by Lynn Kurland
“Didn’t you?”
“It shames me to admit that I didn’t. I fought them and your brother each step of the way. I would not even heed Megan when she tried to aid me after my return to the Future.” She smiled ruefully. “I daresay I was not so polite to you, either, when we met at Ian’s before Christmas.”
Victoria waved away the apology. “I wasn’t in the best frame of mind to make friends, either.” She hesitated. “But with Connor . . . do you think he will remember? Eventually?”
“I would imagine so.” Iolanthe paused for a long moment. “But I cannot speak for him.”
Victoria sighed. “It took you weeks.”
“Aye.”
“It might take him weeks.”
“It might.”
“If it happens at all.”
Iolanthe smiled wanly. “It was a risk you took.”
“I’m getting my just deserts,” Victoria said grimly. And she was. All her fine talk about living and letting live. Ha! Besides, she knew how that lack of control played out. “Look, Ma, no hands!” generally resulted in chipped front teeth.
She wasn’t quite sure what that kind of letting-go would result in when it came to interpersonal relationships. But what she did know was that she couldn’t force Connor to remember; she couldn’t force him to stay.
Damn it, anyway.
“But how could I not have taken that risk?” she asked Iolanthe glumly.
“You had to.” She paused, then smiled. “Look, Thomas is coming up the lane. Perhaps Connor has had a sharp blow to his head and it has shaken a few of his recollections loose.”
Victoria pursed her lips. “You don’t like him.”
“He was a miserable ghost.”
“He’s mellowed.”
Iolanthe smiled again. “Aye, for you he certainly has. I will give him another look.” She got to her feet and swayed.
Victoria leaped to steady her, then found she was just as unsteady on her feet. She looked on in shock as Thomas and Connor climbed out of Thomas’s rental. Thomas looked much as he ever did: good-looking and cheerful. But Connor . . .
Connor had had a makeover.
“Oh, my,” Iolanthe said thickly.
Victoria frowned at her. “You’re married.”
“I have eyes.”
“So do I,” Victoria managed. “And in this case, I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”
But since she had eyes, there was no reason not to make use of them. She decided that it was her duty to take in every detail, no matter how slight, of Connor’s changed appearance. Granny would want to know, assuming Connor headed back to medieval Scotland before Granny came back from modern-day London.
Connor’s jeans fit. He was wearing work boots. He had somehow managed to stretch a T-shirt over his rather substantial chest.
“What does that say?” Iolanthe asked, holding her hand over her nose again.
“I’ll tell you when he gets closer and I can see.” To kill time, Victoria admired the shave and haircut he’d had. Nothing too drastic, just a trim. A little on the wild side, a little on the untamed side, a lot on the I’m-a-medieval-lord-dressing-up-like-a-modern-guy-to-humor- you side.
Then she managed to read his t-shirt.
“Does it truly say ‘Kiss me, I’m Scottish’?” Iolanthe asked.
“I’m going to kill your husband.”
“You may want to. I daresay there will be a line of wenches waiting to accept Connor’s invitation.” Iolanthe smiled. “And I can say as much, even though I spent several centuries wanting to rid myself of his irritating presence.”
“Like I said,” Victoria wheezed, “he’s mellowed.” But Thomas had not. He was fighting his smile as he walked up the path with Connor. Victoria glared at him. “You’re a jerk.”
“Why?” he asked innocently. “Oh, the shirt? It was all we could find in his size.”
“The hell it was.”
Connor looked at her, his brow furrowed. “That tongue you speak,” he said in Gaelic. “It sounds familiar.”
Iolanthe elbowed Victoria in the ribs and took hold of Thomas’s hand. “I feel a little lie-down coming on, husband. Let us be away.”
“But—whoa!”
Victoria wasn’t sure if she was grateful or not for Iolanthe’s sudden burst of strength. Thomas was dragged into the inn, apparently against his will, though he promised a quick return if he was needed. Victoria looked at Connor and was terribly tempted to ask him if he knew what his shirt said.
She didn’t dare.
She might have been tempted to take him up on the offer.
And then she made the mistake of looking up at him. He was looking at her with what she could only assume was the same amount of, well, desire she was feeling.
She waited for him to take her into his arms. Indeed, she suspected she saw that very thought cross his mind. The intensity of his gaze intensified until Victoria was just certain he was going to haul her into his arms and profess something.
“Victoria,” he said in a rough voice.
“Yes?” she said breathlessly.
“Um . . .” He flexed his fingers a time or two, started to reach for her another time or two, then cleared his throat. He looked horribly tempted by something.
She could only hope it was by the thought of kissing her.
“Um . . .” he said again, looking about him quite desperately. “Ah, your sword. Aye, your sword! Where is that thin sword of yours? I vow I should have looked at it more closely whilst you were in my hall.”
She felt herself gaping at him and was powerless to assume any other more reasonable and attractive expression. “My sword?”
“Aye. Will you not show it to me now?”
Sure, before I wedge the hilt between two sturdy rocks and fall on it.
“You wouldn’t have two, would you?” he asked, his eyes alight suddenly with barely restrained excitement.
“Do you want to fight me?” she asked incredulously.
“Well,” he said, drawing himself up, “not fight, precisely. But it might be pleasing to have a go with one of those blades. I suppose you might be able to demonstrate its use.”
There she stood, drooling over him and wanting nothing more than to go on drooling for the whole of the afternoon, and all he could think about was swords?
She knew she shouldn’t have been surprised.
Amazing, that she still was.
She sighed. “Let’s go get a couple of them out of the shed. We’ll find somewhere to use them.” On you, if I’m lucky.
“Not in Mrs. Pruitt’s garden,” he warned, tromping along behind her. “I’ve already run afoul of her ire by trampling her blooms.”
“And considering that she’s willing to feed you,” Victoria said, “I imagine you’re not going to irritate her unnecessarily.”
“Your Gaelic improves with each day that passes. I should speak with you more. I daresay I’m aiding you greatly.”
Victoria nodded, but didn’t dare say anything. Spend more time with him? Lose her heart all over again each time she saw him, when she knew that he fully intended to skedaddle back home the first chance he had?
Hamlet.
Perfect.
She was going to kill her brother.
She went to the shed and rummaged around until she came up with two theatrical rapiers. The last thing she needed was to have Connor impale her by accident. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate in ironies: Connor mortal and she a ghost.
It wasn’t at all amusing, so she quickly turned her thoughts away from that and swished her blade a time or two. Connor did the same. He seemed to find the sound quite lovely because he continued to cut the air with his blade. Victoria was very happy she hadn’t given him the rapier she’d taken back in time with her. The thought of the clean, lethal whistle that one made, multiplied exponentially in Connor’s capable hands, gave her the willies.
“En guarde,” she said, assuming her best fencing pose.
Connor looked
at her, baffled, then lunged, as well.
Apparently, he didn’t realize his arms were quite a bit longer than hers until after it was too late.
The sword did collapse as it poked her in the ribs, but still, it winded her. She gasped and dropped her sword.
“Ach, by the saints, nay!” Connor cried and tossed his sword aside in horror. He dropped to his knees in front of her. “Victoria! Victoria!”
“Stop bellowing,” she wheezed.
He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to her. He hauled her into his arms and clutched her to him, continuing to make noises of distress. And somehow, in spite of that distress or perhaps because of it, he managed to keep her clutched with one arm yet run his free hand over her hair, as if that very motion would restore her to good health.
What a dilemma.
Should she tell him she wasn’t bleeding from a gaping wound, or should she just close her eyes and enjoy it for as long as it lasted? She was trapped in Connor MacDougal’s arms. It was, she could say with all honesty, better than she’d dared imagine it could be.
There came a point, unfortunately, when she knew she would have to breathe again. She tried moving one of her arms, but Connor had that one pinned under his elbow. She tried moving the other arm, but it was mostly pinned as well, and all that happened was that she wound up patting the air. She tried to get Connor’s attention by calling his name; his name came out as nothing more than a squeak. She looked around desperately for help.
Thomas stood at the kitchen door, regarding the little tableau with a smirk.
“Help,” she mouthed.
Thomas put his hand to his ear. “What?”
“Help!” she squeaked. “Help, damn you!”
“Hey, MacDougal,” Thomas called. “What’s up?”
“I killed your sister!” Connor exclaimed in anguished tones.
“Nope,” Thomas said. “It was a fake sword. But I think if you don’t let go, you’ll crush her to death.”
Connor pulled back far enough to look down at Victoria with a frown. “Are you well?”
Her day of reckoning had come, and so soon . . .
She smiled weakly. “It hurt, but I’m not bleeding. Want to try again?”
He released her reluctantly, then looked her over. “What magic is this?” he asked. “A sword that does not pierce?”
Victoria found that she could reach her sword without having to really lean over too far. That was very handy; it left her with ample opportunity to practically recline in Connor’s arms.
Damn, he even smelled good. Where had Thomas taken him?
She jammed the sword into the ground. It collapsed into itself. Connor gasped.
He set her aside without hesitation and reached for the sword. He poked it into the ground several times to the accompaniment of sounds of delight. He stood, tossed the sword up into the air, and watched as it fell, point down, into the dirt. He looked at Victoria.
“Well,” he said finally, “this is something indeed.” He caught sight of Thomas. “Have you seen this, Thomas? I daresay it removes some of the joy from a good brawl, but indeed, ’tis a very new and interesting contrivance.” He went and fetched his rapier, then tossed it toward Thomas. “Shall we?”
Victoria stared, open-mouthed, as her brother and her erstwhile clutcher began to engage each other, commenting from time to time over the lack of sport there was in fighting with a sword that could not truly do damage.
“This will only hold my interest for a brief time,” Connor warned. “Then I will need something more lethal.”
“I understand completely.”
Connor gestured toward Victoria. “You know, I think I have fond feelings for your sister.”
“Do you?” Thomas asked.
“Damn me if I know why.”
“I think I would feel the same way.”
Victoria shot her brother a look he seemed to feel in spite of the fact that he refused to look at her.
“She is beautiful,” Connor said. “And spirited. And rather handy with a blade.” He looked over at her. “I never met a wench who could use a sword before. Is the Future so full of your kind of woman?”
“No,” she said shortly, “it’s not.”
He grunted and turned back to her brother. “Did Mrs. Pruitt have something on the fire when you came out of the kitchen?”
“Yes,” Victoria said loudly. “Probably a heavy frying pan.”
Connor stopped and frowned at her. “A heavy frying pan? On the fire? Why?”
To clunk you over the head with. She pursed her lips. “To fry tomatoes in the manner you find so pleasing, no doubt.”
Connor looked at Thomas. “A right pleasing wench, your sister. Obviously she knows what is important to a man.”
“Ha,” Thomas said, apparently before he could stop himself.
Victoria rolled her eyes and turned to take refuge in the kitchen before the men got hungry beyond their ability to carry on. She was tempted to stand behind the door and bean both of them on the heads, but that would defeat her purpose. She would just bean her brother and hopefully render him unconscious and unable to speak. And then she might actually have a moment’s peace with Connor, who thought her a right pleasing wench.
That was a step in the right direction.
A million more of those and there might be hope for them.
Chapter 34
Connor left his own chamber the next morning. It was his own chamber and not Victoria’s floor, not because he thought she minded, but because he minded. Beyond all reason, but because he had two good eyes and a very fine sense of discernment, he was drawn to her. Very drawn to her. That did not bode well for his heart.
Witness the day before. After a most pleasant afternoon passed traveling at high speeds in Thomas’s car, he had returned to the inn and found himself rendered quite speechless by the sight of Victoria McKinnon. It was difficult to imagine that he could have forgotten how lovely she was, but he supposed he could lay the blame for that on the car. Only his iron control had kept him from dropping to his knee and begging her to be his.
By the saints, he needed to go home.
Besides, as interesting a place as the Future was, the Past had its allures, as well. Never mind that he could not bring one to mind immediately. Who could blame him? Visions of automobiles, hot showers, and bangers and mash competed mightily, and quite successfully, with cold mutton, bathing in a cold stream once a year, and a lumpy mattress that crunched when he rolled over.
He caught his breath in consternation. Was he growing soft?
Nay, say it was not so . . .
He shook aside his foolish thoughts. He would depart for home the next day. But first, he would seek out Thomas McKinnon and thank him for his generosity. The clothing had to have come dear and though Thomas had magnanimously waved aside any of Connor’s promises to repay him, it was right to thank him yet again.
Connor also wanted to express appreciation to Mrs. Pruitt for the many fine meals she had prepared for him. Indeed, the woman had spent a great amount of time each day tending the fire on his behalf. He would miss her fine victuals.
And before he departed, he would give the greater part of an entire day to what his heart desired: looking at, talking with, and, the saints pity him for a weak-spined fool, holding Victoria McKinnon.
By the saints, he found her bewitching.
He pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning against and made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Mrs. Pruitt was, thankfully, at the stove. Victoria was, the saints pity him, sitting at the table. He found that once he looked at her, he could not look away.
Her hair was cascading down her back in a riot of flame-colored curls. She was wearing jeans, as usual, and he now understood why she preferred them. He sat down with a plop in the chair next to hers, unable to look away.
Her skin was pale and her eyes bloodshot, as if she had spent the night weeping or being haunted by dozens of irritating ghosts.
“What is amiss with you?” he asked.
She shook her head with a wan smile. “I didn’t sleep well.”
Well, he supposed if she needed a nap, he could watch her sleep. He’d certainly done it enough times in the . . . past.
He blinked. Had he?
He looked at her again closely, then drew his hand over his eyes. Perhaps he should be grateful that he was going home the next morning. He was beginning to doubt his sanity.
Mrs. Pruitt set a plate down before him. He smiled gratefully at her, then he applied himself to eating it all before she handed him more. When that was finished, as well, he sat back and looked at Victoria.
Why, she hadn’t even made her way through half of her meal!
He finished hers, as well.
Then he rose. “Mrs. Pruitt, my thanks for the tasty meal. Quite satisfactory. A pity I have no need for a cook in my hall at present.”
Mrs. Pruitt turned and looked at him, her hand over her heart. “Indeed,” she said, sounding pleased. “I appreciate the thought, Laird MacDougal. A high compliment, indeed.”
“A cook of your skill deserves no less.” He smiled once again, then took Victoria’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come with me,” he said, towing her from the kitchen like an unresisting horse who knew a pasture of high summer grass was over the next rise. Perhaps there was no grass, but there was a stage. Connor suspected it was Victoria’s preferred place.
Actually, he knew as much. He had asked Thomas many questions the day before on their outing, and one of those questions had concerned what Victoria had been doing on the stage the day Connor had come to the Future and found her running about with her eyes closed. It had looked like madness to him, but Thomas had been certain it was something to do with plays and such.
Connor had little time and even less patience for frolics, but he supposed, since he was going to be loitering in the Future for the rest of the day with little to do, he might as well indulge in watching a little performance or two.