My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

  She considered, for she wished not to ask amiss. Then she gathered her courage.

  "I imagine I will be here as long as he doesn't succeed in his task. If he succeeds, I... well, I suppose I will be pulled backward. Through time." She looked at Jamie. "Think you?"

  "Aye," Jamie agreed. "I do."

  "Then," she began slowly, "will you sit with me whilst I wait?"

  "Gladly," Jamie said without hesitation. "What else?"

  She took a deep breath. "Will you," she asked, "write down my tale? My memories?"

  "Ach," he said softly.

  "That I might not forget?" She paused. "In case I do forget."

  "Of course," he said quietly.

  He stood and rummaged about in the collection that resided in a handsome wooden bookcase. He pulled forth a leather volume, then sat back down and opened to the first page. Iolanthe looked over to find that the page was blank.

  "Empty?" she asked in surprise.

  "Waiting for your words," he said. He looked down at the pen in his hand, then at her. "Will you begin it?"

  Well, she could read, but she certainly hadn't had much practice writing except with pen and paper she had fashioned from her own imagination.

  But she took the pen just the same and with great effort scrawled the words I, Iolanthe MacLeod, and then she dropped the pen on the desk and sat back in her chair.

  "I can do no more," she said wearily.

  " 'Tis enough, my girl. I'll do the rest." He took the pen and looked at her. "Where shall we begin?"

  "At the beginning, I suppose." She gathered her thoughts, then spoke. "I, Iolanthe MacLeod, was born in the year of Our Lord 1358 to Malcolm MacLeod and Moira MacDonnell at our keep in the shadow of the Benmore Forest..."

  Chapter 27

  Well, the first place Thomas hadn't counted on visiting after his arrival in the past was Malcolm MacLeod's pit. Elizabeth had been right. It was not a place anyone with any brains at all would want to linger. The only good thing to come of the past hour was that he was sitting upright. He could vividly remember being tossed unceremoniously into the hole without much consideration for how he might meet the floor he was landing onto.

  Or, rather, into.

  He couldn't see much, but there was enough light coming through the grated trapdoor that he could tell that the floor under him was moving. A lesser man might have gotten the willies. Fortunately for him, he'd been in all kinds of slimy places and eaten all manner of very scary things over the course of his travels and climbs, so this was nothing but a minor annoyance.

  It was getting himself the hell out of there that was beginning to worry him.

  He leaned against the wall and winced as a tender spot on the back of his head made contact with the stone. It was yet another blow to his head that had rendered him dazed enough for half a dozen men to have overpowered him and carried him off to the pit. Well, at least he'd avoided another pride-reducing tumble into unconsciousness. It was the only success he could count as his since arriving in the MacLeod keep.

  Things were not exactly going as he'd planned.

  Long conversations with Jamie over the past month had given him the knowledge of how to use the forest gate and a fairly accurate idea of what to expect when he reached his destination. They had discussed strategy, potential problems, and how to get himself in the front door without getting himself killed first. He'd had all the right gear, the right accent, and what he'd hoped would be the right swagger.

  The trip through the forest gate had gone off without a hitch. He'd focused his energies on where he wanted to go, opened his eyes, and found himself leaving the forest to stare at a very familiar yet different keep. It had been midmorning. He hadn't protested when MacLeod scouts had ushered him up the meadow and into the keep with their bared swords at his back. He'd claimed to have business with Malcolm and that had at least kept him alive long enough to get inside the door.

  He'd found the hall in an uproar. It had taken him a few minutes to tune his ear to the sounds, and when he had, he'd realized he was looking at Malcolm screaming at his son, Angus, for being foolish enough to indebt himself to an English-man. Thomas had looked in astonishment at Iolanthe's half-brother, but he wasn't sure if it was surprise that he was actually looking at the man in the flesh or that such a pimply faced boy would actually be sent by his father on errands of diplomacy. Maybe Iolanthe was right, and her father sent him away to get rid of him. Thomas wasn't sure he wouldn't have done the same thing in the man's place.

  Of course, he hadn't had the chance to say as much. What he had gotten out when presented to the furious laird was something along the lines of "I'm Thomas McKinnon, and there are things you need to know about that English-man before you send your daughter away with him."

  Apparently direct and to the point didn't fly with Malcolm MacLeod. Thomas would let Jamie know that if he ever saw him again.

  The sound of voices drew nearer, accompanied by heavy footsteps. Perhaps he would have a chance to try another approach sooner than he'd hoped. The trapdoor was flung back. Thomas was almost blinded by the light of the torch as it was shoved into the pit. It was pulled back and a ladder shoved down.

  "Up, McKinnon dog," a man snarled.

  Well, that didn't sound good. Yet another thing to tell Jamie when he got home.

  But the offer to leave the pit was a good one, so Thomas took it. He crawled up the ladder and tried to look unthreatening. Even so, he was pushed and shoved out into the great hall where Malcolm was apparently holding court. Thomas looked around quickly, trying to identify the players.

  Angus was there, shadowed closely by an older woman who resembled him so strongly, Thomas had to assume she was his mother. It was readily apparent where Angus got his unwholesome looks. There were too many other men and boys loitering there for him to put faces to any of Iolanthe's additional descriptions.

  All except Duncan.

  Thomas gaped at Iolanthe's true father, feeling as if he'd just seen a ghost. But there Duncan was in the flesh. Thomas almost said something to him, then realized he was being addressed.

  "State your business," Malcolm snarled, "and be quick about it. I've business of my own to see accomplished this day."

  The odds of him getting out more than a few words were slim, so he dove right in.

  "Don't trust the English-man," he said quickly. "He's beguiled your son and seeks to destroy all of you." All right, so the last wasn't technically true, but it was close enough. If the man had his way, the MacLeods would have been beggared or destroyed soon enough.

  "Lord Charles is an honorable man," Malcolm said stiffly. He gestured to his right, and a sea of men parted to reveal Lord Charles himself sitting there, looking honorable.

  Wonderful.

  Thomas turned back to Malcolm. "I'll pay Angus's debts. And I want your daughter in return."

  "Grudach?" Malcolm asked in surprise.

  "No, the other one. Your elder daughter."

  "That girl?" Malcolm asked, sounding even more surprised. Then his eyes narrowed. "Where is your gold?"

  "Where it can be reached. Give me the girl first."

  "Cheeky bastard!" Angus exclaimed. "Father, put him to the sword."

  "Silence, whelp," Malcolm growled. He looked at Thomas.

  "Show me the gold, and I'll consider it."

  "Show me the girl, and I'll tell you where the gold is."

  Malcolm waved to one of his men, who headed toward the stairs. Thomas suppressed the urge to reach inside his plaid and touch the bag of gold hiding there. He had consulted long and hard with Jamie as to a price Malcolm wouldn't be able to refuse, and how best to pay that price. He'd settled for struck coins that, even though they weren't authentic, were close enough to resemble things Malcolm would be familiar with.

  Thomas waited until he heard the vociferous complaints of a woman being dragged down the stairs before he pulled out the bag he'd attached to his belly with duct tape.

  And then he realized his
mistake.

  "Father, what is this madness?"

  That wasn't Iolanthe. Damn Malcolm MacLeod to hell, that was Grudach! Thomas glared at the man and received a smirk in return before half a dozen clansmen fell on him and ripped the bag out of his hands. He fought off the blows that followed, but even with as buff as his time in Jamie's boot camp had left him, he had to admit he wasn't a match for that many men.

  "Toss him back in the pit," Malcolm said with a negligent wave of his hand. He hefted the bag of gold as he turned to the English-man. "Now, Lord Charles, let us speak of our business. You want my eldest?"

  "Your son assures me she is the most desirable."

  Thomas started to protest, then found a fist in his mouth. He tried to avoid the hands that clutched at him. The only thing the unholy ruckus he raised earned him was another round of debilitating blows. One thing he knew, though, was that he couldn't find himself thrown back in that pit. There was still time to somehow get Iolanthe and get the hell out of there.

  And then he saw Duncan.

  The man was looking at him like he'd just seen a ghost.

  "Duncan," Thomas croaked. "You've got to help me."

  Duncan looked startled. "How do ye know me?" he asked, crossing himself.

  "I—" Thomas gasped at the fist in his belly. He found himself completely without wind, or his feet underneath him. But as he was dragged off, he looked at Duncan and wheezed out the two things he was sure would get the man's attention.

  "Greek," he gasped. "Violet."

  Duncan blinked, and his hand fell to his side. He continued to stare at Thomas until Thomas couldn't see him any longer.

  His next trip down into the pit was accomplished with even less ceremony than the first. He tried to land on his feet but wound up doing the better part of a belly flop into the muck. It winded him so thoroughly, he wondered if he'd ever again regain his breath.

  It occurred to him, as he felt consciousness begin to fade, that he really should have spent more time brawling in bars. It would have been much better preparation for medieval Scotland even than Jamie's crash course in swordplay.

  Hrmph. A helluva lot of good his sword did him upstairs.

  Maybe they'd cut off his head and end his misery with his own blade.

  Damn it anyway.

  He woke to the sound of a footfall above him. He shook his head and heaved himself up to his knees. His world spun violently, and he wondered if he was going to puke. He probably would have, if he'd had anything to eat in recent memory.

  He breathed as silently as he could and listened for the sound that had woken him. There were the snores of the guardsmen above him and the irritating drip, drip, drip of something draining into the pit.

  No, there it was again.

  The sound of a footstep.

  Thomas squinted against the faint torchlight coming from above, then felt his nerves stretch uncomfortably taut as the trapdoor was opened very slowly. A ladder was let down into the pit.

  A hand was extended as well.

  Thomas needed no further invitation. He clambered up, took the hand, and found himself soundlessly aided onto the solid floor, which was a vast improvement from the shifting vermin he'd been loitering in for who knew how long. A day? Two days? An eternity? He looked at his rescuer and couldn't stop his smile.

  "Thank you," he mouthed.

  Duncan handed Thomas his sword, pulled the ladder back up, and shut the trapdoor, all with a silence that was absolute.

  "The guards are drunk," Duncan whispered, as if he were either unsurprised at their laxity or as if he'd engineered the whole thing himself. "Follow me."

  Thomas stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Is she still here?"

  Duncan looked at him again as if he just couldn't quite believe what he was either seeing or hearing, then shook his head.

  "Left this afternoon. We've a hard ride before us. Make haste."

  "Gladly."

  It was touch and go in the hall, but apparently the men who were awake were properly intimidated by Duncan's sharp hisses and meaningful hand motions. Thomas followed the older man from the keep and through the village. There were two horses being held by a man Thomas didn't know. Along with a horse came fresh clothes.

  "Well done, Stephen," Duncan whispered. He looked at Thomas. "One of the lady's cousins."

  Thomas pulled the clean clothing on, then looked at Stephen and nodded briefly. "You're doing the right thing."

  "She was beguiled and betrayed," the young man said. "I'll throw the laird off the scent while ye go after her."

  Duncan shook his head. "Don't endanger yourself, lad. Malcolm will know I'm behind this. Put the blame onto my shoulders and let that be enough."

  Stephen nodded, then looked at Thomas. "I dinna ken who ye are, but ye canna be worse than the English."

  Thomas wanted to thank him for the vote of confidence, but instead he merely nodded and considered that enough.

  "I fear he'll kill her," Stephen continued. "He'll want what she will not give."

  "I won't let anything happen to her," Thomas promised.

  Stephen then handed over the reins. "May God keep ye."

  Thomas strapped his sword to his saddle the way Jamie had taught him. Duncan looked at him carefully as he did so, but said nothing. When they were mounted, Duncan led the way. Thomas followed him, not bothering to ask where they were going or if he'd still have his life by sunrise. It was enough to be free of MacLeod's pit and riding in what he hoped was the right direction. He couldn't see a thing in the dark, and though Iolanthe had given him some landmarks she thought she remembered, he was equally aware that she'd told him not to count on her memory.

  She had promised him, however, that Duncan was unparalleled in his tracking skills. Thomas had no choice but to trust the man.

  And hope that he didn't unwittingly lead them both into an ambush.

  It was daybreak before they stopped to water the horses. Duncan drank deeply from the stream as well, then looked at Thomas.

  "Ye've told me a name known only to myself and two other people," Duncan said without preamble. "Either ye're a demon or ye're possessing Sight more powerful than I've ever seen."

  Thomas took a deep breath. "Would you believe me if I told you neither?"

  "Yer Gaelic is poor."

  "My French is better."

  "French it is," Duncan said smoothly. In flawless French.

  Thomas stared at him in surprise. Well, this was news. He wondered how many other things Duncan hadn't told him.

  "I'll have the tale," Duncan said, folding his arms over his chest. "The entire tale, if you please."

  "Um," Thomas stalled.

  "But first, I'll know how you know the lady's name."

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Thomas supposed.

  "You and Moira gave it to her," he said. "A minstrel had come through, one who knew many languages and gave you a word for the color of Moira's eyes, which would be the color of her daughter's eyes. Moira asked you what the girl should be named." He took a deep breath. "And you, as her father, named her."

  Duncan stuck his jaw out and considered. "And how, lad," he asked carefully, "would you be knowing any of that?"

  "You told me yourself."

  "I did not."

  "You did, in the year 2001."

  Duncan didn't move or give any indication that he thought Thomas's story was madness. He merely nodded slowly, then spoke.

  "The entire tale. All of it."

  "I'm not a demon," Thomas assured him.

  "I'll judge that."

  "I love her. I've come to save her."

  Duncan folded his arms over his chest. "The tale. Briefly. We need to catch them first, then find a proper place to try to take them. We're two against a dozen, and those are poor odds in any battle."

  "I can wield a sword."

  "A body can hope. Now, the tale."

  Thomas sent a prayer flying heavenward before he plunged in. "Okay," he said, "this is the future
—or what will be the future if we don't go soon. The English-man will take Iolanthe to his castle, try to force the secret of the MacLeod keep from her, she'll refuse, and she'll be murdered. I'll come along six hundred years later, buy the castle, and fall in love with her. I'll discover the secret of your keep, travel back in time to try to stop the murder from happening, find myself thrown in Malcolm's pit, you'll rescue me, and we'll end up standing here with me telling you a story that sounds unbelievable."

  Duncan stared at him so long in such silence that Thomas wondered if he'd been too blunt. Much too blunt. He found himself easing up on the balls of his feet and wondering if he could get his sword from off his horse before Duncan reached for his.

  And then Duncan stirred.

  "Her name," he began, then he cleared his throat. "Did she give it to you? In this Future of yours?

  "I guessed it," Thomas admitted. "Then she gave me permission to use it."

  Duncan considered. "And I told you these things about Moira?"

  "Before I left, yes," Thomas said. "You said it would get your attention."

  "It did." He paced a ways off, then came back to stand in front of Thomas. "Does Iolanthe know I'm her sire?"

  Thomas shook his head. "You never told her. Neither did I. I figured it was your knowledge to share or not, as you would."

  "And I knew you then," Duncan said, sounding rather stunned. "But I don't know you now."

  "It's complicated."

  "How do you expect that the lass will know you?"

  "I'm hoping she'll remember the future."

  "That, my lad, is daft."

  Thomas smiled grimly. "People believe different things about how time passes."

  "Slowly or quickly," Duncan said dryly, "depending on the skill of the bard telling the tale."

  "Right," Thomas said, acknowledging the barb with a smile. "Anyway, this is what I know. Some people think time goes along in a straight line, like on a string. Some people believe that it has a single starting point, then it goes backward and forward at the same time. Other people say it's like a ring, with no beginning and no end, which leaves it open to all kinds of speculation."