Much Ado In the Moonlight

by Lynn Kurland

  “Breathe,” he instructed.

  She nodded. She had to put her head between her knees. She half expected that when the sitting room stopped spinning, Connor would no longer be sitting across from her.

  But when the stars cleared and she could see again, he was where she had left him, sitting quite comfortably in a wooden chair of his own making.

  “I’m sorry,” she said weakly. “I’m sorry to have asked, sorry to have suggested the play—”

  “Are you?” he interrupted. “Do you think I am unequal to the task?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “I actually think you would do a very good job. I’m sorry for the memories it dredged up.”

  He shrugged. “They are never very far below the surface anyway, so you did nothing that a thousand other small things during the day don’t do on their own. Who knows that this might be of a purging nature, to settle my humors—”

  Victoria opened her mouth to agree that it very well might, when she heard a ruckus in the entryway.

  Michael’s voice soared above the rest.

  It was not a sober voice.

  Connor’s expression was grim. “I could see to them all, if you liked.”

  “If I thought I could allow it without most of my actors bolting for the nearest airport, I would take you up on the offer.” She sighed and rose. “I’ll handle it, but thank you just the same.”

  He stood as well. “And my thanks for the aid with my lines.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “Nay, the pleasure was mine.”

  Victoria was just certain that she was feeling faint from the thought of lost sales and bad press thanks to actors with hangovers. It couldn’t have had anything to do with the man standing not three feet from her who made her feel small, fragile, and protected.

  Good heavens, she was losing her mind.

  “I have to go,” she managed.

  He took a step back, then made her a very low bow. And when he straightened, his gray eyes were full of something that was not at all hostile or irritated.

  Then again, her own eyes could have been crossed from too much speculation on the emotions being entertained by the medieval laird of the Clan MacDougal, who was not only out of her league, but out of her century and out of her mortal sphere, as well. Besides, she was infatuated with Michael Fellini.

  She was.

  She was almost certain of it.

  “Gotta go,” she said, then she turned and bolted from the sitting room. She ran right into a gaggle of performers, who staggered about the entryway in a most convincing manner. Now, here was a problem she could solve with a loud voice and a few threats.

  She wasn’t at all sure how she was going to solve the dilemma she’d left in the sitting room.

  Chapter 9

  Connor stood on the newly completed stage behind the deceased King of Denmark and wondered, very briefly, if he might have set himself to a task for which he was not particularly well suited. Never mind that he had blurted out all his secrets the day before as if he hadn’t a thought in his empty head.

  Nay, his troubles lay before him. By the saints, could this fool do nothing but stride about and moan in that ghostly fashion? Was this acting?

  He thought not.

  “Adieu!” the ghostly king bellowed suddenly. “Remember me!”

  “By the saints,” Connor exclaimed, “I daresay we won’t have a bloody chance to forget you, what with all that noise you’re making!”

  Hamlet’s dead father continued bellowing his parting words, accompanying them with the moans a man is wont to make when he has ingested victuals that do not agree with him. Connor rubbed his ears in annoyance as he watched the would-be shade make his exit stage right, finally disappearing behind a handy bit of scenery and giving vent to one final moan that Connor could only assume was intended to convince all and sundry that he was indeed a ghost.

  Pitiful.

  Connor looked at Victoria to see how she was reacting to this piece of particularly bad acting.

  She was standing there with her arms folded over her chest, her expression inscrutable. Connor supposed she was afraid to show her true emotions lest the king of Denmark burst into tears.

  He had watched her, surreptitiously of course, herd all her actors to their chambers on Sunday. The tongue-lashing she had given them had led to a cessation of all pub visits by those so chastised. Connor suspected that was her intent.

  Connor leaned back against a bit of scenery and watched the rest of the play unfold. Or, rather, he watched Victoria watch the remainder of the play proceed. He’d told her he would call her Mistress McKinnon, but he realized, with a start, that such was not how he thought of her.

  Victoria.

  He wondered, as he watched her watch the play, how she would have been on stage with that flaming red hair and her face a marvel of creation. She likely would have made that bleating sheep Cressida look much like . . . well, a bleating sheep. Connor wondered how it was Victoria could bear watching Cressida’s descent into Ophelia’s madness without wanting to slap her briskly a time or two and bid her get on with it. Connor blamed Michael Fellini. He had spent more than enough time instructing Cressida in his particular brand of pitiful acting.

  But Victoria merely stood there, impassive, and let the play unfold as it would. And when it was finished, she bid her actors be about their business and prepare for another attempt at the beginning of the following se’nnight.

  But only a fool couldn’t have seen that she was less than pleased with their efforts.

  Most souls scurried past her and bolted for the gates. Fred chatted with her for several minutes and seemed impervious to her measured, even answers. Mary barked out orders to her seamstresses, then came and hopped up onto the stage. She sat on its edge and glanced back at him. She nodded toward the spot next to her. Pleased, Connor walked across the stage and dropped down to sit with her.

  “Good morrow to you, lady,” he said politely.

  “You could call me Granny,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye.

  “It seems disrespectful, somehow,” he said seriously.

  “Then call me Mary.”

  “Lady Mary,” Connor countered. “ ’Tis all I can do.”

  “It works for me.” She nodded toward Victoria. “She’s not pleased.”

  “Aye, so I gathered.”

  “We open in less than a week. The cast is still making mistakes.”

  “I cannot lay those at Victoria’s feet,” Connor said seriously. “But I can lay them at Fellini’s.”

  Mary nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s my feeling, too.” She looked at Connor and smiled. “It’s too bad you can’t give him a little scare.”

  “Ambrose attempted that and all it served was to make the man soil his trousers,” Connor said, feeling his nose turn up of its own accord. “And Ambrose doesn’t dare do more, lest the coward turn tail and flee, leaving Victoria without a Hamlet.”

  “You’re certainly friendly of late with the lads down at the inn,” Mary said, looking at him assessingly. “Softening toward those dastardly MacLeods?”

  “Desperate for a captain for my guard,” Connor corrected. “I’ve managed, in spite of my heavy schedule shadowing Denmark’s sniveling king, to weed out several more candidates. I fear I must begin to look farther afield. It reduces me to asking Ambrose for suggestions.”

  “How awful for you.”

  “My lady, you’ve no idea.”

  Mary laughed. “You are a delightful man. I don’t know why Thomas told me to be careful around you.”

  “Perhaps I threatened to cleave his head in twain once too often,” Connor offered.

  “Perhaps,” she agreed with a smile. “I promise not to tell him how kind you’ve been. I wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation . . . Connor.” She smiled at him. “May I call you Connor?”

  “Is it possible to stop you?”

  “I doubt it,” she said with a laugh.

  “Then you ma
y,” he said, feeling himself begin to smile.

  It felt quite odd.

  Indeed, he wasn’t sure the last time he’d done the like.

  “Don’t show that smile to Vikki,” Mary said in a conspiratorial whisper. “At least not until the run is over. She won’t be able to concentrate otherwise. Not that she would say anything, of course. She’s quite closed-mouthed about you.”

  “She is?”

  “I imagine you had quite a conversation while I snoozed last Sunday in the sitting room.”

  He looked at her darkly. “Did you eavesdrop?”

  “I did my best,” she said unrepentantly, “but an old woman apparently needs her rest. I’ve been trying to pry details out of her for almost a week.”

  “And?” Connor demanded. Damn that Victoria McKinnon. No doubt she had blathered on like the woman she was—

  “She wouldn’t give,” Mary said. “I tried guilt, even. Nothing. Nada. Nichts. I’ve had to carry on, unsatisfied.”

  Connor blinked. “She said nothing?”

  “Nothing. But if you aren’t busy later, I’d like all those details myself.”

  “Shameless old woman,” Connor said easily.

  “Of course.”

  He thought he might have smiled. He suspected it might have had something to do with the fact that Victoria McKinnon could apparently be trusted with his secrets.

  Astonishing.

  “Perhaps you’ll divulge a few of those juicy tidbits later this afternoon,” Mary said. “Let’s go on a picnic. We need to get Vikki out of here. There’s nothing she can do to improve things and she’ll only spend the afternoon worrying if I don’t do something to distract her—oh, damn it, anyway.”

  Connor blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Look,” Mary said, nodding toward where Victoria stood.

  With Michael Fellini.

  Connor understood immediately.

  “I’ll go tell her to buck up,” Mary said firmly.

  And with that, she hopped off the stage with the energy of a woman half her age and bounded over to where Victoria was being beguiled by that slippery snake.

  “Michael, if you’ll excuse us,” Mary said loudly, putting her hand to her head, “I’m feeling a little faint all of a sudden. I need Vikki to help me back to the inn.”

  “I’d be more than happy to offer my arm,” Fellini said gallantly.

  “No, I’m sure you have places to go,” Mary said smoothly. “Besides, we’re going to have a little picnic and I can’t imagine that would interest you—”

  “A picnic,” Fellini said, sounding as if he’d been invited on an outing by the Queen herself. “I’ll carry the basket.”

  Mary discouraged, she hinted broadly, she even bluntly told him he was not wanted. Connor was unsurprised to see that the man remained unmoved.

  Unsurprised, but deeply suspicious.

  He would have followed them, but at that moment Ambrose strode into the bailey. He spoke politely to Mary and Victoria, then hopped up onto the stage.

  “A bit of training, MacDougal?” he asked.

  “I might stir myself for it,” Connor said absently. He watched Victoria and her granny leave the bailey. He didn’t like leaving them on their own with Fellini, but perhaps they would fare well enough. Mary MacLeod Davidson was fierce and with any hope, she would keep Victoria on task. The wench was far too friendly with Michael Fellini for his taste.

  “Hmmm,” Ambrose said meaningfully.

  Connor looked at him sideways. “Eh?”

  Ambrose shrugged. “Idle thoughts.”

  “Do you have any other kind?”

  Ambrose laughed. “Occasionally. But presently, I daresay my thoughts are as they should be. You know, I worry about those two defenseless women being out on their own. Indeed, I think that perhaps I should forgo the pleasures of the sword and accompany them on their outing—”

  “I’ll go.” Connor heard the words come out of his mouth and could not for the life of him think of where they had come from. “I’ll go?” he repeated experimentally.

  “I don’t know,” Ambrose said doubtfully. “It isn’t as if you have any fond feelings for either of the two. Who’s to say that if something untoward happened, you wouldn’t leave them to a terrible fate . . .”

  Connor drew himself up. “I am quite fond of them both,” he said stiffly. “And if nothing else, my honor would demand that I do what was needful.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Indeed,” Connor said. “Allow me to take a moment to let my sword speak for me and argue that point.”

  “As you will,” Ambrose agreed.

  Connor found the stage to be a rather handy place to fight. There were boxes stacked here and there, and thrones for Hamlet’s mother and uncle, and even a handy coffin that had been pushed aside until it was needed. Connor leaped about the stage, bounding off various props with relish. It had been centuries since he had felt so at home, or so much himself. Aye, this was the kind of fighting for him, where a daring lad had all manner of natural outcroppings to use for better leverage.

  “Oh, look, there they go,” Ambrose said, pointing suddenly at the front gates. “Oh, and there is Fellini, trailing after them, as well.” He turned back to Connor. “But we’ll leave them to their fate, I suppose. This is more manly labor here . . .”

  Connor stopped in mid-lunge, pulled back, then resheathed his sword with a mighty thrust. “Perhaps you see it as such, but I do not. What kind of man is it who leaves women to protect themselves when there is breath left in him to heft a sword in their defense?”

  He expected to see Ambrose bristle. Instead, the man hastily covered a cough with his hand.

  “Too true,” Ambrose said quickly. “I admire you for your convictions. Best be off, then, and see to your charges.”

  Connor frowned fiercely, but that seemingly did not impress the former laird of the clan MacLeod. Then again, those MacLeods were a feisty lot, so perhaps it took quite a bit for Ambrose to take notice.

  And then another thought occurred to him. Did Ambrose want him to go watch over Victoria and her grandmother?

  Did it matter?

  Connor decided that it did not. Truth was truth and the truth of the matter was he was the better warrior. If those two women were to be looked after, ’twas best he be the one to do it.

  “Until midnight then, in the kitchen as usual,” Ambrose said, resheathing his own sword. “I have a new reader or two.”

  “Ach, by the saints,” Connor groaned, “no more tales of those American bairns. If I must read any more about the adventures of Dick, Jane, and that bloody hound Spot—”

  “Nay, these are proper Scottish tales. Bloodshed. Mayhem. Victory and glory for Highlanders.”

  “Then I will be there,” Connor said as he jumped off the stage and strode out the front gates.

  He followed the little party to a handy spot in a farmer’s field. Victoria and Mary lugged the basket while Fellini strode about artistically, no doubt studying his surroundings for things to use in his portrayal of Hamlet. Connor was hard-pressed not to draw his sword and indulge in a portrayal of an irritated Highland laird.

  He didn’t, only because he couldn’t decide who he should use his sword on first: Victoria because she was staring at Fellini in fascination, or Fellini, just for general purposes.

  So he made himself comfortable in the shade of a nearby grove of trees and watched the goings on with disgust. Mary ate, but did not seem to enjoy her food. And how could she, with all that overacting going on right there before her.

  Victoria didn’t eat either, but that was because she was too busy gaping at Fellini and hanging on his every word. Connor was tempted to tell her to tuck in properly to her bangers and mash and tell Fellini to go to hell, but ’twas none of his affair, so he kept his suggestions to himself.

  Fellini managed to ingest all the rest of their food, yet keep up a steady stream of conversation that left Connor struggling to stay awake. By the sain
ts, the man was irritating in the extreme.

  Fellini finally dabbed at his lips with a bit of white cloth, then rose. “Victoria,” he said imperiously, “come with me. I have things to discuss with you.”

  Victoria, not looking nearly as irritated as she should have, rose. “Granny, will you be all right?”

  “Of course, darling.”

  “We won’t go far.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll keep busy.”

  Victoria nodded, then followed Fellini off into the distance. Connor stepped from behind the tree he’d recently appropriated as a hiding place, and watched her go. She looked weary. He supposed he understood. After all, how was she to have any energy at all when she had to spend it on those obnoxious actors?

  He thought about that for quite a while, then realized with a start that Mary had turned to look at him.

  “Connor, come and sit.”

  He sighed and unbuckled his sword, then came to sit down next to her on the blanket.

  “What an unpleasant afternoon,” he said bluntly.

  “Isn’t it?” she mused. “Let’s speak of something else before I go do that man an injury.” She smiled at him. “Tell me how you are passing your days at present. Is it a complete distraction to have Vikki’s company in your hall, or are you managing?”

  “It is a distraction from my main purpose of finding a captain for my garrison, but I am managing to conduct searches in spite of it.”

  “Must you really conduct a search?” she asked. “Surely men line up for the privilege.”

  “One would suppose that to be the case, wouldn’t one?” he asked. “Damn me, if I don’t have to prod them into that line with my sword!”

  “It hardly bears thinking on.”

  Connor liked Victoria’s grandmother more all the time. Not only did she immediately appreciate the difficulties of commanding a garrison, she possessed the most interesting implements of death he had ever seen.

  “What are those delightful bits you have there?” he asked, peering at them closely.

  “Knitting needles,” Mary said, holding a pair up for his inspection. “These are steel ones.”

  “Do they bend?” he asked, terribly interested.