to prepare her toilette for the upcoming tryst.
Which left Iolanthe in Thomas's office chamber, standing before the computer and commanding the attention of her garrison.
"You, Ian," Iolanthe said, beckoning to one of her men. "Mrs. Pruitt says to push this place here." She pointed to the button Mrs. Pruitt had shown her on the keyboard. "Push this to start my lessons."
Ian pushed manfully and the computer sprang to life.
And Ian fell over in a dead faint.
Iolanthe swore in irritation. "Weak-stomached fool. Move him out of the way, and someone else come to take his place. We'll have many of these things to push today, so the rest of you gather your courage and be about my business with me. Mayhap we'll all learn something."
"Aye, learn what fools we are," Connor grumbled.
Iolanthe looked at him. "Wouldn't you like to know something besides how to scribble out your own name?"
Connor merely scrunched up his face and was silent.
"There's more to life than swordplay."
"Now ye go too far, woman."
"You might read something to improve yours," she shot back.
"My what?" he demanded.
"Your swordplay!"
Connor stomped from the small tower chamber, his curses lingering in the air behind him. Iolanthe looked over her crew.
"Anyone else want to leave?"
Not a soul moved.
Duncan cleared his throat and came closer. "Come on, lads. She has it aright."
"I wish you luck," said the lace-bedecked ghost sprawled in a chair next to the computer's table.
Iolanthe looked at Roderick. "You could help."
"Aye, ye frilly bugger," Duncan said. "Or are ye too good to stir yerself for the likes of us?"
"And what do you care?" Roderick returned lazily. "You already know how to read."
Iolanthe looked at her cousin in surprise. "You do?"
Duncan looked almost embarrassed. "Aye. But that doesn't excuse that Victorian fool from his task here."
Roderick sighed, stretched, and came to stand next to Iolanthe. "I can see my skill is needed. The style of writing on this contraption is horrendous, but I suppose I can make out a word or two. Let's have it begin its lessons, and I'll do what I can."
Iolanthe looked back at the computer's window. "Stephen, push that button there. That's what Mrs. Pruitt said to do."
Her guardsman pushed mightily and the computer continued its work.
"Welcome to Smiley's Adult Reading Course," said the computer, leaving the chamber ringing with various gasps and curses of surprise. "We'll begin with the alphabet."
"Sensible enough," Roderick agreed.
Iolanthe glared him to silence, then turned back with only a minor bit of trepidation to the screen.
"This is the letter A."
"Aaaaee," dutifully echoed all the souls in the chamber.
"That's right," said the computer. "A. Uppercase A. Lowercase a."
"Well," Iolanthe said. 'Two of them."
There was stunned silence.
"Nothing to be done about it," Iolanthe said, putting her shoulders back. "We'll just press on and do the best we can."
But she couldn't deny that she had begun to wonder quite seriously about the advisability of the scheme she had put her hand to.
Fortunately for her, 'twas too late to turn back now. She couldn't shame herself in front of the men. If that pampered puss Roderick could learn to read, then by the saints, so could she.
Because when Thomas came home, she intended to be reading several very difficult things that she might impress him. And then perhaps he wouldn't find the women he'd seen in New York quite so fascinating.
Assuming she could wrest the computer's will to carry out her own desires and master its lessons.
"The letter B," the computer said calmly.
Heaven help her.
Chapter 23
Thomas drove up the lane and turned into the inn's driveway. He'd never been gladder for a sight in his life than that of the little Tudor-beamed inn nestled so securely against the hill. He pulled to a stop, turned off the key, and slouched down in his seat for a few minutes of uninterrupted quiet.
Well, the trip across the Atlantic had been better this time. Business class had definitely made things easier, as had hopping a shuttle up from London to Edinburgh. Driving an hour from the airport to get home was certainly preferable to eight. Of course, getting out of Manhattan and to the airport had been a sticky business, but it wasn't every day that he found himself tailed by a very familiar woman dressed in a trench coat, Vuarnet sunglasses, and a brown fedora covering an enormous red wig.
Tiffany Amber Davidson.
Undercover.
He hadn't noticed her at first. He'd been distracted by his talk with Alexander and Margaret Smith. Alex had called him the following morning to say Jamie was willing to do whatever he could to help; all Thomas had to do was call him when he was ready to act. Thomas had taken down Jamie's number dutifully, though he suspected he could have pried the same out of Ambrose without much difficulty.
Not that he would have had to. He could have called it to mind at any time, given that it was indelibly burned into his mind.
He'd spent a final pair of days at his office, closing up shop. It wasn't as if he hadn't done it a time or two before. And it wasn't as if he wasn't doing it with the satisfaction of knowing that Jake had gouged Arthur Davidson thoroughly. Jake had been unapolog
etically good-humored about his actions, presented Thomas with a bill for his exorbitant fee, then offered to tag along just in case Thomas found himself in other legal difficulties in the near future. Thomas had been tempted, just in case getting himself back to medieval Scotland would include getting himself free of an enemy's dungeon. He suspected that Jake could get them out of even that.
His long-time partner in crime had settled for several months in the south of France, invited Thomas to take him back on board for the next business venture, then skipped out of the office with the carefree expression of a man who had just made a good deal of money and enjoyed doing so.
Not that Thomas hadn't felt the same way. Tiffany had cost her father a bundle, and Thomas couldn't help but feel somewhat repaid for that alone.
After finishing up what needed to be done, he'd headed toward the airport. Along with his gear, he'd carried an envelope with a magazine article in it that Alexander Smith had left for him at the front desk of his hotel.
An article on remembering the future.
He'd been riveted to it the moment he'd begun reading. He'd read it in the cab on the way to the airport and reread it as he'd made his way to check-in. He'd thought about calling Iolanthe on his cell phone to tell her what he'd learned, then thought better of it. With as quickly as he planned to be home, there was no sense in possibly letting his plans slip before he had her in the same room to tell her about them. He'd found everything he needed to solve their untenable situation. Thinking about it had been all-consuming.
Which was why, likely enough, he hadn't noticed Samantha Spade following him at an indiscreet distance until he'd been standing in the British Air ticket line.
It was then that he realized he'd seen her several times before. New York was full of interesting characters. He'd just assumed she was another one of them.
Losing her in the airport had seemed improbable, so he'd merely pretended he hadn't seen her. He'd picked up his ticket, boarded the plane, then hung out near the cabin doors to see if she got on. He'd been almost sure she wouldn't, mostly because of her lack of luggage. So she would know he'd gone to London. England was a very big place, and it would take her a long time to track him down. Hopefully, by then he would have done his bit of time-traveling, rescued Iolanthe, and settled down happily in some century or other. Tiffany was nothing but an annoyance that would hopefully remain on yonder beckoning shores.