by Lynn Kurland
Of course there was a goodly bit of mystery surrounding Iolanthe MacLeod McKinnon that even a casual observer might find irresistible, but Connor had resisted. Iolanthe was well wed and out from underfoot at Thorpewold. Connor cared little for how she had managed it.
At least he supposed he cared little for it.
It might behoove him at some point to look into it a little more closely.
“I, at least, do know of what I speak,” Jamie said. His expression was serious. “’Tis a most dangerous business, Mistress Victoria, and you must be prepared for an immediate entry into a world which is not your own. The language, the dress, the customs—”
“It’s Shakespeare’s time,” Victoria said. “How much more convenient can it be than that?”
“I don’t think everyone spoke in iambic pentameter, Vic,” Thomas said dryly.
“Don’t be obtuse,” she threw at him. She turned back to Jamie. “I think I could take weeks to prepare and it wouldn’t help. I’ll just go, be discreet, find Granny and that bloody egoist, and get back. How hard can that be?”
“You can’t go alone,” Thomas said with a sigh.
“She wouldn’t be going alone,” Connor put in.
He felt Victoria look at him, but he didn’t dare return the look. The saints only knew what kind of expression she would be wearing.
“And can you protect her?” Thomas asked quietly. “Should a band of drunken men bent on mischief accost her, could you rescue her? Besides terrifying them into insensibility, of course, but what if they’re not the terrifying kind?”
Connor had several nasty replies come to mind, but before he could sort them out and choose the worst of them, Thomas continued on.
“I don’t doubt your skill, which is formidable, or your commitment, which is equally impressive. What I doubt is just the reality of your situation, which, unfortunately, leaves my sister, for all intents and purposes, on her own in a century that is not hers, with no skills to survive it.”
“I’ll come along to help,” came a voice from behind them.
Connor turned in his chair to see Jennifer standing just inside the doorway. She came in farther and let the door close behind her.
“No, you won’t,” Victoria said firmly.
“I will,” Jennifer said calmly. “I’ll distract the locals with troubadour songs while you investigate.”
Victoria looked a wee bit indecisive.
“I’ll earn some money and keep us fed,” Jennifer continued. “You’ll be happy you brought me along.”
Thomas rolled his eyes. “Great. Two sisters and a ghost. If that isn’t the most impossible trio I’ve ever heard of—”
“I took a self-defense class,” Jennifer offered.
“Oh, well, that clinches it,” Thomas said grimly. “By all means, but please dress up as boys, will you?”
“And how will that serve them?” Connor asked pointedly. “Look at them both. Only a fool wouldn’t recognize them for what they are.”
“People look for what they expect to see,” Thomas said. “If they dress like men and act like men, it’s possible they could pass as men.”
Victoria put her hands on the table and rose. “I have to get on with my day. You guys can argue all you like over our costumes; I’m going to go take a shower.” She looked at Connor. “Are you coming with me?”
“To the shower?” Thomas choked, spewing tea all over the table again.
“To the castle, Thomas, to the castle!” She looked at Connor. “I’ll be on my way in half an hour.” She glared at her brother briefly, then stomped from the kitchen.
Connor looked at Thomas narrowly. “You insult her,” he said. “I will see you repaid.”
“It wasn’t intentional,” Thomas said. “I didn’t actually think—well, never mind.”
“Was that an apology?” Connor asked.
“It wasn’t. Add it to the list of things you want to repay me for and we’ll deal with it later.” He mopped up the table slowly. “You know, MacDougal,” he said finally, “I don’t know how either of you will manage this.”
“The journey to find your grandmother?”
“That, too.”
Connor looked at Thomas in surprise, was momentarily tempted to say something unpleasant, then decided perhaps ’twas better to let that go. He took a deep breath. “If I had a life to give, I would protect her with it. As it is, I will do everything in my power to keep her safe.” He glanced at Jennifer. “I will protect your youngest sister, as well.”
The thought crossed his mind that it would have been passing convenient if he could have had some sort of change wrought upon him as he went through that time gate, a change that would have restored to him the life he lost through treachery.
He looked at Thomas. “I will do all within my power.”
“I know you will.”
Connor rose, bowed to Jennifer, nodded to the men remaining there, and left the kitchen. He wandered through the dining room and took up a post in the entryway to wait for Victoria to finish her preparations for the day.
If only a trip into the past might be that which would give him back an existence he could bear . . .
He bowed his head.
The saints pity him for wanting it so much.
Chapter 17
Victoria stood in the inner bailey of the castle, faint from the surprisingly intense morning sunlight, and watched Hamlet progress from beginning to deathly end.
She sincerely hoped it wasn’t an omen.
Michael’s understudy was doing surprisingly well. It helped that he was even more handsome than Michael and that Cressida couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off him. She descended quite happily into madness for him.
Fred was directing. He was not at all pleased by the turn of events, but he’d acquiesced, especially after she’d given him the choice of being in charge of the actors or being in charge of the costumes. He’d accepted her scribbled-on script with loud complaints, but he’d done it, and she couldn’t have asked for more than that. But the fact that she was deserting her play in its perfect location two days before it was supposed to open was indicative of the way her life was going at present.
Not under her control.
She didn’t want to say she was getting used to it. Resigned might have been a better word—resigned to the thought that in the morning she was going to be heading to Renaissance England, where her grandmother and Michael had supposedly gone. At least she had the proper costumes for the trip. Hopefully, none of the Elizabethans would get close enough to her to see the Velcro.
She sighed and walked away to go lean against the wall in the shade. She watched her cast and crew pack up. She’d made a bogus announcement about having to go to London and be interviewed by the authorities. Apparently, Michael had also been called away on important business. She hoped to be back in time for opening night. She had announced that she was assuming Michael would be back as well, which had caused his understudy (and Cressida) serious disappointment.
She was lying so often and so convincingly, she was starting to worry about herself.
There was a little paranormal kerfuffle over by the castle gates. Victoria watched Connor attempt to whip his troops into shape before he bellowed at them in disgust and strode across the bailey toward her.
He was, she had to admit, quite an impressive sight.
He would have made a magnificent Hamlet.
She nodded to herself firmly over that observation. After all, how could she be blamed for looking at the man as potential star material? It was what she did best.
But, generally, leading men did not leave her wishing desperately for something to drink to cure the sudden dryness of her mouth and inability to swallow normally.
Connor looked down at her with a frown. “Nervous?”
“Me?” she rasped. “Never. I’m always up for a challenge. Advance is my favorite word, followed closely by impossible, ill-advised, and insane. Does that do it for you?”
; “Hmmm,” was all he said.
Victoria was afraid to say anything else because if she opened her mouth again, she just might blurt out that she was growing far too accustomed to Connor’s solid, dependable companionship. Her life was completely unraveling around her and apparently her North Star was a grumpy, medieval highland laird.
She shouldn’t have been surprised.
“I suppose I can understand your unease,” he continued conversationally. “The unknown is daunting. I was not unaccustomed to a feeling of apprehension each time I went into battle.”
She looked at him and wondered how it was any group of Highlanders managed not to pee their kilts and run off the other way with their tails between their legs whenever Connor MacDougal walked onto the field.
“You?” she managed.
He paused. “Small amounts of apprehension, of course.”
“Imagine what everyone else was feeling.”
“Likely something akin to unease,” he conceded. “In my case, I found that such discomfort forced me to take greater care than I might have otherwise. I imagine that your actors feel something like it before they perform. Or you, when the play is about to begin.”
“Somehow, what we’re contemplating makes opening night look like a trip to the bathroom.”
He snorted. It sounded almost like a laugh.
“I think you laughed,” she said.
“Never.”
“Connor, if I’m going to die in Renaissance England, I would like to see you smile once before I do.”
“You won’t die if I can prevent it.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Aye.”
She sighed. “At least you’re honest.”
“If death is near, I will smile for you. But do not hold out much hope for that. We’ll fetch your granny and be back in time for the curtain to part here.”
“Michael, too,” she reminded him.
He pursed his lips. “Aye, well, I suppose we’ll need to look for him, as well. I daresay we’ll find him wherever we find our good Master Shakespeare, wouldn’t you think? Or perhaps not. I suggest we first try the locales where overacting is appreciated.”
She suspected he might be right. Unfortunately, she couldn’t, in good conscience, leave Michael to his performing stunts. She could only hope that the job would be done quickly and she would get back home with her runaways intact.
She didn’t want to contemplate the alternative.
She spent the rest of the day trying not to think about what she was planning. By the time night had fallen, she had finished up her theater business and raided the costume shed for costumes that seemed appropriate for two lads journeying through sixteenth-century London. Connor was shown several alternatives, which he managed to recreate without trouble, though he did insist on changing his ghostly garb in private. The first time he came back into the sitting room in poufy trousers and a velvet doublet, Thomas almost choked to death.
“Something less conspicuous,” Victoria suggested.
He glared at her, stomped from the room, then came back a moment or two later dressed in more conservative, guild-member gear. No poufs, less brocade, and fewer baubles. It actually suited him quite well.
“Perfect,” she pronounced.
“What it does is make me your servant,” he groused, gesturing to her finery.
“Not by much. I will trade you, if you like.”
“Trade what for what?” her father asked as he walked into the sitting room. He swept them all with a look. “Are you all fitting yourself in understudy roles?”
Victoria thought it best not to say anything.
Dinner dragged on far too long and she excused herself as soon as was polite. She didn’t usually care about being polite, but she thought that the less her actors were panicked about the upcoming events, the better. All she needed was to have the whole gaggle of them taking flight.
She used her parents’ bathroom, bid them a good night, allowed her father to chalk her red eyes up to opening night stress, and kissed her mother good night.
Mary was unfooled. “I know what you’re doing,” she murmured.
Victoria would have stopped and gaped, but her mother continued to propel her across the room.
“Be careful,” she said as she walked Victoria to the door.
Victoria paused in the doorway. “Have you been talking to Thomas?”
Helen shook her head. “Ambrose.”
“Oh, Mom, not you, too.”
Helen smiled. “It’s in the blood, love. And I appreciate the sacrifice you’re making for your granny.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Connor will see to it,” Helen said confidently.
“Hmmm,” was all Victoria could manage as she nodded, then walked away down the hall. She didn’t bother to ask how her mother knew what Connor might or might not be capable of. For all she knew, her mother had been grilling him while Victoria had been working out the final production kinks.
She continued to reflect on the complete improbability of the whole escapade until she reached the downstairs and had made her way to the library door.
Connor stood there, looking as real and corporeal as any man she’d ever seen.
Maybe it would work.
Then again, since she was the one who had to turn the door handle to get them inside, maybe things would be a little dicey after all.
She pulled her robe tighter around herself and sat down in front of the fire he made with a flick of his wrist.
“How do you do that?” she asked, marveling.
“’Tis just my own artistic nature venting itself in the building of illusionary fires, the creation of high-quality ghostly ale, and designing of incomparable imaginary gear for the Renaissance gentleman with less than he might like in his purse.”
She laughed. “You’ve been consorting with actors for too long.”
“I’ve become a windbag,” he agreed, sitting down across from her. “I vow my men hardly knew what to make of me this morning. My frowns have given way to too much verbiage. I’ll need to remedy it eventually.”
“I like it, actually. Especially when you go on in English and not Gaelic. My head hurts less that way.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve the stomach for it tonight, do you?” he asked, tilting his head to look at her. “Or do you need a distraction from tomorrow’s journey?”
She sighed and looked into the fire. “It just seems so impossible. I saw Jamie disappear, then I saw him come into the dining room several days later dressed in clothes that weren’t his. I’ve sat in the kitchen with my ancestors and chatted about current events.” She looked at him. “And then there is you. I sometimes wonder if I’m dreaming it all. And perhaps I don’t need to tell you that I’m not one to waste much time dreaming.”
He only stared back at her, solemn and silent.
“Don’t you feel that way sometimes?” she asked wistfully.
“The last eight centuries have felt like a dream,” he answered slowly. “But for me, I feel as if I have just recently awakened.”
And then he looked at her.
And she wasn’t sure if she should be happy or devastated that he was a ghost.
“Shakespeare will do that to you,” she managed.
He grunted at her, then looked into the fire. “I imagine he does many things, but this is a change he cannot claim credit for.” He looked at her then, started to say something, then shook his head. “’Tis late, woman. You should be abed. Who knows when we will sleep next?”
“I’ll try.”
“I could sing.”
“I suddenly feel I won’t have trouble at all, thanks just the same.”
He pursed his lips. “I sing very well.”
“Sure, depressing songs about bloodshed and cattle raiding.”
“They are rousing anthems guaranteed to put spine into the weakest of fighting men.”
“Favor me tomorrow, then. Right now, read me something in G
aelic.”
He considered. “Thomas the Tank Engine?”
She laughed. “I was just about to suggest it.” She paused. “You know, you really are doing well. It can be difficult to learn to read when you’re an adult. And you’re learning to do so in two languages at once.”
He pulled the book out of thin air. “Many no doubt envy my skill. Be abed with you, mouthy wench, before all this talking wearies me as well.”
Victoria crawled into bed, pulled the covers up to her neck, and turned toward the fire.
She fell asleep to the deep voice of a Highland laird reading in his native tongue as if he’d been doing it his entire life.
The sun was barely up when Victoria stood with Jennifer and Connor on the edge of the fairy ring. Thomas was there, as was Jamie. They’d managed to ditch Mrs. Pruitt by sending her, with almost all her paranormal equipment strapped to her person, off on a wild goose chase. Jamie had been certain direct contact with the fairy ring could only be a bad thing where the innkeeper was concerned.
Victoria had agreed heartily.
Her parents were not there and Victoria felt that was just as well. Her dad would have had a fit, or leaped forward to stop her, or fallen into the fairy ring of his own accord, and then they really would have been in trouble.
The Boar’s Head Trio was there, though, offering moral support and, in the case of Fulbert, friendly scowls.
Some things never changed, apparently.
Victoria looked at her sister to see how she was handling things. Jennifer looked serene.
“Are you sure?” Victoria began.
“I have a reproduction fife in my bag,” Jennifer said easily. “It’ll be great for earning lunch money. Besides, it can double as a weapon. I thought that made more sense than bringing a violin.”
Victoria frowned. “Tell me again why you gave up such a promising career in the arts to make baby clothes?”
“I don’t like musicians.”
“No, you don’t like to date musicians,” Victoria corrected. “You could easily perform with them. What you should do is marry yourself a nice attorney who plays the guitar for fun and won’t mind when you go to rehearsals three days a week and have a crushing concert schedule. I don’t suppose you play your violin anymore, do you?”