My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

Ian leaned over and kissed Jane. "I'll return for the dishes, love."

  "You cooked, I'll clean," she said cheerfully. "I don't mind."

  "You haven't seen Thomas's cooking pot."

  "Oh, I'll leave that for him," she said with a grin.

  "I imagined you would," Thomas said. "Thanks for the edible half of dinner, Ian."

  "You'll improve your skills," Ian offered. "Either that or you won't. There's no middle ground with my cooker."

  Thomas was beginning to wonder if there was any middle ground with anything in his life at present.

  What he did know was that a few hours of swinging a sword would distract him. He couldn't ask for much more than that at present, so he headed up to his room to fetch his coat.

  The house was quiet when he finally put his feet up on a stool near Ian's fire-engine red AGA stove with a cup of cider in his hands. He gave thought to Ian's idea of an inheritance for Iolanthe and surrendered to a greater wisdom than his. Maybe Ian was right, and a passel of kids would drain his bank account soon enough. Maybe he wouldn't be opposed to Iolanthe having her own money. And maybe all Iolanthe needed was to feel like she didn't owe him for so much. He didn't want her to feel obligated. He just wanted her to be happy.

  He wondered how things were playing out over at Jamie's. Did she think about him? Or was she wishing he would just pack up his things and go home?

  At least working out for hours every day with Ian was taking his mind off things. They were using blunted training swords, but even then, the flat of a blade on his ribs stung like a handful of hornets. He played a game with himself, that it really was life or death and that his skill would be all that saved the day. It was when he treated his training that seriously that Ian began to grin. Jamie had once remarked that when Ian grinned, the true sport began, but that few challenged him enough to bring on that feral smile. Thomas certainly didn't want to credit himself with more skill than he possessed, but it certainly bolstered his pride when his swordmaster smiled.

  The kitchen door burst open, followed by a gust of wind. Thomas was on his feet, grasping for his nonexistent sword, which he remembered with a curse was propped up against his bed, when he realized that the body stamping off the snow and blowing on his hands really had no need to do either.

  "Chilly out," Ambrose said. He smiled at Thomas. "Well met, grandson."

  "Well met yourself, my laird," Thomas said, closing the door and sitting back down with a thump.

  Fulbert blew in directly behind Ambrose, followed immediately by Hugh. Apparently, the little party wasn't complete, because Duncan came in just as enthusiastically. The four ghosts drew up chairs, conjured up tankards of ale, and began to warm their toes against the stove as well. Thomas looked at Duncan with pursed lips.

  "Are you taking up matchmaking as well?"

  Duncan shrugged with a smile. "Seems a goodly work, doesn't it?"

  Thomas snorted. "I'm not the one to ask."

  "Ah, Thomas lad," Ambrose said with a smile, "give your lass time. As I said before, you've another chance to win her. Who wouldn't want that?"

  Thomas supposed there was something to that, but then again, wooing one's lady was much more productive when one had one's lady in the same general vicinity.

  Well, she would either send for him, or she wouldn't. There was nothing he could do about that besides wait. In the meantime, there were glorious tales of battle and some damned funny hauntings to listen to. He looked around at the half circle of men and realized they had come to keep him company. He counted himself blessed to be able to see them.

  And then a thought struck him.

  He looked at Ambrose. "Am I one of your matches?" he asked, interrupting the man.

  "Well, aye, lad. Of course."

  Thomas frowned. "What's your success rate?"

  Ambrose grinned. "I'll let you know later, laddie. I'll let you know later."

  Thomas buried his sigh in his mug. Apparently, some questions were just better left unasked.

  He sipped and listened and laughed, and the longer he did so, the more he realized that he couldn't just sit and wait any longer. Training with Ian was good for his body, but he wasn't sure it was so good for his soul. What he needed was to be climbing. Maybe at the top of a mountain, he would find the peace he was so desperately in need of.

  Or at least a damn good diversion until Iolanthe made her decision.

  Yes, out in the wild was the place for him. He felt better already knowing that he would get up in the morning and start looking for a place to pit his skills against, skills that were his, skills that were honed and perfected.

  A climb.

  It might make all the difference for him.

  Chapter 41

  Iolanthe stuck her pitchfork under a pile of straw and swung it into the wheelbarrow. She repeated the motion half a dozen times until she'd finished filling the stall, then sat down on a bale of hay to catch her breath. Jamie had a stableboy for this kind of thing, but she hadn't cared. It was good, mind-numbing work. She'd certainly done it often enough in her past. Most of her half-brothers had been willing to go to great lengths to avoid any kind of useful labor, so mucking out the stables had always been a good way for her to avoid having to see them.

  She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. She was tired, aye, so tired she suspected she could sleep for a se'nnight and wake only to seek out the bathroom. The trouble with sleeping, though, was that then she would dream.

  And she was powerfully unsettled by her dreams.

  One thing she could say for a se'nnight at Jamie's hall was that she was certainly more used to the ways of the Future. She'd grown accustomed to jeans, boots, and sweaters—so much so that she wondered how she'd managed without them.

  She'd also made a friend of Elizabeth. She had come to realize that having another woman to talk to was a pleasure. It felt very familiar and easy, which made her wonder if she hadn't done something like unto it in another lifetime.

  A ghostly lifetime, perhaps.

  She turned away from that thought. True or not, she had no stomach for thinking on it. What she thought she might be able to stomach was more of that double-fudge ripple from the freezer. Along with all of Elizabeth's other fine qualities was the uncanny ability to choose a very fine ice cream.

  "Iolanthe?"

  She opened her eyes in surprise, then smiled at the sight of Jamie standing there. "Aye, my laird?"

  Jamie looked at her gravely. "I have something that perhaps you should see."

  It was a moment that she was sure she would look back on fifty years in the future and remember with perfect clarity. She would remember the smell of hay, dung, and horse. She would hear the whickers of beasts, the shifting of hooves, and the patter of rain against the roof. She would see Jamie with the light of a modern lamp falling over him just so, and she would feel her hands suddenly flex of their own accord.

  Thomas would have called it déjà vu.

  She had no name for it but destiny.

  "Of course, my laird."

  She rose and followed him into the house and all the way up to his thinking chamber. He gestured for her to sit down in the chair next to his desk. She started to, then froze. For an instant, she felt as if she'd done the like before. Of course, she had done the like before, as she had spent a goodly amount of time talking to Jamie over the past se'nnight. She'd sat in that chair numerous times.

  But not with this eerie sense of memory hovering over her.

  But she was no coward, so she sat and clasped her hands in her lap—so fiercely that her knuckles turned white.

  Jamie reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a book.

  She closed her eyes before she truly had a good look at it, but that didn't matter. She knew it, knew it intimately, knew what the pages contained, knew that it had been an empty book that Jamie had pulled out of his case of books at some point in the past.

  Past. Future. She couldn't tell the difference anymore.

&nbs
p; But there was a difference with the book.

  This time she could hold it.

  She opened her eyes and held out her hands. Jamie handed her the book. She felt the smooth, cool leather beneath her fingers. She smelled the tanned calfskin. She ran her fingers over the black ribbon that kept the book closed.

  She put the book down on her lap and folded her hands over it. And then she spoke.

  "I, Iolanthe MacLeod, do make this record, not by my own hand, but by the hand of my laird, James MacLeod," she whispered. She looked at Jamie. "In the year of Our Lord's Grace 2001. In the autumn of that year."

  His mouth had slipped open. "Do you remember it?"

  She shivered. "Nay. 'Tis but a dream in my head. When I think on it too long, it fades from me."

  "Well," Jamie said, then fell silent. "These are tidings indeed."

  "I know not what they mean."

  "Open your book, granddaughter, and see if your tale aids you."

  "I cannot read, my laird."

  "You could, Iolanthe. You could before."

  "You mean after."

  "Aye, that as well, I suppose."

  "'Tis a perplexing snarl, isn't it?"

  "I'm still sorting it out," he agreed. "I will someday, then perhaps I'll find a few more destinations for my traveling."

  She had to smile. "Your lady will have aught to say about that."

  "Aye, my girl, she always does."

  Iolanthe looked down and untied the book before the unease caught her up again. She opened to the first page and looked down at the writing there. It looked as mysterious as all writing looked to her. She shook her head.

  "I cannot read this."

  "Lessons, then," Jamie said, rubbing his hands together. "As quick as may be."

  "Will you not read it to me?" she asked.

  He smiled briefly. "Lass, 'tis far better that you read it yourself."

  "But you wrote it."

  "I wrote down your words, aye. As did everyone else in my household."

  She blinked. "They did? In truth?"

  "In truth? Aye. Six hundred years of tale takes a bit of doing to set down. We wrote at all hours till your tale was done."

  "I can't believe 'tis mine."

  "That's your hand there," he said, pointing to the first bit of scribbling. "It cost you, I'm afraid, for apparently 'tis very difficult for a... um..."

  "Spirit," she supplied.

  "Aye," he agreed quickly, "for a spirit to handle things from our mortal world. But you did it, signed your name and all. Then we finished it for you. All but the last page. You wrote a bit more there, but I never read it."

  "Then," she said slowly, " 'tis left to me to see to this."

  "I would say so."

  She looked at him. "Can you teach me to read these scribblings?"

  He looked powerfully pleased. "Aye, I can. We'll start now."

  And with those simple words, her lessons began.

  It was slow going at first, but at some point during the third day of trying to make sense of the letters and how they fit together, she realized that she was relearning something she already knew something about. From then on, things went much more quickly, and by the end of the week, she had begun to read something that Jamie had claimed she'd dictated.

  But had she in truth? Had she spoken those words and had others write them down?

  She decided to test it, because she couldn't bear not to.

  She had waited until things were quiet one afternoon, snuck up to Jamie's study, then pulled out a pen and paper. The pen fit easily in her hand now, after all the practice she'd had, but writing the words that would either free her or condemn her was one of the most difficult things she'd ever done.

  Iolanthe MacLeod, do make this record...

  She pulled the book out of Jamie's desk and held it closed for several moments while she decided if this was really something she needed to do.

  The temptation to look was too strong. She opened the book and laid it flat on the desk, next to what she'd just written.

  She compared the two.

  They were, unsurprisingly, a perfect match.

  She closed her eyes and tried to take normal breaths. To her amazement, it wasn't difficult to accept what she'd just proved to herself. Mayhap 'twas that she'd had well over a month to think on the possibility that Thomas was telling the truth. At first, the very notion that she might have lived centuries as a ghost was abhorrent. She'd been unable to fathom such an existence.

  But since the afternoon on the shore near Artane when Thomas had told her his truth, she'd found that she'd known things she shouldn't have. She remembered experiences she'd never lived through. She recognized places she'd never seen before.

  The Sight?

  She didn't think so. Thomas McKinnon was blessed with it in abundance. She, on the other hand, could scarce see her hand before her face, much less anything of a less corporeal nature. Nay, she had no gift for that.

  All of which led her to only one conclusion: Thomas had been telling the truth.

  She looked down at the book before her. Perhaps 'twas past time she read her own account. She couldn't deny that she had written those first words before her. It could only mean that she'd dictated what was to follow. Jamie would never lie about such a thing.

  She put the pen away, folded up the sheaf of paper, and stuck it in the back of the book. Then she made herself comfortable and started to read. There would perhaps be words she wouldn't understand, but Elizabeth was nearby and could aid her. The differing hands might also pose a challenge, but that could be surmounted.

  She would read her own tale, then hie herself over to Ian's afterward and find Thomas.

  And then she would do what she needed to do.

  * * *

  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.

  Iolanthe put down the book. She was sitting in Jamie's study just after breakfast, as had become her habit over the past few days. She leaned her head back against the comfortable leather chair and sighed. The words she'd read were at the beginning of her book and at the end. Apparently she'd considered them important enough to repeat.

  What a thorough ghost she'd been.

  She flipped the page and blinked in surprise. There in her own hand were another few lines. She wondered, given what she'd learned of her other existence, what it had cost her to write what she had.

  Don't be a fool, Iolanthe MacLeod. You dreamed him first. You loved him next. You can love him now.

  Well, she supposed that said it all. She flipped to the last page, which was empty, and stared at it. If she were to add anything, what would she add? She took a pencil off Jamie's desk, then absently began to draw. She wasn't much of an artist, but after a time, a scene began to take shape. Jamie had asked her to think on what she would have if she could have anything, who she would share her life with if she could share it with anyone in this century or hers. He suggested she write it down where she might have it to look at later. She supposed drawing it was equally as acceptable.

  She drew the sea as it rolled ceaselessly against the shore. A house began to appear on the beach, and as she drew it, she realized she'd dreamed it. It looked nothing like her keep, nothing like Thorpewold, nothing like Mrs. Pruitt's inn. The more she drew, though, the more at peace she felt. Ah, that such a place might be hers in truth.

  And that she might have a man to share it with.

  That man being, of course, Thomas McKinnon.

  She shut the book, then debated whether she should take it with her to show him or leave it behind and show him later. She opened Jamie's desk drawer and put the volume inside it. She would probably need two hands to wrap around Thomas. Best she not have anything to distract her from that embrace.

  Assuming, of course, that he was amenable.

  She went to he
r room to fetch her coat, then looked at Duncan's knife sitting on her night table. In her time, she'd never left the keep without a knife, once Duncan had taught her to wield it. Perhaps 'twas right that she should take it with her even now. Mayhap she would need to brandish it at Thomas to convince him she was in earnest about having recognized the feelings of her heart for what they were.

  She tucked the knife into the back of her jeans, then descended the steps to the great hall. It was still early, but she was surprised to find the hall empty. Surely, though, Ian's household would be up by now.

  She stepped out into the crisp December chill and found herself enormously grateful for the warm clothes Thomas had bought her. She toyed with the idea of repaying him for them, then discarded it. He had done it out of love for her. She would take some of the money Jamie had given her for an inheritance and buy him something that pleased him.

  Or she would hoard it for their children. They would need things along the way. Or perhaps she would save it for an inheritance for them when she was gone. That she actually had something of value to leave anyone was a miracle. She was grateful to Jamie for it.

  She walked around the castle and through the east forest. Ian's house was past the little lake and over the field. Jamie had drawn her a careful map and bade her be wary of where she stepped. She had almost laughed, then she had realized how serious he was. Judging by the fact that she was now a mortal and not a ghost, and that thanks to the little gates in his forest, she knew she had cause to believe he knew of what he spoke. Traveling through time was not a matter for jesting.

  So she carefully avoided medieval England—she had been there and had no desire to return—skirted Barbados and Ancient Rome, and made her way across the far meadow to

  Ian's house. Her heart lifted with every step she took. Not that it was a particularly beautiful morning, for it wasn't. It was cold and threatened rain. But to her mind, the sun was shining and the flowers were a blaze of color. Her heart was light. What else could she have asked for?