by Lynn Kurland
Thomas folded his arms over his chest. "No."
"What else will you do, Tommy, me lad?" Duncan asked. "Hold her here against her will? I thought that was why you went back to save her, to free her from this place."
"Yes, but..." He almost said, Yes, but not to free her from me.
He stood still for a moment and considered the ramifications of that. He'd known that last day at Artane that he was losing whatever tenuous grasp he'd ever imagined he'd held on her. Nothing had changed. Was he to hold on to her so tightly that she couldn't escape simply to keep her near him?
If he wanted to take her freedom, then he was no better than Charles, who had taken her life from her.
"She knows where you live," Duncan repeated. "And if you're unwilling to let her go so far away, get you to Scotland with her."
"Scotland?"
"Aye. Go up and stay with young Ian. He has room enough for you. He's only a stone's throw from the laird's keep."
Thomas sighed. "All right," he conceded. "I'll go back to the inn and do what Iolanthe wants to do." He looked at Duncan. "Want to come?"
Duncan smiled. "There's naught for me here any longer, laddie. Aye, I'll come with you."
Thomas looked around him at the castle and realized that for him, too, there was nothing there. If Iolanthe wanted to come look at the place, he'd bring her. If she wanted to keep it, he'd give it to her. If not, he'd give the place to someone who would be a match for Connor MacDougal.
His sister, Victoria, for instance.
The thought of that was so astonishingly perfect that he laughed.
"Lad?"
Thomas smiled at Duncan. "Just idle thoughts. Tell me, is Connor married?"
"Wed?" Duncan asked, sounding shocked. "Ach, aye, but she left him and a pair of wee babes behind as she took up with a minstrel and fled to France."
"I'm unsurprised."
"Don't know that he wasn't a pleasant sort before his lady left him," Duncan continued. "As pleasant as you can be with a rowdy lot like his clan to look after. Why do you ask?"
"I was thinking I'd give the castle to one of my sisters. She'd whip the MacDougal into shape."
"He's old."
"So is she," Thomas said dryly. His sister was thirty-two going on a hundred when it came to being jaded. Perhaps that had something to do with too much time spent with actors. "Besides, he can't be more than mid-thirties."
"But foul enough to be pitched into the cesspit," Duncan said, "no matter his age."
Thomas shook his head with a smile. "Never mind. They were just idle thoughts."
"Aye, and idle thoughts get Laird Ambrose into peril, so I'd avoid them, were I you."
Thomas nodded, then looked at Duncan and smiled. "It's good to see you, Duncan."
"Aye, lad. That it is." He hesitated, then cleared his throat. "Did you tell her?"
Thomas smiled, "That you're her father? No, I thought you should."
"Can she see me?"
"Not yet. I'm hoping that will change eventually. In the meantime you can figure out what to say."
"Whose lot is worse?" Duncan asked grimly. "Yours, that you should have to win her, or mine, that I should try not to lose her?"
"Duncan, my friend, we're in the same boat, believe me."
They made their way back along the road to the inn. Thomas could smell dinner from the road, and for some reason that was an enormous comfort. He took a deep breath and continued up the driveway. Duncan was right. He'd give Iolanthe a couple of days to settle in, then he'd drive her up to the Highlands and take his chances with her home.
And pray that he wasn't making a colossal mistake.
Chapter 37
Iolanthe sank down into the chair before the polished looking glass and wondered if she was truly equal to the task of surviving the Future. Perhaps Thomas had done her a disservice by saving her life. Surely all those years of being a ghost couldn't have been as taxing on her as less than a day and a night full of wonders she'd never imagined.
Not that she remembered much of the day before. By the time she'd finished with her bath and found herself dressed in a shift of some marvelous fabric that reportedly belonged to Thomas's sister, she hadn't had the energy to do much besides fall into bed.
Apparently, sleeping on her hair while it was wet wasn't a good idea. Had her head looked so misshapen her whole life and she'd never been the wiser? There was, she decided as she took a very elegant brush to her untamed locks, much to be said for having no idea what you looked like.
Her visage, however, wasn't in such a sorry state. She leaned forward and studied her face. Try as she might, she honestly couldn't see what her brothers and sister had found so objectionable about her appearance. Her teeth were well shaped, and none were missing. Her nose was straight, and her eyes weren't crossed. In fact, had she been forced to be completely honest with herself, she couldn't help but admit that she found herself if not pleasing to the eye, at least not worthy of the flinches Angus and Grudach had ever favored her with. Mayhap it would have served her to have had a polished glass at her disposal much earlier. It might have helped her sort the truth from the lies.
And thinking on those lies made her wonder what else they had told her that wasn't true.
Was she too tall, too old, and too homely for any man to want her? The mirror had contradicted the last. Perhaps her height was not a bad thing. And perhaps there were men who wouldn't care how old she was.
Men such as Thomas.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head down on the table before her. So many conflicting emotions raged within her, she scarce knew where to begin in sorting them out. She was grateful to him, aye, for rescuing her. She was very grateful to him for the se'nnight of luxury at Artane. And she suspected that in time she might even be grateful to him for bringing her to a time of such wonders.
But gratitude alone did not a happy marriage make.
Did I love you?
I think you did.
Her conversation with him on the shore came back to her in a poignant fragment. He said he loved her, that he'd loved her as a ghost, and that he loved her still. Had she loved him?
It was more than she could bear to think about. She had no idea what she was supposed to do with herself now, but 'twas a certainty that whatever she decided, 'twould be better done while dressed. She put the brush down and rose. Mrs. Pruitt had laid out clothing for her on a chair.
She fingered the things there, then frowned. Had the good woman lost her wits? There were hose there, fashioned from a heavy blue material, but certainly nothing appropriate for a woman! She looked about for the things she'd worn to the inn, but a thorough search of every nook and cranny in the chamber produced nothing but a pain between her eyes.
In frustration, she ripped the top blanket off the bed, wrapped it around herself, and went in search of the innkeeper. Surely Mrs. Pruitt could find something more suitable than what she'd provided thus far. What of the gear on the packhorse? There had been a pair of very lovely dresses there. If nothing else, Iolanthe would have happily received her old clothing in return.
She descended the steps in a fine temper. The entryway was full of people, and that likely should have given her pause, but she was too irritated to pay them any heed. She found Mrs. Pruitt standing behind a little wooden table with all manner of shiny things adorning its top. Promising herself a good look later when she was suitably attired, she fixed Mrs. Pruitt with a scalding look.
"Good woman," she said crisply, "what have you done with my clothing?"
There was a brief chorus of groans behind her. Iolanthe looked behind her and saw that the trio of souls she'd dismissed had fallen to the floor in various stages of incapacitation. Iolanthe turned back to the errant innkeeper.
"My things from the horse," Iolanthe said. "Where have you hidden them?"
"Young Thomas has them," Mrs. Pruitt replied, sounding rather less apologetic than loathe would have liked. "He afeared to wake ye last eve, so he put th
em in his room. He also said that if ye didn't find anything to suit, you were welcome to go through more of his sister's things."
"He has a sister?"
"Aye, miss. Megan, Lady Blythwood."
"Megan," loathe said, finding the name surprisingly familiar on her tongue. Immediately an image came to mind of a red-haired girl with a smile that greatly resembled—
"Anything wrong?"
Iolanthe turned to her right and saw that smile on the face of the man coming down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom and put his hand over his mouth—no doubt to hide another smile.
"My clothes," Iolanthe demanded. "Where are they?"
The words were scarce from her mouth before she realized how ungrateful she sounded. By the saints, she'd never experienced such finery in the whole of her life and there she was demanding its return? She felt her shoulders begin to sag.
"Forgive me," she said quietly. "I've no right to demand—"
"You have every right," Thomas said. "Come on, and I'll show you where the stuff is. I just didn't want to wake you up last night by emptying saddlebags into your room. Didn't you like what Mrs. Pruitt brought you of Megan's clothes?"
"They were scandalous," she said promptly.
He laughed. "Do you think? I don't imagine anyone's ever said that about Megan's wardrobe. She'll love it."
Iolanthe sighed. In what other way would she show herself ignorant and poorly spoken that morn? "I meant no offense—"
"Io," he said gently, tugging on her elbow to get her to move, "don't apologize. Say what you want, when you want, and to whom you want." He smiled. "I can take it. I'm a MacLeod, too. We're made of stern stock."
"You're a what?" she gasped.
"My mother was a MacLeod. But trust me, you and I are very, very distant cousins. So distant that the McKinnon blood more than makes up for anything that isn't exceptionally distant."
She wasn't sure what was more shocking, that he was possibly kin, or that he was falling all over himself to convince her that he wasn't possibly kin.
What she did know was that he was pulling her up the stairs by her elbow, and it was all she could do to keep her bedclothes draped over herself with any kind of modesty. She waited in the passageway whilst Thomas fetched her gear and put it in her chamber. He stood aside to let her pass inside, then paused by the doorway.
"You know, you could go look in Megan's closet, if you'd rather. She has more than just jeans in there, I'm sure."
"Jeans?"
He tugged on his long-legged trews. "These."
Iolanthe looked at the clothing he'd set on the bed, then back at him. "What I have doesn't suit?"
"What you have suits perfectly," he said firmly. "Don't change a thing. Why don't I wait for you downstairs? We can have breakfast. Then I thought you might like to go for a walk."
"To the castle?"
He nodded. "If you like."
"I likely should."
"Probably."
She clutched the bedclothes to her throat. "I'll dress now."
He smiled and turned to leave the chamber. Iolanthe pursed her lips. She couldn't say much for his trews, but she also couldn't deny that there was something powerfully fetching about the view from—
She stomped across the room and shut the door. The very last thing she needed to be doing was dwelling on Thomas McKinnon's backside, no matter how fetching it might find itself to be. She turned back to the bed and dug through the saddlebag there. She dressed in one of the extra gowns the lady of Artane had seen made for her, put on her soft leather shoes, then had a final look at her hair in the mirror. Short of getting it wet again, there was nothing to be done. She braided it quickly, tied it with a ribbon to match her dress, then left the chamber.
Thomas was indeed waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, apparently talking to himself again.
"Thomas, if you don't cease that kind of babbling," she said patiently, "people will think you're daft. I'm not unconvinced, myself."
He only turned away from looking at one of the side tables, smiled placidly, then led her into the dining chamber.
The meal was unremarkable. She was far too busy watching the other souls at the table who were watching her. She felt exceptionally self-conscious as she chewed, but she wasn't going to allow a few foolish stares to ruin the chance to fill her belly.
It wasn't long before Thomas had excused them and was leading her from the inn. She went, feeling a tingle go through her as she passed through the doorway. She'd done that before. Beyond reason, she knew that she'd passed through that portal—and more than just the night before.
But that was impossible. How could she have? She'd never been so far south in her life.
Unless Thomas's tale was the truth.
The thought of that was almost enough to send her back to bed. She shook her head. It just wasn't possible that she'd lived so many centuries as a ghost.
Was it?
Nay, she could not accept it. Not yet. But she was also no coward, so she walked with Thomas down to the road. He walked beside her easily, with his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans. The day was gloomy, the sky flat as a trencher, and she suspected they would see rain before long. But despite that, the walk was pleasant, and she couldn't deny that the company was fine. It was a perfectly lovely way to pass a morning.
Except that she was going back to the place where she'd almost died.
Without warning, a finely packed road veered off to the right. Iolanthe came to a halt. She found, strangely enough, that she could not move. She knew where the road led. Putting her foot to that path was unthinkable.
"Iolanthe?"
She looked up at Thomas. "I cannot," she said helplessly. "I cannot move."
There was profound sympathy in his eyes. "To be honest, I had the same feeling the first time I came here." He shivered. "It was as if I'd been here before, only I never had."
She took a deep breath. "I know 'tis mad, but—"
"It's like walking over your own grave." He smiled briefly. "I understand, believe me."
And then he paused.
"Are you sorry?" he asked.
"About what?"
"That I... that I interrupted your..."
"Death?" she finished. She struggled for several moments with an answer. There was no good one, and that she had none to give him shamed her. "I am ungrateful," she said finally.
He stood there for several moments in silence. Then he cleared his throat.
"I wish I could say that I regretted doing it," he said. "But I can't. I couldn't let it happen when there was a chance to stop it."
She nodded, then looked at him and tried to smile. She found it almost impossible.
"I fear I'm ..."
"Overwhelmed?"
"Aye."
"We don't have to go up there today. Or any day. We can—"
"Nay," she said. "Waiting will not make it any easier. Besides," she said, nodding to herself, "I should do this. It will prove to me that I really have come to your Future."
"Mrs. Pruitt's traditional English breakfast didn't do it for you?" he asked with a smile. Then he sobered. "All right. Let's go."
But still she found she couldn't make herself put a foot onto that cursed path. She found herself groping for something and when she found it, she clung tightly to it.
Thomas's hand.
She didn't dare look at him. She merely clutched his hand and forced herself to put one foot in front of the other. Thomas's hand was warm and secure around hers, and from it she drew strength.
She watched the ground until she realized she had no choice but to look up at the castle or find herself crashing into it. It was almost more than she could do to look up.
Thomas waited with seemingly endless patience.
Iolanthe took a deep breath, then looked up.
"Well," she managed finally. "Crumbling outer walls."
"I haven't gotten around to them yet," Thomas agreed. "It is odd, though, isn't it? To have
seen this place in perfect condition two weeks ago and now to see it falling down?"
Odd wasn't the word for it. Iolanthe looked at the outer walls, feeling Thomas rub his thumb over the back of her hand until it was almost distracting.
Then without warning, he gasped and ducked, pulling her down with him.
"Knock it off, MacDougal," he snapped, straightening and glaring at nothing. "She doesn't need this."
Iolanthe straightened as well, wondering if too much time-traveling had left him truly witless. Then she remembered that he could see things she couldn't.
"A ghostie?" she asked.
"Connor MacDougal," Thomas said, tossing a very displeased look to his left.
"You spoke of him at Artane."
"Yeah, and those few days without him were bliss. Let's keep going."
Iolanthe pulled her hand from his, not because she wanted to, but because she found herself suddenly self-conscious. If there were those about watching them, they might find her clutching of Thomas's hand like a child quite silly. Thomas didn't seem to notice her discomfort. Either that, or he pretended not to notice.
Iolanthe walked under the barbican gate and paused in the courtyard. She remembered vividly the last time she'd been in the place. Lord Charles's men had been pinned against the walls by unseen foes; their screams still assaulted her ears.
But now the courtyard was empty except for a pair of tourists.
"Tourists?" she said aloud.
"I can't seem to keep them out," Thomas said with a sigh. "Besides, it gives the gar—" He looked startled, then shut his mouth immediately.
"The what?"
"Nothing," he said promptly. "I'm just babbling."
"It gives the what?" she prodded. "Tell me what you were going to say."
"It gives the garrison something to do," he said quickly. "They like to entertain people from time to time, I think. I didn't want to spoil their fun."
Iolanthe looked around the inner bailey, but could see nothing but the couple standing by the great hall. No ghosties. No bogles. No garrisons of spirits.
She pursed her lips, said hrmph, then studied her surroundings. To her left was the guard tower where she'd been taken. At the far corner of that wall was another, larger tower. The great hall sat in the middle of the bailey. She looked to her right and saw another wall with an arch cut in it. The gates were open, and she could see into a barren field. The lists, no doubt. For a moment she saw the place filled with flowers, but she shook aside the vision. Too many eggs for breakfast, no doubt.