My Heart Stood Still

by Lynn Kurland

  "And to you, my laird."

  "Thomas sent word that he'd like to come fetch you, if you were willing."

  Her heart sang so suddenly that she felt a blush come to her cheeks. "Did he?" she asked faintly.

  "Aye. You can ring him, if you like."

  She shook her head. "I think I can find my way there."

  "If you will," he said doubtfully. "See that Thomas brings you home before the evening is out."

  She looked at him blankly. "Does it matter?"

  "I'd say it does. He has no business keeping you at Ian's all night till he weds with you."

  "He hasn't asked me to wed with him, my laird," she said quietly.

  "Well," Jamie said, folding his arms over his chest, "I should think that would be his first task."

  "Am I to prod him about it, then?" she asked crossly. "I can't force the man!"

  Jamie uncrossed his arms, walked across the chamber, and kissed her soundly on the forehead.

  "He'll ask soon enough, I'll warrant. But until he has and you're wed, you'll sleep under my roof. I'll take my blade to him otherwise. You'll remember that I'm the one who taught your love most of his swordplay. Should we need to settle our arguments either with blades or a wrestle, he'll not come away victorious."

  "Aye, my laird."

  "I don't suppose you need men to see you to Ian's, what with that garrison of yours cluttering up my hall."

  Iolanthe was still a little stunned by the fact that she now held the fealty of forty Highlanders.

  "Aye," she managed. "I suppose I'll be safe enough."

  "Then off with you, my girl. Mind your step."

  "Perhaps a few signposts wouldn't be planted amiss on those particular parts of your land, my laird."

  "Ah," he said with a twinkle in his eye, " but where's the sport in that?"

  Sport wasn't exactly what she would call suddenly finding oneself in another century, but perhaps Jamie had a different perspective on it. He certainly had more practice at it than she did.

  She bid her laird good-bye, tucked her book under her jacket, and made her way from his hall, collecting a mighty guard on her way. She felt quite safe surrounded by the fierce men who had chosen to accompany her. Her only regret was that her father couldn't have seen the like. She felt an echo of that sentiment in her soul and suspected that she'd passed a great many years thinking the same thing.

  Her self-appointed personal guard walked into Ian's kitchen with her and would have continued on into his great room had she not looked at them with a frown.

  "I'm safe," she said.

  "We're sworn to ye, lady," one of the fiercer of the lads said. "We'll protect ye at any cost."

  Iolanthe looked at Thomas sitting rather harmlessly in front of the fire.

  "I daresay I'll be safe enough with him," she said.

  The men grumbled a little but retreated to the kitchen. She scowled at them, but they, to a man, folded their arms across their chests and scowled back at her. So, they were refusing to retreat any further.

  "Oh, you came," Thomas said, looking enormously pleased. "I would have come for you."

  "The walk served me," she said with a smile.

  "And you did have your army accompanying you," he agreed. He rose and took her hand. "What's the deal? Don't they trust me?"

  She shrugged helplessly. "I've no idea. They seemed determined to fulfill their obligation quite thoroughly."

  Thomas led her over to the couch and sat down with her. "It has to be flattering. You'll notice they didn't go down on bended knee to me. They like you. And they respect you, which probably means more."

  "I don't know what I did."

  "I'm sure they'll tell you if you ask."

  She wasn't sure she wanted to know. She was beginning to suspect that what she really wanted was some privacy so

  Thomas could ask her any questions that might be burning inside him at present.

  Damnation, but would these ghosts never give her any peace?

  And now more of them! She scowled as Ambrose MacLeod, Hugh McKinnon, and Fulbert de Piaget came strolling into the great room as if they had a right to. Duncan came as well, but she couldn't fault him for it. After all, he was her closest kinsman.

  Chairs appeared as if they had conjured them up out of thin air, tankards of ale were hefted in a spirited manner, and talk revolved for quite some time around Thomas's performance two days before. By the saints, hadn't they discussed that enough already? The men criticized, complimented, and considered Thomas's showing until Iolanthe was heartily sick of ghosts, swordplay, and ancestors who should have known when to take their leave so that Thomas might be about the business of asking her to be his wife.

  Assuming he wanted her to be his wife.

  Fulbert stood up with a grumble. "I can tell we're no longer wanted." He scowled at her. "Mind yer thoughts, missy. Yer shoutin' 'em at me."

  Iolanthe felt her jaw slide down of its own accord.

  Fulbert tossed his mug into the fire and disappeared.

  Hugh stood up and made her a low bow.

  "Don't mind him," the former laird of the clan McKinnon said kindly. "He's a sour sort. I'll see to him for ye, if ye like."

  She could only nod as she made a valiant attempt to retrieve the lower half of her face from where it currently rested on her chest.

  Ambrose stood finally and looked at her. "Too much talk of warring does become tedious, daughter. But I thank you kindly for sharing your man with us this morning. He showed himself very well, didn't you think?"

  "Aye," she managed in a strangled voice.

  "Good afternoon to you then, Iolanthe, my dear," he said, as he turned and walked through the wall.

  The illusionary chairs vanished. Well, all except the one that still contained Duncan MacLeod. He looked primed to leave as well, but Thomas held up his hand.

  "Duncan, please stay."

  Iolanthe would have protested, but for the look in Thomas's eye. And his tone. There was a seriousness in his voice she'd never heard, and she wondered if it could but betide something foul. She felt herself grow unaccountably nervous.

  "Thomas," she began, "perhaps 'tis I who should leave—"

  "Why?" he asked, looking at her with surprise. "Do you want to go?"

  "Nay," she said slowly, "but perhaps my wishes should not matter."

  "They matter most of all," he said. "They always have. Well," he added quickly, "except for when I said I was going to use the time-travel gate in Jamie's forest. You were hopping mad about that, and I ignored you." He smiled at her. "I'm sorry."

  "You aren't," she said with pursed lips.

  He smiled. "You're right, I'm not." His smile faded, and he wiped his hands on his jeans.

  Iolanthe could hardly believe it, but he looked nervous.

  "I need to talk to you," he said. "And Duncan needs to stay and hear it."

  Was he going to tell her he was leaving? That he'd changed his mind and didn't love her? That killing to save her had left such a bad taste in his mouth that he couldn't look at her anymore?

  He stood.

  And she thought she might be ill.

  He fished about in his pocket for something, then knelt down in front of her.

  Well, that was promising.

  "I hope," he began, "that I'm not being too hasty about this."

  He stopped.

  She frowned. "Be hasty," she said. "I think I've waited long enough."

  "Hey," he said, sounding aggrieved. "You haven't been the one Ian's been grinding into the dust every day over here for almost a month."

  "Nay. I was the one haunting the walls of Thorpewold for six centuries."

  "All right," he conceded, "you win." He took her hand in his and looked at her with affection shining in his eyes. "I love you, Iolanthe MacLeod. I loved you from the moment I saw you, and there hasn't been a day since where I haven't either wallowed in it or fought it." He smiled. "I didn't fight it for very long."

  That was romantic
enough, she supposed. Her great-grandmother would have approved.

  "I am willing to give my life for yours, if need be," he continued. "But more than that, I want to live my life forever intertwined with yours. I will protect you with my body, I will shelter you with my name, and I will work to see you never lack for your needs."

  She wished somehow that she'd had a pen to write that down. They were surely the finest words ever said to her.

  "I'd like," Thomas finished, "to ask you to marry me."

  Aye had almost rolled off her tongue when he interrupted her.

  "But I should ask your father first."

  "My sire?" she said, in surprise. "My sire? Why in the bloody hell would ye ask that damned fool?"

  A romantic? Why, the man was an idiot!

  Thomas only smiled faintly. She had the intense desire to slap him quite smartly across the face.

  "I'd ask him," Thomas said quietly, "because he's sitting right there, waiting for me to."

  And then he quite slowly and deliberately turned to look at the other man in the chamber.

  Duncan MacLeod.

  Iolanthe looked at her cousin. Nay, she was quite sure she wasn't looking at him, she was gaping at him. And he was looking none too pleased with Thomas.

  "Lad," he said, blustering about indignantly, "this was hardly the time—"

  "I would like," Thomas said, "to ask you, Duncan MacLeod, for Iolanthe's hand in marriage."

  "Father?" Iolanthe repeated. "Why did you call him my father—"

  She found, quite suddenly, that she couldn't find the words to say anything else. Duncan squirmed and looked as if he wished quite desperately to bolt.

  Iolanthe sat back, speechless. She looked at Duncan and, as she did so, memory after memory washed over her. Duncan standing two paces behind her for centuries, comforting her with a quiet word, a brief touch, a ready ear. Duncan defending her against others who had tried to take her keep from her. Duncan watching over her as she puttered in her illusionary garden. Duncan skewering Roderick on his sword innumerable times to rid her of his annoying presence.

  "Where is Roderick?" she asked suddenly.

  "Won't set foot in Scotland," Duncan answered promptly, then clamped his lips shut.

  "Well," she said. "I suppose there are lines a man cannot cross."

  She looked at Duncan, who currently stared down at his scarred hands and felt the memories of when she'd known him in life and in death layer themselves over each other until she realized that she knew him more thoroughly than anyone else, even Thomas. She knew his skills, knew of his learning, knew of the sacrifice of his own life that Thomas might save hers. And it occurred to her, in a blinding flash, that were she to have the choice of a father, it would have been this man.

  For he had loved her.

  And Malcolm MacLeod certainly had not.

  As for how it had all come about—him being her sire in truth and not Malcolm—perhaps that was better saved for another time. Now, there were more pressing matters to be seen to.

  She looked at Thomas to find him regarding her with a gentle expression. "Well?" she asked briskly. "There's my sire, and I'm proud to call him such. Be about your business."

  Duncan looked up in surprise, and his eyes grew quite bright, as if they were filled with tears.

  Thomas's eyes were just as suspiciously bright. Then he blinked and turned to Duncan. He spoke in Gaelic.

  "Duncan MacLeod, I've known you in two lifetimes, and you've known me. You know I love your daughter, that I would give my life for her, that I would raise my sword in her defense. I will care for her as if for myself, put her comfort before my own, give her children, and see her sheltered. I ask you to give her to me."

  Duncan cleared his throat. "I do know ye, Thomas McKinnon, and trust ye with my life. I trust ye with my daughter's life, as well, for ye've risked yers to save her. She's yers, if she'll have ye."

  Thomas turned back to her. She felt him take her hand and watched as he slipped a ring onto her finger.

  "Iolanthe MacLeod, will you have me?"

  She hesitated. "I have no dowry."

  "You call that garrison of Highlanders no dowry?" he asked with a smile.

  "I don't know that they'll pledge to you," she admitted.

  "They're your men, Io," he said with a gentle smile. "I wouldn't ask them to be anything else."

  There was a shuffling sound from the kitchen. "We'll pledge to him," one brave voice called.

  "We will not," argued another. "I'm a MacLeod! I'll not place my hand in a McKinnon's!"

  "He's a MacLeod as well, ye fool."

  "Is he now?"

  There was a bit of low grumbling.

  "Aye, through his mother, that's right."

  "Well," said another voice, "half of us could pledge to him and the other half pledge to her."

  "We've already all pledged to her, and I'll not take back me oath!"

  "Nay, we'll find others to come be his men." That voice spoke more strongly. "We're Herself's men, Thomas McKinnon. And ye'll answer to us if ye don't treat our lady proper!"

  "Beggin' yer pardon, laird Thomas," added another.

  Iolanthe looked at Thomas. "I could bid them—"

  "No," he said with a shake of his head, then he smiled at her. "Iolanthe, what I really want is you, not your men, not your castle, and not your piper."

  "Though he is a fine one."

  "He is. But that's not what I want. I want you. I want you to want me. Will you?"

  She put her hands in his, looked him in the eye, and spoke her oath of fealty.

  It seemed the thing to do.

  And it made several tears roll down his cheek, which she supposed couldn't be a bad thing.

  "Well," said a resigned voice from the kitchen, "we're his in the end, it seems. Never thought I'd serve a McKinnon, but there it is."

  "She seems to love him. There's something in that."

  Iolanthe laughed and put her arms around Thomas's neck. "Look what you've bound to yourself. Me and my ghosts and bogles."

  "It's worth it," Thomas said, pulling her off the couch and into his arms. "It's more than worth it."

  Iolanthe closed her eyes as he kissed her. She realized that she'd spent the whole of her life dreaming of this moment, hoping beyond hope that this man would come for her and make her his.

  And then she found that ruminating over those happy memories was simply more than she could do and concentrate on his mouth at the same time. Who would have thought that a mere kiss would undo her so thoroughly?

  And then she found herself immensely grateful that he had such a tight hold on her, for when he began to kiss her more intensely, she felt as if her entire world had begun to spin. All she could feel was his mouth on hers, his hands in her hair, his finely fashioned form pressed up against hers.

  It was bliss.

  And then a male throat or two cleared themselves.

  Iolanthe came to herself to find that she was on her knees being embraced by Thomas who was also on his knees and that they had quite a large group of spectators. Thomas looked at the garrison, who had seemingly found its way into the great room.

  "Privacy?" he suggested.

  "Aye," one man said.

  "Assuredly so, my laird," said another.

  "After ye've wed with her," stated another, the largest of the lot, whose hand caressed the hilt of his sword lovingly.

  Iolanthe found herself deposited back onto the couch without haste, but with a goodly bit of reluctance. She ran her hand self-consciously over her hair and felt Duncan's gaze boring into the side of her head. She hazarded a glance his way.

  "Aye?" she asked hesitantly. "Father?"

  He scowled at her. "Such sweet words will not drive me from here. I can see as how ye need a chaperon to watch over ye until ye're wed."

  "Chaperon?" Thomas asked with a snort. "Why do we need a chaperon? We have a bloody audience!"

  "Plan the wedding," Duncan instructed, folding his arms over h
is chest. "Soon."

  Thomas looked at Iolanthe. "My parents could be here in a couple of days. Is that too soon?"

  She smiled weakly. "Is it too soon for them?"

  "I very much doubt it. My mom has called a couple of times to find out how you were."

  "And if I'd come to my senses?"

  He laughed a little. "Yes, well, that, too. I think she was more worried I'd make an ass of myself and you'd never want to marry me."

  "She knew you wouldn't."

  "I wouldn't test that." He touched the ring on her finger. "That's her wedding band. She sent it with me up here, just in case. If you said yes, she wanted you to wear it until I can get you something you'll like better."

  "That was kind."

  "She's a MacLeod," Thomas said with a smile. "And—"

  "And his sire's a McKinnon," said Hugh McKinnon, appearing out of thin air and pulling up a chair, "which makes Thomas here of fine enough stock, my girl."

  "But 'tis the MacLeod blood that serves him so well," Ambrose said, appearing next to Hugh and pulling up an even finer chair and a hefty tankard of ale.

  Fulbert de Piaget reappeared, dragged up his own chair, and sat down with a grumble. "And I'm not related to either of ye, but ye stayed at me nevvy's hall at Artane—several times removed, ye understand—and ye'll need me good sense plannin' the nuptials, so I'm in as well."

  Thomas put his arm around her, and drew her close.

  "We're doomed," he whispered.

  "I heard that," Fulbert said sharply. He looked at Ambrose. "Ingratitude, that's what that was. The curse of the young ones."

  "Mayhap he's of no mind to have yer suggestions," Hugh said hotly.

  "I've quite a head for plannin' a weddin'!" Fulbert exclaimed.

  Iolanthe leaned her head on Thomas's shoulder and closed her eyes with a smile. She suspected that Thomas might have things aright. They were doomed indeed—

  To have their hall filled with grumbles, and sword fights, and arguments over which clan was superior, and the saints only knew what else. She and Thomas would add their own tales and laughter. Perhaps between the two of them, their children, and their men, they would create something quite magical.

  Assuming they didn't drive each other daft, of course.

  She passed the remainder of the afternoon sitting next to Thomas, holding his hand and leaning her head on his shoulder. And she wondered, as she sat, if she'd either wished for the like desperately or she'd dreamed of it, for it felt very familiar. Indeed, she felt so comfortable and at home that she closed her eyes and let her thoughts begin to wander.