by Lynn Kurland
“For the lessons in Gaelic. For letting me drag actors into your castle. For standing outside my door and protecting me.” She listened to what was coming out of her mouth and wondered when the stream of very personal revelations was going to end. “For sitting here and being my friend.”
Apparently, the stream wasn’t going to end soon.
“Friend?” he repeated, looking somewhat horrified.
“Is that so bad?” she asked, feeling her eyelids becoming very heavy. Maybe she was sleep-talking. Yes, that would be her excuse. I was baring my soul late last night, but it was really just me babbling in my dreams.
Would anyone, namely Connor, buy that?
He was silent for so long she wondered if she had fallen asleep truly.
“It will suffice for the moment, but by the saints it will not do forever.”
She realized she was asleep only because her chin eventually hit her chest. She jerked her head back and it snapped smartly against the wooden chair. She forced her eyes to open. It took her a moment or two to focus on Connor.
He was watching her with a smile.
Which he quickly wiped off, of course.
“I’m hallucinating,” she slurred. “You’re smiling.”
“And you’re drooling,” he returned. “Go to bed before you wrench your neck overmuch.”
She nodded and managed to get herself to bed before she fell asleep on her feet. She managed to get the covers up to her ears before she felt herself slipping into oblivion.
“Friends? Ha!” There was the sound of a manly snort accompanying that declaration.
Then again, she could have been dreaming it.
Chapter 16
Connor used a goodly amount of his strength to lock Victoria’s door before he walked through it and made his way to the kitchen. Dawn was still an hour or two off, but he had the feeling there would be deeds afoot.
He was correct, as he assumed he would be. Ambrose, Hugh, and Fulbert were sitting at the table in the kitchen, a cheery fire burning in the Aga behind them, and comforting mugs of ale littering the table. Ambrose looked up as Connor walked in from the dining chamber.
“Connor,” he said with a smile. “We expected you.”
Connor sat down and conjured up his own mug. “And I expected you wouldn’t be sleeping through matters of this import. Well, what have you discussed?”
“Someone has to go fetch Mary,” Hugh said. “I say ’tis our duty to go.”
“And I say you’ll make a great hash of the plans,” Fulbert grumbled. “I should go alone. ’Tis my century, after all.”
Connor looked at Ambrose to see him stroking his chin in a most James MacLeod-like manner.
“I daresay Fulbert does have a thought worthy of consideration,” Ambrose said, “though he should include me as a creature of that particular age.”
“You’re a Scot,” Fulbert said with a snort. “What do you know of Elizabeth’s London?”
“As much as you, likely,” Ambrose said. “I did my share of traveling and spent my share of time in the London of those days.”
Connor listened to them argue the merits of their particular experiences versus what Hugh, as Victoria’s grandfather might bring to the venture. He drained his cup, then tortured it as he considered the conversation he’d had with Victoria several hours earlier.
Friend.
Damn her, what was she thinking?
She was thinking that he was hardly a man she would look at twice for anything else.
“Connor?”
Connor blinked and looked at Ambrose. “Aye?”
“What are your thoughts on this?”
“My thoughts?” Connor mused. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Victoria vowed to go on her own. Indeed, I would only be surprised if she did not take on this task.”
“And if she does?” Ambrose said. “And I agree with you, by the way, that she will believe herself responsible. If she does make the attempt, will you go with her?”
Connor nodded. “I had already planned to. I daresay she’ll need all the friends she can bring along.”
Ambrose looked at him in surprise for a moment or two, then he began to smirk. Not much and only for the time it took him to put his hand over his mouth as if he yawned, but it was enough. Ambrose held out his hand in a calming motion before Connor could remember where he’d put his damned sword.
Propped up by his chair by the fire in the library, apparently.
“Does she consider you such?” Ambrose asked.
“Apparently.”
“I doubt she means it as an insult,” Ambrose offered.
“I—”
“Though it surely wouldn’t trouble you if she did,” Ambrose interrupted quickly. “Of course. And who’s to say that she’ll wish to go? Indeed, it might be quite ill-advised.”
“Who else is to go?” Hugh asked, cupping his hands about his mug protectively. “Jamie has a wife and bairns; ’twas dangerous enough for him to be about the journey once. Thomas is likewise a lad with a family and cannot leave them.”
“Victoria’s sire could go,” Ambrose said slowly.
Connor snorted. “The man is perfectly blind to what goes on beneath his nose. It must be the McKinnon in him.”
Hugh bristled.
Connor shot him a look that had him reaching for a sheaf of papers and taking refuge behind them.
“What are you reading now?” Fulbert asked.
“The Merry Wives of Windsor,” Hugh responded, peering over the top. “I’ll let you know how it ends.”
Connor had a flash of envy run through him. Even Hugh, coward that he was, could read, while he himself still struggled with it. It would take time, or so Victoria assured him. He could only hope that his future wouldn’t hinge upon his being able to read, or that her future wouldn’t hinge upon her being able to speak Gaelic.
The saints preserve them both if either should be the case.
The debate continued, but with no useful results. The sun still slept as the dining chamber door opened and Thomas walked in. He sat down next to Ambrose.
“Well, laddie,” Ambrose said with a smile, “you’re awake early.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Thomas said, yawning widely. “Any answers yet?”
“Nay, but many questions.”
Connor sat and contemplated the strangeness of sitting companionably at a table with men he had considered his enemies not two months earlier. He was still thinking on that when James MacLeod walked in and took the seat at the head of the table.
“How did you find sixteenth-century England, in truth?” Ambrose asked him.
“The food was vile,” Jamie said bluntly, “and given what I’ve eaten in my time, that says much. I suppose that could have been my lack of funds, though. Is the larder full here, do you suppose?”
Thomas laughed and went to make breakfast. By the time he and Jamie were tucking in to something substantial, the door to the dining chamber creaked open again. Fulbert and Hugh vanished. Ambrose looked primed to flee, but sat back down when he saw it was only Victoria.
Only Victoria.
Connor looked at her and felt his mouth go dry.
By the saints, the wench was fetching, even with her hair slept on and in wild disarray.
And she sat, without even the barest of hesitations, next to him.
It wasn’t as if there weren’t other places vacant. Of course, Hugh and Fulbert took care of those other empty seats immediately after she sat down, but no matter. She had chosen the place next to him.
And then she smiled at him. “You’re awake early.”
Thomas spewed his tea all over his breakfast. “And how,” he gurgled unattractively, “would you know that?”
Victoria looked at her brother with distaste. “Clean up the table, would you?”
“How would you know that his appearance at breakfast today is any earlier than any other day?”
“I know just because I know and the how of it is none of your busin
ess.”
Thomas fetched a rag and returned with it, his eyes twinkling with an unholy amusement. “I see.”
Victoria took the rag from him, cleaned the table, then flung the sopping wet cloth with great force into Thomas’s face.
“Well done,” Connor said approvingly.
Thomas grinned unrepentantly. “She’s not usually this friendly with her bodyguards.”
Friendly. There went that word again. Connor looked at Victoria. “Bodyguard?”
“You know,” Thomas said, “like a garrison knight committed to looking after only one person until he’s relieved of his duties. Bodyguard.”
Bodyguard. Connor turned the word over in his mind. Was that how she considered him? Then again, hadn’t he only offered to protect her?
Nothing more . . .
“Connor’s not my bodyguard,” she snapped.
“Then what is he?”
She seemed to be having trouble speaking. Connor watched her and wondered at the sudden redness of her cheeks.
“Are you unwell?” he demanded. “Poisoned?”
“At a loss for words?” Thomas asked politely.
She took a deep breath. “I’m fine,” she said, looking at Connor. “Thank you for your concern.” She turned to her brother. “If you want to be alive to see that baby be born, you’ll cease and desist. There’s a sword out in the hallway and I can figure out how to use it.”
Connor frowned. He had seen Thomas McKinnon wield a sword. “Victoria,” he said slowly, “I think you should choose another threat.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “Why?”
“Your brother would best you in a sword fight. And saying that does not come without cost.”
“Never let it be said that Connor MacDougal was stingy with his praise,” Thomas said with a grin. “Now, moving right along before my sister thinks of other ways to do me in, what ground have you already covered?”
Connor listened intently, for there was no aid to be offered where there had not been attention paid to the plans, but at the same time he managed to skillfully be aware of everything the woman beside him was doing. First she drummed her fingers on the table. Then she picked at some tea-free bits of her brother’s toasted bread. Then she merely took a knife and began to torture the rest of the bread in earnest.
Connor looked at her face to find she was watching him.
She smiled tremulously, as if she fought tears.
By the saints, he would have given centuries of his afterlife to have held her but once and lent her some of his own strength.
“All will be well,” he said softly.
She nodded with another unsteady smile.
He put his hand over hers on the table before he realized what he was doing, or the futile nature of that gesture. Victoria saw it, though, and looked up at him.
Her eyes were full of tears.
She blinked quite suddenly, then rose. “Anyone need anything else to eat?” she asked briskly.
“Anything,” Jamie said promptly. “Everything.”
Connor watched her take the man’s plate and look for something to put on it. He wondered who had noticed his faux pas. James MacLeod hadn’t. Ambrose was listening intently to Fulbert babble on about which streets to avoid in Renaissance London and Hugh was still buried behind his Merry Wives. Then Connor looked at Thomas.
The fool was looking at him with something akin to pity on his face.
Connor drew himself up and frowned fiercely, his warning frown that always left those thusly frowned upon backing up swiftly before turning tail and fleeing.
Thomas McKinnon only smiled what he no doubt deemed to be an understanding smile. Then he turned to Ambrose and asked questions that gave no indication that he hadn’t been listening fully and without distraction.
Connor looked over Thomas’s head to find Victoria watching him as well. She looked at him gravely for a moment or two before she turned back to the stove.
Friends?
The saints pity him, he was past that.
He thought to examine when and where that might have happened, but he was interrupted by the back door flinging open.
Hugh and Fulbert disappeared with a squeak.
Mrs. Pruitt stood there, dressed in black, her ample bosom heaving.
“He’s gone,” she blurted out.
“What?” Thomas asked.
“Who is gone?” Ambrose asked, then he froze, as if he realized that he had made a grave tactical error.
Mrs. Pruitt fixed her frantic gaze upon Ambrose and her eyes widened even more, if possible. She felt her way across the kitchen and sank into the chair next to him.
“Laird MacLeod,” she said reverently.
“Ah,” Ambrose said, looking around wildly for an escape.
“I can hardly believe ’tis you,” she said, patting her hair quickly. “And me so undone.”
“Good woman, what did you say earlier,” Ambrose said, sounding quite desperate. “Something about someone being gone?”
“Oh, I did, didn’t I?” she said, surreptitiously checking the corners of her mouth.
For froth, apparently, Connor thought sourly.
“Aye, you did,” Ambrose said politely. “Didn’t she, Thomas? And you’ve met Laird MacDougal, haven’t you?”
Connor glared at Ambrose, then turned his least ferocious frown on the innkeeper. “Good morn to you, Mistress Pruitt,” he said.
Mrs. Pruitt seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“Mrs. Pruitt, can I get you a glass of something?” Thomas asked.
Victoria rose and disappeared into the dining room. She came back a moment or two later with a small glass of something Connor suspected was not tea. She handed it to Mrs. Pruitt without delay.
Mrs. Pruitt tossed it back without a flinch.
“Mr. Fellini is gone,” she said, dragging her sleeve across her mouth in a businesslike fashion. “And I would have it on tape, but the blighter seems to have made off with me equipment!”
Victoria sank back down into her chair. “Michael is gone?”
“Popped through that fairy ring, he did,” Mrs. Pruitt said with a nod. “Just as familiarly as ye please.”
Jamie cleared his throat. “Fairy ring?”
“Aye,” she said easily. “The one up the way in Farris’s potato field. I daresay I don’t believe all the rumors, but ’tis said that steppin’ in a ring will carry ye off where ye’ve no mind to go. I know I’d never venture in one.”
“And Michael did?” Victoria managed. “You saw him?”
“With me high-powered night goggles,” Mrs. Pruitt said. “And the only reason I have those left is that I keep them under me pillow in case I need them at a moment’s notice.” She slid Ambrose a look. “Never know when they’ll come in handy.”
Ambrose shivered.
“I followed ’im,” Mrs. Pruitt continued, “because he seemed so suspicious and I feared he was about to make mischief up the way at the castle.”
“That was masterfully done,” Thomas said approvingly. “We never would have known else.”
“Wonderful,” Victoria said with a sigh.
“He’ll need to be fetched,” Connor said.
“Why?” Victoria asked. “Maybe he took a turn at the Inquisition.”
“You have a keen sense of retribution,” Connor said admiringly.
“What goes around, comes around,” she agreed. She sighed and looked at Thomas. “Well, I guess we’re off for double duty.”
“Off where?” Mrs. Pruitt asked.
Connor watched everyone at the table go still. Then Thomas cleared his throat.
“Off to the village,” he said easily. “Unfortunately, we probably won’t be able to dig up any decent rumors about that fairy ring. I think if we had an idea of what’s possible, we might be able to figure out just what Mr. Fellini was up to. It’s just too bad we don’t have anyone with village connections—”
“I’ll go,” Mrs. Pruitt said, leaping to h
er feet and saluting. “And not only will I ferret out all the rumors, I’ll capture them on me video camera.”
“But I thought you said Michael had poached it,” Victoria reminded her.
Mrs. Pruitt sniffed. “Aye, me old one. A newfangled digital recorder arrived this morning. I’ll be about reading the directions for it forthwith, then make me way stealthily down to the village later this afternoon, if that suits?”
“Wonderful, my good woman,” Ambrose said, bestowing a pleased smile upon her.
Mrs. Pruitt fluttered her eyelashes.
Connor recoiled in spite of himself. Why, the woman could terrify the most stern of souls with that bit of business.
He wondered, absently, if he could use a like technique and achieve the same results.
“I am away,” Mrs. Pruitt said, with one last lingering look of pure, unabashed desire cast Ambrose’s way before she exited stage left.
The dining room door closed behind her.
Connor looked at Ambrose. “Are you afraid?”
“Terrified,” Ambrose said frankly.
“You should have parleyed with her during the winter,” Fulbert said, reappearing suddenly.
“Aye,” Hugh agreed, coming in behind him. “Mayhap the chill would have cooled her ardor.”
“I doubt that,” Thomas said with a laugh. “Ambrose has met his doom and she prefers pink fluffy slippers and state-of-the-art electronic gear.”
Ambrose buried his response in his cup.
“Perhaps we should send Mrs. Pruitt to Elizabethan England,” Thomas said.
“The saints preserve us all,” Connor exclaimed.
Ambrose shivered. “The saints only know what sort of trouble that would stir up. Like as not, she would take her wee video camera with her and record Shakespeare at his work.” He shook his head. “Nay, she cannot go.”
“Then who?” Fulbert asked darkly. “Who will do this thing?”
“I’ll go,” Victoria said.
Connor was unsurprised. It was as he had suspected.
“No, you won’t,” Thomas said, just as firmly. “You have no idea what you’re getting in to.”
“And you do?”
Thomas seemed unwilling to answer that. Connor studied him and wondered just what experience the man had with these sorts of gates. There had been rumors, of course, that he had gone back in time to rescue Iolanthe before her untimely murder, but Connor had never been certain he believed it.