A Midsummer Night's Romp

by Katie MacAlister

  He stopped and we both looked at my foot.

  “You have a boot on. I can’t see your toes.”

  “No, but you can take it from me they’re wiggling.” I winced as I did, in fact, move my toes around. “The steel toe saved them, although the top of my foot is a bit tender. But nothing’s broken.”

  “Steel-toed boots . . . you must be an archaeologist,” he said with a quirky half smile.

  “Not really, no.” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that my old roommate had been an amateur digger, but I stopped myself in time, appalled at the fact that a few seconds of sitting on his lap and I was ready to blab everything. “But I do know that boots are de rigueur for dig sites.”

  “They are indeed. I’m glad to hear your foot wasn’t injured.” He stared at me for a second, and it crossed my mind that I should get off him. But one of his arms was still wrapped around me, holding me firmly to his torso. “I do apologize, but as I said, you just came around that corner unexpectedly, and there was nothing I could do. I’m Gunner, by the way. Gunner Ainslie. And you are . . . ?”

  “Lorina Liddell. Wait, Gunner as in the father of Cressy?”

  His eyes seemed to light up. “You’ve met my little girl?”

  “She’s hardly little,” I said before realizing that he might be insulted by such honesty. “That is, she’s a smidgen taller than me, and I’m a behemoth.”

  “You are not a behemoth. Far from it.”

  “I am. I’m just shy of six feet, and I won’t tell you my weight because it would probably make you run screaming from me.”

  “Women and their body issues,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve never understood why women feel that men find bony bodies desirable.”

  “Television,” I said sourly. “Movies. Magazines. Every other form of media.”

  “Yes, well, they’re wrong,” he said, waving away such paltry things. “I happen to like women with some substance to them. Cressy takes after her mother in that respect, and I have no doubt the day will come when I will be carrying a shotgun around just to keep the boys off her. If she ever expresses an interest in them, that is. Her grandmother assures me that it’s only a matter of time before she ceases being horse-mad and turns to romance.”

  “Ah, the horse stage,” I said, remembering my own youth. “I kind of hope she doesn’t change too much. She’s quite charming, actually.”

  “She is that. Don’t know where she gets it from—certainly not her mother, and I’m just an old crusty photographer who does better with inanimate objects than people.”

  I stared at him in horror, my stomach contracting with a sudden spurt of concern. For a minute, I thought I might hyperventilate. “You’re a photographer?”

  “There’s a more technical title relating to building sites and forensics, but I like to think of myself as being a photographer at heart. I’m also a minister in an Internet religion if you want to get married.”

  My eyes widened to the point where I wouldn’t have been surprised if they bugged out. “Did you just ask me to marry you?”

  “No, I offered to—oh, I see what you’re asking.” His smile, which had been pleasantly lopsided, turned into an outright full-fledged grin. “Although the Ainslie men tend to wed after a short acquaintance, I think that even my brother, who married a perfectly charming American—you’re a Yank, too, aren’t you?—even Elliott would have something to say if I offered myself to you after having known you for only five minutes.”

  “Oh, good, I didn’t think . . . but it just seemed like . . .” I remembered that he was the enemy, a man who could potentially destroy the cover I’d built for myself, and returned to feeling sick to my stomach. “Well, thank god you’re not into me.”

  “That is a very risqué thing to say when you are sitting on my lap.”

  “I’m sorry.” I sighed, and pushed myself off his lap, flexing my foot before putting my weight on it. “Things always come out of my mouth wrong. See? Like that. Also risqué, although wholly unintentional, I assure you.”

  He laughed. “I like what comes out of your mouth. Oh, lord, now I’m doing it.”

  “Sadly, it appears I’m contagious. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Ainslie—”

  “Gunner, please.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Gunner, but if you’ll excuse me, the producer of the TV show has requested my presence, and he’s probably wondering where I am.”

  I hurried off at a fast limp before he could respond, desperate to get away from him before I blabbed something untoward at him. The knowledge that I was a fake and a liar burned a hole in my gut. “Just my luck there’s a bona fide photographer waiting out there to expose me,” I muttered to myself. “And a handsome-as-sin one, to boot. Like I don’t have enough issues with him without enjoying sitting on his lap the way I did.”

  And that in itself was an oddity. With most men, my initial response was a level of wariness and caution, but there I was sitting on Gunner’s lap and enjoying it greatly without the least little concern as to what sort of a man he was, or how he might react to me.

  And long, hard experience had taught me how foolish it was to trust a man.

  Which made it all that much more curious that my unconventional meeting with Gunner didn’t immediately push me into assessing the situation, and my position therein.

  That and similar dark thoughts were dismissed when I arrived at my destination. “Oh, hello. I understand you wanted to see me?”

  Roger was in the process of emerging from his RV when I hobbled up.

  He looked appalled at the sight of me, causing me to wonder if I had fallen into dog poop or something equally repulsive without being aware of it. “Good lord! Are you injured?”

  “Not really. Just a little minor accident, nothing serious. Oh, is that why you’re looking so horrified?” I gave him a relieved smile. “I thought my deodorant had failed. I’m fine, really.”

  “Accident? What sort of accident? Christ above, I’ll have the health and safety people down upon us before the shooting has even begun!”

  “No, no,” I said soothingly, “it wasn’t really an accident. Just my clumsiness.”

  He looked doubtfully at me. “You didn’t hurt yourself on any of our equipment, did you? Because if you did, the production would still be liable—”

  “Actually, the lord of the manor’s brother ran me down with his mobility scooter, but I’m not really hurt. Just a little bruised on the top of my foot. My boots are pretty sturdy.”

  “Oh, it was Gunner’s fault,” he said, visibly relaxing. “Then it’s the estate’s responsibility. That’s excellent. Now, I have a little project in mind, and as you are one to appreciate quality television such as the shows that I have produced in years past, I thought you might be interested in participating.”

  “What sort of project?” I asked warily, trying to form an excuse for avoiding anything but the most minimal involvement.

  “Ah, well, this is where my brilliance lies, in thinking up truly spectacular opportunities. And one of them is you.”

  “It is?” My voice squeaked a little with surprise. “I don’t think anyone has ever thought I was any sort of opportunity, let alone a spectacular one. This wouldn’t have anything to do with Roman slaves, would it?”

  “No, no, although . . . hmm. I’ll think on that. Might have possibilities. But this is truly a wonderful opportunity for you to really get to know the dig process, and should provide us both with some wonderful coverage—you for your book, and us for the viewers.”

  “I’m a little confused—”

  “Everyman,” Roger interrupted, beaming with pride. “You’ll be our everyman.”

  “I will?”

  “Yes, yes, don’t you see? You’re the only one here who doesn’t have any archaeology experience—all the volunteers have some sort of training, either from
a university or with an amateur archaeology club. But you have none! Sue believes that the viewers will be lost with all the technical talk if we don’t present them with someone who is just as ignorant as they are.”

  I wondered if I should be insulted or not, and decided to go with not.

  “She had an idea, and I think it’s really an excellent one, of picking a person to stand in for the audience, someone to whom the experts can explain things, so that it’s all understandable and fun and exciting for even the dullest of persons.”

  “OK, now I’m going to be insulted,” I couldn’t help but say.

  “Don’t be,” he said, waving away my objection. “It isn’t meant to insult. It’s meant to praise your accessibility. You’re perfect for the job—you’re well-spoken without being snooty, are personable and have a nice presence that will translate well on-screen, and you aren’t too pretty, so you won’t give Sue a run for the spotlight. Viewers will relate to the fact that you have little experience with archaeology. Plus you’ll look good with Gunner.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly. “Look good with him in what way?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t stapled on. Since the others are busy getting the dig started, I’ve asked him to show you the ropes.” He waved a hand around vaguely. “Turns out he’s got some kind of relevant degree, and knows all about the Romans and Celts and whoever else lived here, but because of his leg, he can’t dig much.”

  Oh, dear lord, that was all I needed. “No!” I said somewhat wildly.

  Roger looked askance. “No?”

  “Er . . .” Mindful that I was there by the good graces of his production company, I tried to summon a friendly smile. “That is, no, I’m not personable, and I look terrible on film. That’s . . . uh . . . that’s why I became a photographer, so I could take pictures and not have to have them taken of me.” He just stared at me. I felt like an idiot babbling away, but I couldn’t seem to stop. “I appreciate the fact that you thought of me, I really appreciate it, but I’m sure there’s got to be someone else who would be much better suited to the role.”

  A little frown appeared between his eyebrows. “I am quite well-known for my productions, you know.”

  “Of course you are,” I said hurriedly, wanting to smooth over his obviously hurt feelings. “I’ve told you how much I liked your other shows, and it’s clear you’re a master at the job of . . . er . . . producing.”

  “Yes,” he said coolly. “I am. And part of that mastery is knowing who is right for what role. Is there a reason you don’t wish to be filmed? Some secret reason? Perhaps an illegal one?”

  I gawked at him for a second, my gut spinning around like a hamster’s wheel. “No! I just . . . I’m not comfortable. . . . I’m not here illegally or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking—”

  “Then there is no reason why you can’t spend an hour or two a day with the film crew, allowing us to film short segments that will make the project clear to the viewing audience.” His words were clipped and had sharp edges. “I’m sure that since we have been so accommodating as to allow you unfettered access to the filming schedule, not to mention arranging for you to stay, at no little expense, with the crew itself, that you will be agreeable to helping us out where you can.”

  My heart turned to lead and dropped to my feet. My stomach compacted into a little black hole of misery. My spirits took one look at the next week or so of trying to pretend I was a photographer while spending time with a real one, and evaporated to nothing.

  I tried one last protest, but my heart—leaden and in my feet—wasn’t in it. “I’d be happy to just chitchat with the people digging if that would help out. . . .”

  “You will be personable and interesting, and the audience will love you.” It wasn’t a prediction; it was an order, one that was spoken in an unyielding tone.

  I was beaten, and I knew it. “I see. Well, if you feel that way—”

  “I do. Gunner has all the qualifications to bring you up to speed on the dig, and will start this evening. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble making yourself available to him for that.”

  “Er . . .” I had planned to “accidentally” run into Paul that evening.

  “We’ll film you while he teaches you the ways of the dirt—nice turn of phrase, that; I’ll have to give it to Sue for the narration—which will show the audience just what it is the archaeologists do, and why they do it.”

  “Well, I suppose—”

  “Of course, you are encouraged to ask questions that our audience might ask, and I have no doubt that you’ll also want to participate in some of the reenactments that we have scheduled.”

  “If I have time,” I said weakly. “Books take a lot of work, you know.”

  “Must remember to add slaves to that list. I think we’ll try for your first piece to the camera this afternoon when we officially open the dig. Just some basic information, nothing too complicated.” He beamed at me just like he’d done me the biggest favor in the world.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, trying desperately to find a way out of this scenario, but failing miserably. “I guess I could do that. But I do have a lot of work to do on my own, what with all the pictures to take, and the . . . er . . .” I struggled for something that sounded journalistic. “All of the interviews to be conducted.”

  “That’s why this opportunity is so perfect for you!” He whapped me gently on the arm. “Gunner can help you out! Any extra time you spend away from your work to be with him will be more than offset by the information he’ll be able to give you. It’ll be wonderful for you, because not only does he know his potatoes, archaeologically speaking, but he’s also the brother of a baron. Your readers will eat that up with a spoon and ask for seconds.”

  “Yes, of course it will be wonderful for the book.” My smile was wan at best.

  “Smart girl,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder in a way that had me wincing. He pulled out a walkie-talkie, and shoved it at me. “I knew I could count on you to be a team player. We’ll let you have one of these so we can alert you when we want to do a piece for the camera. Channel four is Gunner’s channel. Two is dig personnel. Three is production team—don’t use that channel except in emergencies. And of course, I am on channel one. Now, I must go see what the geophys people are up to.”

  “Geo . . . what?”

  “Geophys. Stands for geophysics. They’re the folks who use the machines to look into the earth and find our Roman remains. It looks like they’re out doing their shtick already, and they know full well we need to film them for the intro. . . .”

  He hurried off, leaving me staring glumly at a walkie-talkie. What the hell had I just gotten myself into?

  Chapter 6

  “Hello, my lovely one. Any luck selling my brother the baron to Hollywood?”

  The smiling face of Alice, Gunner’s new sister-in-law, broke into a laugh before making a little moue. “I wish. Hollywood doesn’t seem to be interested in his fabulous spy books, which is just stupid beyond words, given that they are such fabulous best sellers. Plus Elliott’s books are much better than a lot of what makes it into movies these days. How’s your foot? You’re staying off it, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Mum,” he said, making a face of his own at her.

  She laughed again, the picture of her on the videoconferencing software glitching for a moment before it settled down. “Sorry, Gunner, I didn’t mean to mother you, but as your mom is in Africa, I figured it was up to me as second lady in command to make sure you’re OK.”

  “You’re the first lady in command in my book,” he said gallantly, never above a little light flirtation with Alice.

  The screen suddenly jerked, and Alice disappeared to be replaced by Elliott, his look so pointed that it was quite clear even from halfway across the world. “Still trying to s
educe my wife, Gunner?”

  “Only when you’re not around,” he said smoothly. “Besides, I have to have something to look forward to. It’s been so quiet around here with you two gallivanting all over the States. Book tour going all right?”

  Elliott shrugged. “I suppose so, although I’m not best suited to this life. I’d much rather be home. Is everything there all right? You’re not having any trouble keeping the tourists away from the tower?”

  “No, it’s suitably fenced off. No one but the dig crew will have access to it, and they have all sorts of insurance, so if a falling brick hits one of them on the head, it won’t be our fault.”

  Elliott made a face, and absently rubbed his shoulder where he’d broken a bone by being hit by one of the bricks falling from the decrepit tower himself a few months before. “I’d rather we not have any more accidents. How is the archaeology going?”

  “All right so far.” Gunner gave his brother a rundown of the details of the show, adding, “They’ve asked me to be a presenter, and do an on-air thing with some neophyte. They’ll film me explaining how the dig process works, that sort of thing.”

  “You? I thought you were just going to dig when the cast comes off your leg.”

  Gunner shrugged one shoulder. “The producer seems to think that a nonprofessional will reach the viewing audience better than an academic.”

  “Better you than me,” Elliott said with a sour look that made Gunner smile.

  “That’s because you’re an introvert. Extroverts like me enjoy such things, not to mention having a zillion brothers and sisters around us.”

  “It only seems like a zillion when you’re all together,” Alice said in the background, pushing Elliott a little to the side. “It must be nice to have the castle to yourself while they’re all out doing vacations and whatnot.”

  “To be honest, it’s a bit lonely,” Gunner admitted. He’d been battling a sense of loss with his siblings scattered hither and yon on various trips and visits to other family members, or off at assorted universities.