by Lynn Kurland
It was the far tower that drew her. She made her way across the bailey, feeling Thomas a step or two behind her. She walked up the flights of steps on the outside of the tower, wooden steps that looked as if they'd just been recently built. She ignored the lower two floors. 'Twas the uppermost that drew her, though she couldn't have said why. She was certain Lord Charles had never shown her this part of his prison.
She put her hand on the door latch. She found that she couldn't move. Soon Thomas's hand swam into view. It was only then that she realized she had tears streaming down her face. She watched his hand fit a key into a lock and turn it. She opened the door herself, then looked into a solar of such beauty, she could only stand there and gape at it.
Thomas was silent.
She looked at him briefly before she stepped inside the chamber. She touched the armoire, the desk, the tapestry frame. She sat down in a chair near the window and felt as if she'd done the same thing hundreds of times. There were bound manuscripts sitting on a small stool in front of her. She picked them up and almost managed a smile at the drawings on the covers. She opened her mouth to ask whom the books belonged to, then realized she had no need.
They were hers.
She looked at Thomas, who still stood just inside the doorway.
"I... I..."
He pushed off the door frame and came to sit down across from her. The familiarity of the scene struck her with such force, she could scarce breathe. Thomas said nothing. He merely waited, looking at her with concern that was plain even to her unschooled eye.
"The chamber is beautiful," she managed finally.
"I'm glad you like it"
"Did you make it for..."
"Yes."
Why couldn't she say her own name? She looked about the chamber again and saw the loving details that had been put there for a woman's comfort. Her comfort—though she suspected that if she had in truth been a spirit, she likely hadn't had much use for a tapestry needle. It was a place of peace, though, and obviously built with love. Iolanthe looked at Thomas and found that she could manage at least a small smile.
"Thank you," she said quietly. " 'Tis very peaceful."
He nodded. "That was the intention."
She looked out the window. Her surroundings should have soothed her. Instead, they unsettled her. She knew that the truth of an existence she couldn't remember was all around her, but she could hardly bear to look at it.
"May we go?" she asked, rising suddenly.
She didn't wait for him to answer. She fled from the chamber and down the stairs. She gained the front gate before the tears were falling so fast that she could no longer see. She stood there and sobbed.
But she didn't weep alone for very long. She felt Thomas's hands on her shoulders, then found herself turned around and drawn into his arms.
"Oh, Iolanthe," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."
She flung her arms around him and wept as if her heart was breaking. She wasn't sure that it wasn't. There behind her in that accursed keep was undeniable proof that Thomas had built a chamber for a woman who bore her name, a woman he had loved and who had likely loved him in return.
A woman she didn't know.
But one she was beginning to remember.
She pulled back, sniffed, then scrubbed away her tears with her sleeve.
"Forgive me," she said.
He released her, though she sensed that it was reluctantly done. She knew it was the wisest course for her, though, so she didn't say aught.
"Perhaps we should go home," he said.
"Home?" she asked. "My home? In Scotland?"
He hesitated—but only slightly. "Yes," he said firmly.
She wanted it. She wanted to go home with every fiber of her being, though she knew that her keep would be different. Her family, such as it was, wouldn't be there. But to walk on her land again, to feel the sun on her face and smell the meadow flowers—aye, perhaps home was the place for her. At least she would feel more herself there. She would recognize where she was walking only because she'd once put a mortal foot there. This business of almost remembering things she couldn't possibly have seen before was more than she could bear.
She looked up at Thomas, trying to judge his willingness to do such a thing. He had traveled so far already on her behalf. Could she truly ask him to take her so much farther?
And if he was unwilling to take her back, what was she to do? She couldn't force him.
"The inn," she said, before she could make a fool of herself by begging. "I only meant home to the inn."
He looked at her skeptically, but said nothing.
Iolanthe scarce remembered the journey back. She managed to get herself through the doorway before she pleaded a headache and escaped to her chamber. Mrs. Pruitt came some time later with a tray of foodstuffs for her. Iolanthe ate heartily, then spent the rest of the afternoon and a goodly portion of the evening staring out her window at nothing.
It was very late before she stirred. She wandered around her chamber like a restless spirit, then realized what she was doing. She had no need to haunt such a small space. She left the chamber, then descended the steps.
She turned into the sitting chamber. She didn't know how she knew where it was, but she did. The thought was dismaying, but she ignored it.
She sat down before the fire. She saw something out of the corner of her eye and whirled around to look.
There was nothing there.
But she couldn't deny the feeling that she was no longer alone. She knew that if she could have looked hard enough, stretched herself enough, she would have been able to see what her mortal eyes could not.
She leaned back in her chair with a sigh. "I cannae see ye," she grumbled. "Leave off yammerin' at me."
Silence descended. Iolanthe closed her eyes. Her first day at Thomas's inn. She couldn't say it had been a success.
She could only hope the rest of her days wouldn't be passed in like manner.
Chapter 38
Thomas looked at Iolanthe standing in the front doorway, gazing with longing at her stolen horse that grazed in Mrs. Pruitt's front yard, and wondered about the advisability of what he currently contemplated. It wasn't that he didn't have things to keep him busy. He could have spent another day going through all the treasures Lord Roger had forced on them. He could have gone up to the castle and found something to swing a hammer against. He could have looked for a hill and climbed it a dozen times. On his hands.
Instead, he was planning a trip to the city. Not Edinburgh. Heaven only knew what Iolanthe would think of that. No, he was taking a little jaunt to Jedburgh, the closest metropolis with reputedly enough shopping to keep anyone happy for awhile.
Shopping, yes, that was the ticket. He'd never met a woman who couldn't be soothed, placated, or distracted by shopping. He'd learned the principle at his father's knee while watching his father soothe, placate, and distract a wife and three daughters. Surely Iolanthe could be soothed, placated, and distracted the same way.
Then again Iolanthe was neither his sister nor his mother, nor like any other woman he'd ever met.
And she wasn't overly eager to get in his car.
Which left him wondering again about the wisdom of his plan.
Then there was the other complication. He'd called his parents the night before just to let them know he was back safely from his little jaunt to his falsified destination. They hadn't been at home. As unsettling as that was, a call to his sister Megan had revealed that his parents were staying at her house in London and were currently out at the theater.
This was not good news. The very last thing he needed was his dad complicating the mix. Well, there was nothing to be done except hope his mom and dad would stay put until Iolanthe had gotten used to her surroundings.
But given the way she was sizing up his rental car, he suspected that getting used to her surroundings wouldn't happen any time soon.
Thomas opened the car door and smiled encouragingly. His car was still at
Jamie's castle, and taking Mrs. Pruitt's tiny Mini hadn't been an option. Neither he nor Iolanthe would have fit, and he suspected that she would feel claustrophobic enough as it was.
"To the city?" she asked doubtfully.
"It's a little city. Queen Mary stayed there with the flu once, I think. It's a great place."
"Queen Mary?"
"Um," he said, wondering if he could actually go two hours in a row without putting his foot into his mouth, "Queen Mary came along a few years after Robert the Bruce. I'll tell you about her sometime."
"Hmmm."
"You need clothes," he said, hoping a change of topic would get him out of trouble.
"Then call in a seamstress."
"And shoes," he continued. "And other girl things. The city's not very far."
"So you say."
"I think there's an abbey there, too," he added. "You'll love it."
She looked completely unconvinced, and he had no idea how to motivate her. He supposed he could have gone shopping by himself, but he wasn't ready to let her out of his sight yet. He suspected that if he left his keys out and his back turned, she'd be in the car and on her way home before he knew it. Either that or she'd take her horse and be on her way. He knew he'd have to take her home soon, but he also knew that when he did so, he wouldn't have her alone for a good long time. Best he have her to himself while he could.
"We could go to Artane tomorrow," he offered. "If the driving today sits well with you."
She chewed on that for a minute or two.
"Jedburgh today," she agreed grudgingly. "But do not make the car go too fast."
"I'll try not to."
He got her into the car, got her buckled up, and down the driveway without her losing it. The road to the village was touch and go. She was closing her eyes and praying out loud.
And he wasn't even doing twenty.
"A little faster now," he said, turning onto a bigger road.
"The saints preserve me."
"Well, that's always a good sentiment," he said as he reminded himself that it would behoove him to drive on the left. Things were definitely easier with a horse and no dividing lines.
An hour and several prayers later, they had reached their destination. Jedburgh was as cute as Mrs. Pruitt had advertised and boasted shops enough for his purposes. He parked, sat back, and sighed deeply. He turned to Iolanthe.
"Made it."
"The saints be praised," she said, peeling her fingers from the armrest. "I hope this is worth that torture."
"So do I," he said with a smile, then crawled out of the car and came around to get her.
He pointed her toward a likely clothing shop and turned her loose inside it. She wandered around for a few minutes, touching things with what he thought might have been reverence—or complete disgust.
Then she turned to look at him.
"These?" she hissed, tugging on a pair of jeans. "I'm to wear these?"
Okay, strike one.
"I wear them," he offered.
"You're a man."
She had a point. He shrugged with a smile. "You don't have to. They have dresses, too. See, over there?"
She approached the dresses with all the enthusiasm of a woman contemplating picking up a dead rat. It took her a moment or two to figure out how to get the hanger off the rack, but once she had, she held the dress up to her and gasped at the length.
"This?" she said, looking scandalized. "So short?"
It hit her well below the knees. Thomas decided that perhaps he would do well never to show her a miniskirt. Maybe it was time to take a break from shopping.
"How about lunch?" he asked.
"We just broke our fast not two hours ago."
"All the more reason to get something else to eat. I saw a little tea shop down the street. It's close."
She hung the dress back up with a look of distaste, then stomped out of the store beside him, her face set in lines of extreme disapproval.
He decided that perhaps silence was the better part of valor at the moment.
He took her to the tea shop, saw her seated, then sat down across from her. He'd chosen a table near the window, and he pulled back the curtain for good measure. He watched her watch the passersby, then watched the wheels begin to turn in her head. Thomas looked up as the waitress came to give them menus.
Iolanthe was regarding the woman with openmouthed astonishment. Thomas looked at their waitress. All right, so it was the middle of November and definitely too cold outside for a sleeveless shirt and short skirt. Maybe it was hot in the kitchen.
"What would you like, Io?" he asked.
"Whatever they have," she said, not taking her eyes from the girl waiting for their order.
Thomas ordered tea and scones, then watched Iolanthe watch the girl walk away. She shut her mouth, then looked at him.
"Do they all dress thusly?" she demanded.
"Some do. Some don't. I think it's a little cold for that outfit, but maybe she's been cooking."
Iolanthe nodded uncertainly, then stared back out the window. Thomas sat back in his chair and took the opportunity to look at her. She was dressed in a gown she'd been given at Artane, her hair was hanging down around her face, and she'd thrown her cloak back over her shoulders. She looked as if she'd just stepped out of the pages of history, but that wasn't what made him smile. She was just so beautiful and so real. He couldn't get over the fact that if she'd allowed it, he could have reached over and held her hand. He could have kissed her.
He could have married her.
"Should I cut my hair, do you think?" she asked, twirling the end of it around her finger.
He blinked. "What?"
She looked over the other patrons. "Many women seem to have short hair. Should I cut mine?"
"No," he said immediately.
"I see you have an opinion on it." How could he tell her that the first time he'd ever seen her, she'd been standing in the middle of her great hall and the sun had been shining down on that riot of hair and it had been all he could do not to go over and gather great handfuls of it? That he had spent hours staring at the way it fell over her shoulders? That she never would have had to bribe him to brush it?
"Please don't cut it," was all he said.
"It is fashionable as it is?"
"Do you care?"
She blinked in surprise. "I thought... I mean, I assumed that—"
"I think you would look stunning in a horse blanket." He watched her digest that, then found himself wishing he hadn't said anything. Damn. She was furious.
"Then why did you bring me here," she exclaimed, "if not for me to look like these other women?"
"Ah," he said, searching for the perfect answer, "that certainly wasn't my intention."
"Wasn't it?"
"No," he said with feeling. "My mom and sisters love to shop. I thought you might like it, too."
She looked at him narrowly. "And that is all?"
"That's all. Definitely."
She drummed her fingers on the table as she looked around the cafe. "And do you like how these women look?"
"I hadn't really noticed."
"Then look."
He sighed and looked around. There was a collection of different women there for his perusal. He had a look, then shrugged. Nothing out of the ordinary. He turned back to Iolanthe to find her studying him closely.
"I looked," he said.
"And?"
"I'd rather look at you."
"That isn't my question."
He blew out his breath and wondered how he was going to get himself out of this one. Just when a guy thought he was doing the right thing ...
"It's what I'm accustomed to seeing," he said. "The way they dress. To be honest, I think many wear their trousers too tight, their shoes too weird, and their hair too short."
"I see."
"Dress how you like. Like I said, I'd rather look at you than anyone else, and I don't care what you wear. I just wanted to buy you what you li
ked and hope that you had a good time while we were at it."
She merely looked at him.
"You'll need warmer things," he said. "And boots probably. It snows at your keep, doesn't it?"
That caught her attention. "My keep?"
He could hardly believe he was going to say what he was going to say, but it was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
"I thought you might want to go home soon."
"Oh," she said softly. Then she smiled at him, a smile of such radiance that he almost flinched. "Aye, I would like that."
He felt like he'd just signed his own death warrant.
"Boots," he said, finding that was just about all he could get out. "You'll need them for winter."
He suspected he would have felt better if she hadn't looked so damned relieved. In reality, he supposed he couldn't blame her. Maybe she just needed to go somewhere where she wasn't walking over her own grave. He could understand that. He didn't like it, but he could understand it.
He drank tea that tasted like poison and ate a scone that tasted like dust. He would have to let her go and hope she would remember him when she got used to her life. Maybe Ian wouldn't mind a boarder for the winter.
He could only assume it wouldn't bother Iolanthe to have him stay so close.
He'd obviously have to come up with a damned good excuse for mooching off her uncle several times removed. Maybe he could concoct some story about always having wanted to climb the mountains in her backyard. Maybe swordplay had been his burning desire, and now was the time to really hone his skill. Maybe he was going to start a new company with Ian as president. He was just certain that, given enough time, he could come up with a convincing story.
He spent the greater part of the afternoon working on that while at the same time convincing Iolanthe to buy more than just a pair of boots, which she so earnestly promised to repay him for that it broke his heart. She tried on the other things he asked her to, but he could see her mentally totaling up how much she would owe him.