by Lynn Kurland
A vision of her washed over him: Victoria with her hair undone, sitting in that chair before a fire, looking at him with tears in her eyes and pleading with him to . . . to . . .
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Connor turned around and saw her standing at the door. He realized then that he was halfway across the room. He managed a formal nod.
“The fault is mine,” he said. “I was . . . I seem to be having these, well, waking dreams.” He paused and looked at her. “I’ve no other way to describe it.”
“Waking dreams,” she repeated. “How interesting.”
He frowned. “Do you think me daft?”
“No,” she said. “But you do need some clothes.”
He looked down at his pink towel, then back up at her. “I frightened the guests.”
“Were you wearing the towel?”
“Not at first.”
She laughed.
And Connor was tempted to find somewhere he could sit.
By the saints, the wench was breathtaking. He felt his way down into his chair before the hearth and looked at her. Her hair was loose. She was wearing those strange blue trews he had seen her in . . .
In his dreams.
He shook his head sharply, but the image did not cease to place itself upon her person. He blinked a time or two, then surrendered. If his poor fogged brain wished to believe that he had dreamed her, he would not fight it.
Blue trews and a white tunic with buttons down the front. Ah, buttons. He’d heard tell of them. He would have to examine them later, when he thought he could get close enough to look without hauling her into his arms and kissing her senseless.
He felt his jaw slide down. By the saints, where had that come from?
“Laird MacDougal?” she asked. “Are you unwell?”
“Connor,” he said, hearing the name come out of his mouth and no longer wondering why it was he had no control over his life. He never allowed anyone to use his given name. It had taken him years to unbend enough to let his wife use it.
He had been, he supposed thoughtfully, a bit of a bastard now and then.
“Connor,” she said slowly. “May I call you that?”
“May I call you Victoria?”
She smiled again and it smote him to the heart. “I would like that.”
“As would I.” He felt his head for fever. None. Perhaps the shower had been too much for him. He would settle for a bath the next time and use fewer of those soaps that smelled of fruit.
“My brother probably has clothes upstairs. Do you want to come look?”
“Of course.”
“They might be too small, but we can try.”
“As you will. Anything will improve upon this pink wrap.”
“I doubt that,” she said with another smile, but led him to the door just the same.
And so he found himself following Mistress Victoria McKinnon up the stairs and down the passageway to a very, very fine chamber filled with furniture the likes of which he had never before seen. It belonged in a palace with a king placing his royal arse upon it.
He put his own less-than-royal behind on the bed and bounced a time or two just because, apparently, he was allowed to.
Victoria laughed at him again.
He thought there might be quite a few things he would do to hear that laugh.
“Fancy, isn’t it?” she asked, stroking one of the bedposts.
“Aye, very.”
“It’s sixteenth century.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Made during the time when Elizabeth Tudor was queen.” She looked at him. “Four hundred years ago.” She paused. “She had no children so James the Sixth of Scotland became both James of Scotland and England.”
He listened and wished desperately for a drink. A strong one. “ ’Tis good that a Scot sat on the English throne,” he managed.
“There is a great deal of history you might find interesting.”
“History?”
“Things that have happened from the time you were laird until, well, the present day. But clothes first.” She turned and rummaged about in an armoire. She came up with some clothes and handed them to him. “Here. I think you can figure it out.”
Figure it out was beyond his experience, but he gathered the gist of it. He looked at the clothes in his hands. Blue trews, the same as Victoria wore . . .
Ah, buttons! Connor looked at the ones on the shirt with pleasure. He experimented with them for several minutes, then looked up to thank Victoria, but she was gone and the door was closed. Connor put the shirt and the long-legged trews aside, then stared at what was left.
Undergarments, he supposed. He put the things on his feet and drew up the short trews where he supposed they should go. Next came the long-legged . . . He paused and stared off into space.
Jeans.
The word came to him out of that same place from where his dreams were wont to ooze. He shrugged. Jeans they would be. He pulled them up, fastened the buttons as if he’d been doing the like his whole life, then applied himself to the shirt. It was bested in the same quick fashion. Then he sought out a polished glass.
He frowned. The shirt did not reach where he supposed it should on his wrists, and strained across his chest. The jeans came above his ankles, which did not trouble him, but they were passing tight and he wondered if he might actually be able to sit without damaging important parts of himself.
Well, he would stand until his own clothing was clean. Satisfied that he would not terrify the locals, he opened the door and stepped into the passageway.
And he stopped still.
Victoria stood there, several paces away, leaning back against the wall, her head bowed, her hair swept over her shoulder and cascading before her face. She lifted her head and turned to look at him.
He staggered. Damned uneven doorways. Who had built the bloody inn so poorly?
She was staring at him as if she’d never seen a man before. He scowled.
“Have I dressed myself amiss?”
She shook her head silently, still staring at him in shock. Or perhaps it wasn’t shock.
Lust? Lust was not undesirable. Admiration? Not as complimentary as lust, but it would do in a pinch.
She quickly whipped her hair back into some kind of horse’s tail and looked at him with a decidedly pleasant look.
He frowned. What was she hiding?
“Breakfast?”
“What do you conceal?” he demanded.
She blinked. “Conceal?”
“Hide, woman. You hide your thoughts. I demand you cease with that and tell me honestly what you think.”
“Oh,” she said, but she made little sound doing it. She smiled uneasily. “I was just thinking that it is a pity you have to return home so soon.”
“Because I have dressed in your Future clothes?”
She seemed to give that some thought, then shook her head. “I will miss seeing my time through your eyes,” she said finally.
“Your eyes are leaking.”
“Allergies.”
“Allergies?”
“Flowers make me sneeze.”
“Well, then do not sniff any more of them.” That problem solved, he took the opportunity to gesture toward the stairs. “Breakfast, if you please. Then we will take the day and investigate your wonders. I’ll need to go home tonight.”
“Of course.”
“I want my other clothes as soon as may be. These are a little small.”
“My brother isn’t as tall as you are. But since your other choice was something of mine, I thought these would do.”
“They are a great improvement on the pink towel—which I left upon the bed.” He fetched it, then returned to Victoria. “Food?”
“Always.”
He followed her down to the kitchen, handed Mrs. Pruitt the towel, and sat down to a hearty meal. He enjoyed it as much as he had the day before. Victoria ate today and only sniffed suspiciously in his direction on
ce.
He made a solemn vow: No more fruity soaps.
Once he was finished, he sat back and looked at Victoria. “I wish to see the castle.”
“Of course.”
But as he followed her out from the inn, he wondered why she was being so accommodating. He remembered her as being quite a bit more stubborn.
The thought caught him halfway down the path to the road. He stopped, shook his head, and looked at Victoria.
“I fear if I stay here overlong, I will lose my wits.”
“Go when you need to,” she said quietly.
“But you’ll remain with me until that time?”
“If you wish it.”
“I wish it.”
He found himself with his arm quite suddenly outstretched and bent, in the attitude of escorting a fine lady at an even finer occasion. He gaped at his arm, wondering how it was that even his limbs seemed to now be acting independently of his will and his better sense.
By the saints, he was on the verge of madness.
The saints preserve him if there was no point in trying to rein in any part of his traitorous form. The next thing he knew, his tongue would be spouting flowery compliments to her goodness and singing lays to her beauty.
She put her hand on his arm. He caught his breath.
In a manly fashion, of course.
She looked up at him. Tears were standing in her eyes. He winced.
“By the saints, Victoria McKinnon,” he said, shaking his head, “if it pains you to touch me, you may decline my offer.”
“It doesn’t pain me.”
He grunted. “Then cease with that weeping. I vow you’ll have me unsure of my own appeal soon, and then the angels will be weeping with you.”
She smiled up at him. “I’ll try to stop.”
He nodded and walked with her down the path. They came to the road and turned to go up to the castle. He realized as he was walking along that road that it felt as if he had done it hundreds of times. That wasn’t possible, so he began to look for other explanations. Bad food? Poison? Too little sleep?
Future magic?
By the time he reached the castle gates, he found that he was having trouble breathing.
“Connor, are you all right?”
He looked at Victoria. She was swimming before his eyes, and he realized with horror that he was on the verge of swooning like a weak-kneed woman.
“Come with me,” Victoria commanded. “Connor!”
He snapped to himself and obeyed out of habit. He forced himself to keep up with her as she marched across the inner bailey. He plopped gratefully down onto a stone bench, then leaned his head back against the castle wall.
But when he opened his eyes, it was no better. He could have sworn he saw men gathered in front of him, peering at him with their mouths all agape.
“By the saints!” he thundered. “Begone with you all!”
The lads scattered. Most of them scattered into thin air. Connor stared at a lone straggler, who looked at him, crossed himself, then disappeared. Connor turned to look at Victoria. She was watching him with worry in her eyes.
“What spell is this?” he asked hoarsely. “What devilish work is this I see before me?”
“The stage?”
“Do not jest,” he said roughly. He pointed to where he’d seen the men. Highlanders they had been, for the most part. He was almost certain he recognized Morag’s brother amongst them. “Those men. Who were they?”
Victoria took a deep breath. “Ghosts.”
“Ghosts,” he repeated. He looked at her, then found that his fine form had not deserted him after all. He gave vent to a mighty snort of derision. “I do not believe in ghosts.”
She looked at him in surprise, then smiled wryly. “I didn’t, either. Before.”
“Do you now?”
She shrugged. “We’re in Scotland.”
“The Lowlands,” he reminded her.
“Well, it’s still Scotland and Scotland is a magical place.” She tilted her head to look at him. “Remember the fairy ring?”
He pursed his lips. “Aye, there is that.”
“I don’t think that’s the only gate between the Past and the Future here in Scotland.”
“Don’t you?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t believe easily in things I can’t see,” she said. “But I’ve seen those ghosts before. And I told you the inn is haunted, didn’t I?”
“I haven’t seen any ghosts there,” he blustered.
“I think they’re on holiday.”
“Foolishness.”
“Whatever you say,” she said with a smile.
He studied her for a moment. “Your Gaelic has improved.”
“I was nervous there at your hall.” She shrugged and looked down at her feet.
“Why did you bother?”
“So I could warn you.”
“Indeed?” He looked at her in surprise. “No other reason?”
“No other reason.”
He pondered that for a moment or two, then rose and made her a low bow. “Then I thank you, Victoria McKinnon, for my life. Now, let us be away from here. This quarterdeck here makes me uneasy. It tugs at me in a way I do not care for.”
“Then what about supper?”
“A wonderful idea,” he agreed. Then he paused. “Is it too soon?”
“It’s never too soon for a meal. Especially when you compliment Mrs. Pruitt on her cooking.”
“Then I will endeavor to dredge up a nice word or two.” He offered her his arm again, but this time it did not feel strange. Indeed, it seemed as if it was something he had wanted to do for a very long time. He looked at her.
“I will go home,” he said, realizing that he sounded a bit desperate. “Soon.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“I think I will be sorry not to see you anymore.”
She looked up at him. He frowned.
“You’re weeping again.”
“Allergies.”
“Hmmm,” he said, nodding. He walked with her away from the castle, not giving in to the impulse to look back and see if he could see the ghosts again. The path to the inn was shorter this time and he knew what to expect when he got there.
Except there was a shiny box with wheels sitting before the inn now. Perhaps it had been there the last time and he hadn’t noticed it. He was halfway up the path when the door to the inn opened and a dark-haired man stepped out. Connor came to a standstill so quickly that he almost jerked Victoria off her feet. He reached out to steady her, then realized he had forgotten his sword.
By the saints, if that wasn’t indication of his pitiful state, he didn’t know what would be.
“Fetch me my sword,” he hissed. “Go ’round to the kitchen. I’ll distract this one with my bare hands.”
“Connor—”
“Go!”
She sighed and went.
“Run!” he bellowed.
She ran, but without enthusiasm. Connor stood there tapping his foot, swearing, and wondering if he should just do in the man facing him with the knife in his boot. It took far too long, but finally Victoria came back out the front door, damn her for a silly wench, and brushed past the man, who stood there with his arms folded, watching Connor with no expression on his face. Victoria handed him his sword.
“There. Now what?”
Connor shrugged. “I know not. I feel this overwhelming desire to kill that man.”
“You’re wearing his clothes.”
“They’re too small. That must be part of it.”
“That’s my brother, Thomas.”
“That could be adding to it.”
Her brother, Thomas, pushed away from the door. “Vic, get my sword, will you?” he said in a friendly voice. “It’s propped up against the reception desk. I just had the feeling I might need it.”
“Are you out of your mind?” she demanded, turning to look at him.
Connor admired the way she put her
hands on her hips and bellowed. She was a formidable wench. But now she was standing in the way of his swordplay, so he nudged her forward with a gentle push.
“Fetch his sword. Let us see if it is sharp.”
She looked at him, looked back at her brother, then threw up her hands and went into the house.
Connor grinned.
The other man grinned in return.
Connor reconsidered. Maybe his time in the Future would be more worthwhile and exciting than he dared hope. Victoria McKinnon and her beauty, Thomas McKinnon and his sword. Connor flexed his fingers and chortled happily. If nothing else, he would have a pleasant afternoon.
He would think about returning home later.
Chapter 31
Victoria spotted Thomas’s sword leaning against Mrs. Pruitt’s reception desk. She picked it up and admired it. It looked to have seen a bit of action, probably when he’d gone back to rescue Iolanthe. She should have grilled him more about his escapades in the past while she’d had the chance at Camp Medieval. Unfortunately, she’d been too busy trying to develop her own skill set so that she didn’t get her throat slit ten minutes into the Past to ask him too many questions about the mileage on his blade. She would take him to task later—maybe after Connor went back home and she was wallowing in despair. It would take her mind off her misery.
She marched out the front door and threw her brother’s sword at him, hoping it would plunk him between the eyes and knock him out, thereby avoiding what she was certain would be a bloodbath.
She retreated to the safety of a side path to watch. She wasn’t sure what she worried about more—that Thomas would kill Connor or that Connor would kill Thomas. She was pretty sure she knew what Connor was capable of.
Of course, she’d also watched her brother train with Jamie, Patrick, and Ian, and noticed impassively that he wasn’t far behind any of them in skill. Well, except Jamie. Jamie lacked nothing and augmented his skill with sheer presence.
Sort of like Connor.
She came to the conclusion that the battle due to begin any moment might just be a draw.
They crossed swords. There was a shriek from one of the upper windows. Their blows rang out again.
“By the saints, will ye move yerself?” a weak, feminine voice demanded crossly.
“Oh, sorry, love,” Thomas said, standing aside so Iolanthe could come outside. “The best seats are over there.”