My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

  Duncan looked at him with faint consternation.

  "It's entirely possible that she will remember me."

  Duncan grunted.

  "All right," Thomas conceded. "Maybe she won't at first. But it's possible that if I can get to her before she's killed and take her away to the future, that she'll remember the life she lived as a ghost."

  "How do I die?"

  Thomas blinked, completely blindsided by the question. "Um," he said, not sure how to answer.

  "The truth."

  "That is one question I never asked you, and believe me when I tell you that I asked you a lot of questions."

  Duncan rubbed his hand suddenly over his face and sighed deeply. "Such thoughts are too complicated for my old head. Let us be about our business. That you know her name will startle her enough that she'll listen to you at least. I can't guarantee what she'll do after that." He looked at Thomas critically. "You're a braw lad. She could do worse."

  "Thank you," Thomas said dryly.

  "I'm here with you. What more display of faith do you want?"

  Thomas smiled. "None. Shall we go?"

  "Aye."

  "Can you find her?"

  "Aye."

  They mounted again and set off. Thomas closed his eyes briefly in gratitude that he'd escaped Malcolm's pit, that he had his sword near his side, and that he had an ally in Duncan MacLeod. He was sure, as time passed and he became quite lost, that if he succeeded at all, it would be because of Duncan.

  He didn't want to think about what would have happened otherwise.

  Chapter 28

  I, Iolanthe MacLeod, do make this record, not by my own hand, but by the hand of my laird, James MacLeod. I make it in the year of Our Lord's Grace 2001, in the autumn of that year. I have returned to my home after six hundred years of self-imposed exile in a keep on the border between England and Scotland.

  I make this record because mayhap I will be restored to the life I lost in 1382. And should that happen, 'tis also possible I might lose my memories.

  And I want to remember.

  My laird tells me that the book before him has many pages and that my six centuries of haunting should be written down. I will do so more fully later. Now, I can only bear to speak briefly of that which has passed.

  My earliest memory is of my mother. She was beautiful and good, and I loved her for the ten years I had her. I believe she loved me as well, for she gave me a beautiful name, as well as her gentle hands tending my hurts and sorrows, and her smiles at the expectation of my company, even when she was ailing.

  I had a brother as well, Alexandir, who died in battle. Other brothers I had, as well as a sister, though they were sired on a different woman. Angus was the eldest of these; I have nothing to say about him for he betrayed me to my death. He also scattered his seed carelessly so that I daresay there was a mighty battle for the chieftainship on his death. My sister Grudach deserves no kind word either, for she betrayed me along with my brother. Of my other half-siblings, I can say naught but that they weren't overly unkind. What I can say is that when I was forced to leave my home, I was not unhappy about never having to see them again.

  I was sold to an English-man who believed there was a secret held in my father's keep that would bring him vast riches. When he demanded the secret from me, I would not give it to him. I knew of what he spoke, for my grandfather had trusted me with the knowledge, but I had never given the like to another soul, not even my sire. Why would I tell a stranger?

  I was murdered at sunset. I did not cry out, for I am a MacLeod. And at the time I had nothing left but my virtue and my pride.

  Nay, I did not cry out.

  It seemed as if I dreamed for a goodly while, for when I awoke to myself, it was to find that I was not mortal, yet not a pure spirit either. There was enough substance to me that others could see me if 1 willed it, yet I felt no pain.

  Nor joy.

  Nor the sun on my back nor the breeze on my face.

  I was angry for a goodly while. The English-man who took my life died in the great hall as a sniveling, terrified rabbit, surrounded by men he had bid protect him. He was the only one who could see me, and I took my revenge on him in full measure, though it did nothing to relieve my pain.

  At first I paid attention to life as it went on around me. When I could aid my countrymen against the English, I did so. Many ghostly Highlanders found their way to my keep, and they joined me in my efforts.

  But then the tide turned for my country. The slaughter became greater, and I saw my people, both friends and enemies, begin to despair. After the battle at Culloden, I closed my eyes and my ears. I know now that my people were swept off their land to make way for more profitable crops such as sheep, rather than noble men and women living and working their small fields.

  Few mortals came over the years to the keep I called mine. The ones who came didn't stay long. The hall soon fell into disrepair. The years stretched out before and behind me like a long, featureless road. There were no seasons that I could mark, no change in the unlife that had been forced upon me. I knew the sun rose each morn and set each evening. I watched the moon travel her path each night. I had tasks I set myself in the garden, and I had kin about me and nearby that provided a goodly bit of speech now and then. But it was all the same. I had no hope, no faith, no surety that something would come and change my existence.

  And then change came.

  He walked into my hall, that Thomas McKinnon, and insulted me. For the first time in centuries I wept, but they were tears of fury. I would have gladly pushed him off the nearest wall had I had the strength, yet something kept me from doing it.

  The memory of an autumn breeze against my cheek, I suppose.

  Or that I knew him.

  'Twas those memories that assaulted me whenever I was near him. I knew we had never met, yet I knew his face as intimately as if I'd gazed on it every day for the whole of my life.

  For I had dreamed of a man who would come to rescue me.

  And, beyond all reason, that man was Thomas McKinnon.

  He is fey, of that there is no doubt. He knew things before he was told, saw spirits who should have remained hidden, read the innermost secrets of my heart as if they'd been written on a page before him. He knew my name before I had given it to him.

  It was the first time I'd heard it from mortal or unmortal lips since my mother died.

  And such was my undoing.

  I passed time with him, finding that 'twas sweet indeed to have a man look at me as if he found me beautiful. That it was pleasurable to have him listen as if what I said mattered to him. And that the thought of him possibly losing his life to give me back mine was the most terrible thing of all.

  He had a mad thought, a thought that he could actually go back in time and save me before I was murdered. I told him nay, that 'twas foolish. I ignored him when he spoke of it. I favored him fully with my anger when nothing else seemed to deter him.

  Yet still he persisted. Either 'tis love in truth that he feels for me, or he's simply a mad fool on a foolish errand. Yet what man gives up his life willingly, if not for something or someone he loves?

  He left Thorpewold and came north, to my ancestral home near the feet of the Benmore Forest. My great-greatgrandfather, who had been the one to discover the time gates, trained him in swordplay and other necessities. But how much can a man learn of a way of life in merely a pair of fortnights?

  I came home the day before he left. He found me in the meadow. He told me he loved me. He told me that there was no reason I couldn't remember the future. That should he be successful and I not lose my life, there was still no reason I couldn't remember my life as a ghost. My laird James tells me 'tis possible, but I wonder if the two have spent too many nights slipping into their cups and they are both daft. James speaks of alternate realities, but it makes little sense to me. All I know is that I might be restored to my life.

  Yet I will lose the life I have had.

  So I
have written these few words. My laird still bids me give more of the tale. He has it aright, but I wonder how much time I have left. Thomas has been gone a pair of days. If he succeeds, will I simply cease to exist here? Or will I be pulled backward in time, with my centuries of memories intact? Or will it be as if those centuries had never happened and I will remember nothing of my kin, my enemies, my friends?

  My love?

  He is a braw lad, though, so perhaps if I cannot remember him, I'll see my way clear to love him again.

  For I loved Thomas McKinnon as a ghost. I never said as much to him, and for that I have my regrets. But I did love him, and I would have passed the rest of his life happily with him, sharing whatever small things we could have shared.

  I'll make an end here. If time is allotted to me, I'll go through the centuries in another part of this book. But as for this much, I've said enough.

  I, Iolanthe MacLeod, write this by the hand of my laird, James MacLeod, and I make it in the year of Our Lord's Grace 2001, in the autumn of that year.

  Chapter 29

  Thomas wondered, as he stood near a group of trees in the middle of some guy's field and fought for his life, if Jamie's training really had been adequate. He stood back to back with Duncan, wielded his sword for all he was worth, and decided as he had to jerk aside to avoid being skewered that perhaps he was just a little bit out of his league. It was one thing to pretend to fight off men you were fairly sure wouldn't maim you if push came to shove. It was another thing entirely to fight off ragged, unkempt soldiers who seemed to find the idea of two Scots surrounded by a half a dozen English-men to be good entertainment for the afternoon.

  He'd never killed before. In fact, he'd always made it a point to leave as little trace of his passing as possible when he climbed mountains. All right, so maybe he'd done in numerous rabbits over the course of his long and illustrious career out in the wild; that was dinner, and the bones were probably biodegradable after a few centuries. The thing about this was, he had no intentions of eating the grim-looking characters he faced at present.

  The only upside he could see at present was that Lord Charles had left behind the majority of his troops. If he and Duncan could do these guys in, they would be home free. Thomas was certain that the entire party, including Iolanthe, hadn't been made up of more than ten. That he and Duncan merited such a large force was a compliment.

  On the whole, though, he would have preferred to have been insulted.

  He heard Duncan grunt behind him, which in and of itself wasn't noteworthy. But it was a sound that was somehow unsettling. Thomas didn't dare turn to find out how he was, or even to ask him, so he merely concentrated on keeping his own head resting comfortably on his shoulders and all his limbs intact.

  His chance to finish his side of the battle came sooner than he'd hoped. He stabbed the man in front of him with a clean stroke through the gut, grabbed the man's knife from his belt as he fell, then turned to face the other two. They came at him both at once, and he found himself reacting out of the instinct Jamie and Ian had instilled in him. He thrust one way, ducked and came up under the sword of the other man, plunging his knife into the other's belly.

  He stepped back from the dying men, then turned and looked at Duncan. Duncan finished his last man with a vicious swipe across his neck that made Thomas very glad he wasn't standing next in the enemy line.

  "Well done," Thomas said with a grin, dragging his arm across his forehead. "Let's get out of here."

  And then Duncan turned.

  And Thomas saw that his tunic was drenched with blood. Thomas would have believed that it was someone else's but for the way Duncan held his hand to the wound. Thomas met the older man's eyes and found himself so stunned, he couldn't form articulate sounds.

  Duncan grimaced, then stepped across a fallen foe to put his hand on Thomas's shoulder. "Go," he wheezed. "Quickly."

  "I can't leave," Thomas said, but he knew he would have to.

  "Your task is to see to my girl," Duncan said, straightening with an effort. "Else my death is in vain."

  "Oh, Duncan," Thomas said, sheathing his sword and putting both of his hands on the other man's shoulders. "I'm so sorry." He blinked back tears he hadn't known were near. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way. You never told me—"

  "I was always known for keeping my secrets close," Duncan said with a hint of a smile. "I suppose even as a ghost I did the same."

  "But," Thomas said, feeling set adrift, "how am I—"

  "You've a plan," Duncan said sharply. "Follow it. Follow her and save her before she loses her life as well." He sank to his knees. "I suppose I'll know if you succeed. You'd best succeed, or you'll find me haunting you for the rest of your days."

  Thomas squatted down in front of him. "What can I do to make you more comfortable?"

  Duncan looked around, then pointed to a nearby tree. "Help me over there, then go. There's naught you can do."

  Thomas helped him hobble over to the tree, quietly appalled by the amount of blood that seemed to be seeping into Duncan's clothes. He wouldn't last long with that kind of blood loss.

  "Duncan..."

  "Get on that horse, Thomas lad, and let me see you ridin' off to rescue my girl." Duncan pulled a knife free of his belt and handed it to Thomas. 'Take this. Iolanthe will recognize it as mine. You never know but that such a thing might serve you."

  Thomas took the knife and rose slowly to his feet. "There aren't words to thank you for this," he said, gesturing behind him. "I never would have managed it on my own."

  "Well, you haven't managed the rest of it yet, have you, so cease with your boasting. Be off with you."

  Thomas hesitated. "Should I tell her? The truth?"

  "Tell her I died aiding you to rescue her."

  "That's a great gift."

  Duncan looked up at him and smiled faintly. "Ach, but what else is a father to do?"

  Thomas would have replied, but there was nothing else to be said. He retrieved his horse, and Duncan's, too, then came back for a final farewell. He realized then that he just didn't have it in him to leave Duncan. Iolanthe had died alone. He couldn't leave Duncan to do that.

  He knelt down next to the older man and grasped his hand.

  "Shall I tell you of the future?" Thomas asked softly.

  "Aye," Duncan breathed. "A ... comfort..."

  "Well, in the future that's already passed, you find Iolanthe at the castle which is called Thorpewold. By the time I arrive, you've been there six hundred years with her. She said that when you first came, you went down on your knee and pledged fealty to her, as you would have to your laird. I suppose you can imagine what that meant to her, but I can tell you that she only spoke of it once, and it was with tears in her eyes."

  Duncan smiled.

  "You were a father to her for centuries. She loved you as such. You gave her the gift of unconditional love and unwavering support. You couldn't have given her more."

  He took a breath to continue, then realized there was no point.

  He closed Duncan's eyes, took a final look at the man's faint smile, then bowed his head and sighed. There wasn't even time for a decent burial. Every minute he lagged behind was another minute Lord Charles had on him. Duncan would have heartily agreed with the sentiment.

  He did, however, spare a moment or two to grieve for the short time he'd had to spend in Duncan's company. He suspected that a lifetime wouldn't have been long enough to discover all the man's secrets. He would have been a wonderful father-in-law and a marvelous grandfather.

  Which he still could be, in a sense, but only if Thomas managed to succeed in rescuing Iolanthe. So he unbuckled the brooch that held Duncan's plaid to his shoulder, pulled that material over his face, then pinned it in place. He laid Duncan's sword by his side, then turned and looked around him. It occurred to him that if he and Iolanthe did manage to escape anywhere near the border, they would need something appropriate to wear.

  Without emotion, he stripped clot
hing off a pair of the slain men, clothing with the least amount of blood on it— and that was no mean feat. He bundled it up, stuck it behind his saddle, and mounted.

  He left the scene of battle and hoped the small bit of tracking Duncan had been able to teach him would be enough.

  It would have to be.

  Two days later, Thomas wondered if he would manage to rescue Iolanthe after all. Try as he might, he could never catch the English-man, though he seemed to pause to water his horse only moments behind the small party. He'd barely missed having his life taken more than once, and the only good thing to come of that was that he'd managed to knock off one more of Charles's guardsmen. That left Charles, another man, and Iolanthe.

  The odds were getting better all the time.

  Or they would have been, had Thomas been able to catch the trio.

  He paused, the morning of the third day of travel by himself, to water his horse, Duncan's horse, and his own head. What he wanted desperately was sleep. He would have given anything for a caffeinated beverage of some sort. He'd gone through all his stores of food. He'd even taken to munching on bark, but all that had done was give him a nasty taste in his mouth. Didn't Charles ever sleep? The man was a machine.

  A twig snapped behind him and Thomas rolled into the river and came up with his sword in his hands. He swung before he thought, belatedly grateful that he hadn't cut Iolanthe in two.

  Charles's remaining guardsman clutched his belly to keep his insides inside, then looked at Thomas with wide eyes.

  "Who are you?" he gasped.

  There was no use in answering that. The man slid slowly to the earth, then fell onto his back. Thomas waited until his eyes stared lifelessly at nothing, then turned back to his horse and mounted. He could afford no more time to wait. He took up the trail again. Unfortunately, the terrain was beginning to look all too familiar. He was getting within a day's ride of Thorpewold. He'd planned to have Iolanthe safely spirited away long before now.

  He kept on his southeasterly course, straining his eyes to see anything in front of him. Had he lost them? Had he taken five minutes too long to let his horse drink? Would he come too late?