My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

  She looked at him, and Thomas prayed that she wouldn't take him up on his offer. Unfortunely, he had meant it. If she wanted to come back to the fourteenth century, he would.

  Heaven help him.

  But when she looked at him with those eyes that from this distance looked as gray as storm clouds, he couldn't help but wish that whatever century she decided on, she would someday want him to share it with her.

  "Cut me loose and let's go," he urged.

  "Where—"

  A shout in the distance had both of them gasping in surprise.

  "Now!" he exclaimed.

  She pulled out her dagger. Thomas had the briefest flash of fear that she intended to slit his throat and then take off. Instead, she merely cut his hands and ankles and hauled him to his feet. He groaned at the pain of blood rushing to his abused extremities.

  "Here," she said shoving his sword at him. He stumbled behind her to their horses. Fortunately they had no gear, which made breaking camp an exceptionally easy thing to do. Thomas flung himself onto his horse and watched Iolanthe do the same.

  "There they are!" she said, pointing in front of him to his right. "It's the English-man!"

  "Damn," Thomas said as he pulled his horse around and plunged it into the shadows of trees. "I didn't think he'd come after us!"

  "Wounded pride," Iolanthe said. "Where go we?"

  Away was the only direction he could think of, so he led them at an unsafe speed away from the shouts until the shouts were nothing but curses fading into the distance.

  He followed a trail that led through the woods until it broke suddenly out onto a road. And the road stretched for what seemed like miles without any kind of cover on either side of it. He looked up at the sun, trying to judge then-position. Based on his own calculations—which probably weren't that accurate, given the week he'd had so far—he thought they were south of the inn and probably fifty miles west of the eastern coast of Northumberland. Very much in England. Rather far away from anything useful. Jamie had shown him a map of England with the gates they'd investigated so far. Thomas had memorized it and also memorized the gates that Jamie said he wasn't all that sure about. Those had seemed a risky proposition, but Thomas hadn't been willing to discount any possibilities.

  The one gate Jamie was sure of was the one near Falcon-berg. It was a faery ring that Alex and Margaret had discovered, and it apparently led one immediately back to Jamie's land. Thomas considered it, then discarded it. Falconberg was a good hundred fifty miles south of their position and well inland.

  More unpredictable were another pair of gates that Jamie had suspected might serve. He hadn't traveled through them personally, but apparently Alex and Margaret had had a few unexpected visitors come their way, and those were the locations they'd been given. Thomas could only hope that such gates might serve in getting him and Iolanthe back to the England of his time. They were closer, true, but the real reason was he just wasn't sure he wanted to go to Scotland with her yet. Too much baggage associated with her home. Foolish though it might have been, he wanted her to himself for a while before she found herself surrounded with family. She would need time to gain her footing.

  To remember him, if she could.

  To get to know him, if she wanted to.

  "Are you asleep?" she hissed. "Make haste, you fool!"

  All right, so maybe all she needed was time to decide he wasn't a complete jerk.

  He made a decision and moved forward on the road. They would head south for a bit, then turn east and go to the coast once they'd outridden their pursuers.

  "How fast can you ride?" he asked, looking at her.

  She gave him a look of supreme condescension, then kicked her mount into a gallop. Thomas sighed and followed suit. He wished heartily that he'd had more than a month to learn to ride, wield a sword, and swear like a medieval clansman.

  All of which would have served him well at the moment.

  He followed her and considered their destination as best he could with dirt flying up into his eyes and his mouth. He promised himself a bit of proper enjoyment of the sight of Iolanthe racing ahead of him, barefoot, with her hair streaming down her back. What was it the painter had said?

  Bugger, she's a stunner.

  Thomas spared a moment to wonder if the painting would still exist and if he should show it to her before he managed to get her to the altar. Assuming she would condescend to come with him to the altar.

  A rock clipped him smartly on the ear, and he shook his head free of his speculation. If he wasn't careful, her horse would kick up something that would kill him, and then where would they both be?

  East, he decided suddenly. One of the gates was on the coast. It seemed like the most likely suspect. One, it would keep them well out of Lord Charles's way. Two, they might make use of an ally or two. He struggled to remember what William de Piaget had said about the surrounding countryside and who held sway where. Artane, he was sure he could find. Mrs. Pruitt had several travel brochures littering an entryway table, and Thomas had seen the one advertising the castle. It was massive and sat squat on a hill overlooking an impressive beach.

  Iolanthe would love it.

  But depending on how far south they came, they would have to cross a fair bit of country on their way back up. Thomas considered the castles he knew dotted the coast. Burwyck-on-the-Sea, Blackmour, and then Artane.

  Well, however they got there, the important thing was to reach a safe harbor for awhile. Thomas wasn't opposed to laboring with his hands for their support, though he certainly would try to pass himself off as a nobleman if he could. Yes, that was the ticket. A nobleman and his wife who'd been robbed and barely escaped with their lives. They'd had everything stolen, including their clothes, and this was why they found themselves in this kind of shape.

  The six-foot broadsword might be a problem, as well as the Gaelic curses Iolanthe tended to spew at him without warning, but he could come up with a story for that. His French was flawless, and he had a wonderful imagination. What more did he need?

  He rode hard after his lady and in spite of the direness of their straits, he couldn't help grinning like a fool. He'd done it. Everything else was gravy.

  Chapter 33

  Iolanthe stood behind Thomas in the dark courtyard of the most enormous castle she'd ever laid eyes on. Not that she was really one to judge these kinds of matters, given how few castles she'd seen over the course of her life, but from what she could tell, the bloody place was immense. Dusk allowed but a miserly light, but 'twas enough to show her that she was standing in a grander place than she'd ever even imagined. Thomas had told her that 'twas called Artane, and that he knew a lad who'd grown to manhood here. He felt certain that the lord would offer them hospitality. He bid her look as if she'd just been robbed of all her jewels, and keep her thoughts to herself.

  The last of which wasn't all that hard, given that she couldn't find any words to describe how overwhelmed she felt at the moment.

  Or how low.

  By the saints, she'd never considered herself to be completely without value, but when faced by the well-dressed, well-groomed folk holding their torches down so they could stare at her bare feet, all she wanted to do was go hide in the stables where she was certain she would feel more comfortable.

  Thomas was spinning some tale or other, and apparently he was doing it quite well, for the lord of the keep, his lady, her ladies, and most of his guardsmen were clustered in the courtyard, listening with rapt attention.

  When they weren't looking at her filthy feet, that is.

  Without warning, the lord clapped his hands, and the assembled group moved in all different directions at once. But the lord remained where he was, then looked at Iolanthe and asked Thomas a question.

  "He wants to know if you speak French," Thomas asked in her native tongue.

  She had to admit that his Gaelic wasn't all that poor. Mayhap arguing with her over the past three days had improved it. 'Twas certain that riding like dem
ons from Hell had improved his horsemanship. She wondered just what he had done in that unimaginable Future of his that had left him without these skills from childhood.

  That she actually believed his tale was enough to set her to shaking her head.

  He claimed to know her grandfather's grandfather. He claimed Jamie was alive and well six hundred years in the Future. He claimed to have met the man and eaten at his board.

  Lies?

  Somehow, beyond reason, she didn't think so. He hadn't lied to her about anything so far. He'd certainly withheld a bit of truth, but he hadn't lied. But she suspected that the truth he withheld would be that which interested her the most.

  "My lady?" Thomas asked again. "The lord wishes to know if you speak French."

  She looked at the lord of Artane and smiled weakly.

  "Merde," she said.

  It was, after all, one of the few words she knew.

  The lord looked at her with wide eyes, then suddenly burst into hearty laughter. He clapped Thomas on the shoulder and pulled him up the stairs toward the great hall. Thomas took her hand and pulled her up the steps after him.

  The hall was enormous, and it even smelled passable. She walked over the fairly fresh rushes and soon found herself seated at the high table with Thomas next to her. When the lord found himself engaged by a man of his house, Thomas leaned close to her.

  "Roger," he said. "The lord Artane. I told him I was French, you were Bulgarian, and ours was a love match which displeased our parents. I gave him a few names he would recognize and be impressed by and asked him for hospitality until we recover from our traumatic journey."

  Perhaps he was a better liar than she'd supposed.

  "Did you," she whispered, "give him a reason for our journey?"

  "Pilgrimage," he said. "I told him we'd heard tell of a new shrine in Edinburgh, made all the more desirable because of the dangers involved in getting there."

  "Those barbaric Scots," she said darkly.

  He grinned at her. "Something like that."

  She nodded, then realized something he'd said. "Wed?" she said, choking on her wine. "We're wed?"

  "Can you think of any other reason we'd be traveling alone together? Well, besides the fact that all our household was murdered and by that malcontent, Lord Charles."

  "You didn't," she breathed.

  "I had to tell him something—Oui, seigneur," he said, turning to face the lord of Artane.

  And then he was off babbling in a tongue she couldn't understand. But what she did understand was that he had saved her from looking like a whore.

  She found her hand suddenly captured in his and held up for Artane's inspection. Thomas pointed to her fingers and made motions that left even her realizing that her wedding ring had apparently been absconded with.

  Ach, those bloody thieves.

  She found that, for the first time in years, she was actually enjoying herself. Her only regret was that she couldn't understand Thomas. But his hand gestures, his bearing, his very voice wrung noises of sympathy and outrage from their host.

  And it won them a meal.

  Iolanthe was certain she hadn't eaten in days. She did her best not to fall upon the food like a savage, but that was a true test of her mettle. Thomas ate with just as much enthusiasm, so she didn't feel so clumsy.

  It seemed hours before Lord Artane stood. Thomas rose as well. Iolanthe followed him, simply because she didn't know what else to do. Thomas listened intently, then bowed and gave a great and lengthy speech of thanks.

  Merci, she knew as well.

  He looked at Iolanthe.

  "Baths, my lady," he said, looking as if the idea pleased him. "And new clothes, if we're fortunate."

  "At this late hour?"

  "He worries about our comfort."

  A bath? Och, she'd swum in streams often enough, especially when escaping her more cowardly brothers who thought the waters cursed, but to willingly step into a cauldron of steaming water?

  And she'd thought facing a sword had been difficult.

  "No?" he asked.

  "Oh, aye," she said, swallowing back her fear. "If they like."

  So she found herself led off to a chamber she couldn't have found again had her life depended on it. She was stripped and put into a tub of steaming water. She tried not to flinch as she was soaped, rinsed, and dried off.

  And then she was given clothing so fine that it almost made up for all the previous tortures.

  The gown was, however, predictably too short, but that was remedied soon enough by a pair of industrious seamstresses who attached extra material to the hem and made it look as if such a thing had been planned. A tanner was then brought in. He measured her feet and stitched her a pair of soft leather shoes so quickly it seemed as if he'd produced them by some magical means.

  Her feet were shod, her nether limbs covered, and her hair brushed until the women gave up trying to straighten it and let it be about its usual business of twisting and turning around her face and down her back.

  She smiled and bowed her thanks and received smiles and bows in return. She opened the door, hoping against hope that one of the women would take pity on her and lead her back to something she recognized, such as a bed, so she could collapse with exhaustion.

  Yet there someone she recognized stood, leaning against the far wall and looking so magnificently handsome that she caught her breath.

  He straightened and stared at her with just as much surprise.

  "You're beautiful," he said. Then he cleared his throat hastily. "Not that you weren't before."

  "You're cleaner," she noted.

  "I am," he agreed cheerfully.

  "And braw enough, I suppose."

  He put his hand over his heart and made her a little bow. "Milady's compliments leave me weak." He looked up from his bow and smiled at her.

  Which made her feel distinctly weak in the knees.

  "Off with ye, ye wee silly man," she said with as much bluster as she could manage. "Ye'll make yerself dizzy, bowin' and scrapin' thusly."

  He held out his hand. "I have a surprise for you. If you're not too tired."

  She looked at his hand and was surprised to find that her hand was putting itself in his, just as boldly as you pleased.

  But once it was there, there was no sense in not leaving it there, or in not following him, since he seemed determined to lead her to the saints only knew where. The pathway led up, so perhaps 'twas safe to believe he wasn't leading her down to Hell.

  "How do you know your way so well?" she asked. "Have you been here before?"

  He hesitated, then smiled briefly over his shoulder at her. "Not exactly. I've heard it described, though."

  She pursed her lips but didn't press him. Daft as a duck, poor man.

  He continued to lead her up stairways and down passageways until he came to a final circle of steps.

  "Up here," he said, "then close your eyes when I tell you to."

  She followed him up, then, against her better judgment, she closed her eyes. But she kept one eye open a slit, just on the off chance he intended to do something untoward with her.

  He opened a door and led her out into the open. Iolanthe watched her feet and saw they were on a walkway. She hugged the wall to her right. Better that she not slip off to the left, even if that was Thomas's plan.

  But by the way he clutched her hand, then put his other arm around her shoulders, she suspected that pushing her off the parapet was not his intention.

  He turned her into a breeze and held her steady.

  "Open your eyes."

  She did and gasped in surprise. She rubbed her eyes for good measure, but nothing had changed in the sight before her.

  For there before her, in all its glory, was the sea. The moon shone in the sky, lighting the waves as if by a lantern. The sound, the smell, the sight was almost more than she could bear.

  "Merciful saints above," she breathed as tears burned in her eyes. "Ach, by the saints, 'tis more beautifu
l than I imagined it could be."

  "Isn't it?" he murmured.

  She looked up to find he was regarding her with a smile. She found her wits long enough to scowl at him.

  "The strand, you fool," she said pointedly. "I spoke of the strand."

  "And I meant you," he said with a smile, "but it seems like a silly thing to argue about, doesn't it? You watch the water, I'll watch you, and we'll both be content."

  She couldn't tear her eyes from his face. Perhaps she was a poor judge of men, but she believed that a score and some years of living in her hall amidst the intrigues and jealousies had given her a fair eye for a liar. The shifting eyes, the easy smile, the spewing tongue.

  But there was no lie in his face.

  "Who are you?" she asked, and she knew it would likely not be the last time she asked the question.

  "Someone who loves you," he said simply.

  "How?" she asked, pained. "You don't know me!"

  "It's a very long story. I'll tell you tomorrow in the daylight. Right now, I think you should just enjoy your view of the ocean."

  Mayhap he had it aright. She stared out over the wall and watched the water lap ceaselessly at the shore. She leaned her elbows on the wall before her and drank in the sight until she felt every bit of tension leave her.

  For the first time in her life, she felt peace.

  "We can stay as long as you like," he said quietly.

  "Here on the wall?" she asked.

  "No," he said gently, "here at Artane. Near the beach."

  She found that quite suddenly her eyes were once again filled with tears. It was a terrible habit she was acquiring, this blubbering without provocation.

  "Surely not," she said. "We don't know the lord—"

  "I know his cousin, William," Thomas said. "Apparently that is enough to have us be considered family."

  "Is it," she said, but it wasn't a question.

  "I have decent skill with sums," Thomas said, but not boastfully. "I offered to check his accounts in return for our keep." He smiled easily. "He refused, of course, but I'll do it just the same. Me not being much of a swordsman, of course, and probably no help to his garrison."