by Lynn Kurland
She looked from Nathaniel to Patrick and back. She felt her mouth fall open, and she was powerless to do anything about it.
They could have been twins.
Patrick shut her door and nodded toward his house. “I’m cooking tonight, which everyone should appreciate. My lady wife is brilliant at it, of course, but I like the challenge of serving up something edible myself. Emma, after you. Coming, Master Nathaniel?”
Emma looked from one to the other again, only for a different reason. She had no idea how to read Scottish men, but there was something going on. It looked a bit like an eighteenth-century fencing match, only there were no swords involved. She wanted to hold up a finger and ask for a pause in the events swirling out of control around her, but she had the feeling that it wouldn’t do a damned bit of good.
There was something extremely strange going on.
But there was dinner in the offing, so she supposed she would let Patrick and Nathaniel have at each other and see if there was something she couldn’t do in a different room. If Patrick was cooking and Madelyn was chasing children, maybe a seat in front of the fire in the great room might be just the place for her.
She walked with them to the hall, followed Patrick inside, then handed him her jacket when he asked for it. Before she could escape with him to the coat tree, Nathaniel had caught her by the elbow. She decided the very least she could do was give him a cool look, which she indulged in without hesitation.
He was looking at her with the most serious expression she’d seen on his face to date.
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
She smiled politely and eased her arm away. She wasn’t going to get hurt, because she wasn’t ever going to get herself into something she couldn’t get herself out of. She had a misspent youth full of those kinds of lessons, and it was about time she learned them.
“I’ll be fine.”
And she would be. She would borrow Patrick’s car for a couple of days, then she would get the hell out of town, not because Nathaniel MacLeod had told her to, but because she wanted to. Men with ridiculously expensive sports cars, several lawyers at their disposal, and gaggles of gold diggers stalking them were definitely not the sort of men she wanted to get involved with.
Not on her life.
She supposed if she repeated that enough times over the next hour or two, she might manage to convince herself of it.
Chapter 14
Nathaniel was too tired for swordplay, verbal or otherwise. What he wanted to do was go home and sleep for a solid week, and that only after having seen Emma Baxter off to somewhere where he wasn’t.
Damn it anyway.
Dinner had been interesting. Patrick’s wife, his daughter, and even the wee bairn in the high chair had spent most of the meal looking from him to the lord of the hall and back as if they were seeing double. Emma had ignored him. The roast had been delicious.
He was losing his mind.
At least Emma’s fury was something he could wrap what was left of his mind around. He had wanted to send her off pleasantly. He’d made a great hash of it.
He was, as he’d noted before, tired. And perhaps a bit of an arse.
He tried to focus on things he could understand, like memories of supper. It had been very good and Patrick MacLeod was an excellent chef. It might have been a pleasure to chat with him over the chopping of veg if the man hadn’t been sizing him up the entire time.
He had returned the favor, studying the good lord of Benmore whilst they were about the labor of ingesting his very fine supper and then coming to the conclusion that Stephen de Piaget was absolutely daft. It simply wasn’t possible that the rumors that went round the pub down the way about the man sitting across from him were true. Patrick MacLeod was not a medieval clansman, and neither was his brother James nor his cousin Ian. They were simply men who owned castles and estates and wanted to bring much-needed funds into the village coffers. Good men, obviously, and concerned about their neighbors and friends, but just men.
Surely.
“Need help with the bairns, Maddy?” Patrick asked.
“I can help,” Emma volunteered.
The lady Madelyn seemed happy for an extra hand, though Nathaniel had to admit he wished he’d jumped at the opportunity first. Now he was going to be trapped with a man he definitely wanted to keep safely in the Not Medieval column of his acquaintance ledger.
“Enjoy your meal?” Patrick asked politely.
“Very much, thank you.”
Patrick pushed away from the table and rose. “A whisky in front of the fire?”
“Sounds delightful.”
The man only laughed a bit. “Aren’t you a pleasant guest.”
“Trying to be,” Nathaniel said. Actually what he was trying to do was keep the lord of Benmore from thinking about how he’d dented the side of the man’s car not a week ago.
Had it only been that long? He could hardly believe it.
It was less than a quarter hour later that he was sitting in Patrick MacLeod’s great hall, enjoying both a warm fire and a perfect glass of his admittedly favorite libation. His host seemed content to sip in silence, which he appreciated. He applied himself to his own glass and watched the fire, wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t have made a visit sooner. Dinner and conversation. How dangerous could that be?
“So,” Patrick began slowly, “what do you do with yourself to earn your bread?”
Nathaniel opened his mouth to answer, then he realized not so much what Patrick had said but how he’d said it. Or, rather, in what vintage Gaelic he’d said it.
Damn it, when was he going to stop running afoul of these men who knew things they shouldn’t?
He had the feeling his safe, comfortable life spread across several centuries was in danger of becoming not so safe or comfortable. He looked at Patrick and wondered if he might be able to stick his fingers in his ears and plead ignorance.
“Ah,” he began.
Patrick smirked. “There’s a decent start there.”
“I read medieval literature at St. Andrews,” Nathaniel said, hoping that might be enough to satisfy Lord Patrick’s curiosity.
“That explains it, of course.”
Emma came into the room and Nathaniel stood immediately, partly to show her a bit of respect but mostly because he thought he might manage to turn and bolt more easily that way. Damn it, he should have been more careful. He was going to be outed for what he was—
Which was, as it happened, very similar to that man now resuming his seat.
He sat down heavily, then decided that life as a recluse was definitely the life for him. All the socializing he’d done over the past week had obviously been a mistake. He needed to get back to his usual business of hiding in the hills and trying to survive the madness that was his life.
Though he was getting damned tired of it all, truth be told.
“I’m surprised we haven’t had occasion to break bread together before now,” Patrick said smoothly. “With you living so close.”
“It is a pity,” Nathaniel said. “Tonight was lovely, though. Thank you again.”
“Perhaps we might do this again,” Patrick said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nathaniel hedged. “I’m generally quite busy.”
“Doing what?”
“I run.”
“What a coincidence,” Patrick said. “I run as well.”
“I run a lot,” Nathaniel said, wishing he could just tell the man across from him to shut the hell up. “Wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“What else do you do?” Patrick asked, leaning back in his chair and looking at Nathaniel from half-lidded eyes. “If you aren’t uncomfortable indulging my curiosity.”
“I write poetry.”
To his credit, Patrick didn’t laugh. A corner of his mouth went up
just the slightest bit, though. Nathaniel couldn’t blame him.
“That pay much?” Patrick asked.
“Nothing so far.”
“How do you feed yourself? If I’m allowed to ask, of course.”
“Business. And you, my lord?”
Patrick smiled. “Business. And I’m writing a series of books on medieval Scottish warfare.”
Nathaniel was happy he had swallowed the mouthful of whisky he’d been enjoying, or he would have spit it out all over Patrick MacLeod’s lovely tartan carpet. “That must be interesting to research,” he managed.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Patrick said. “Ever use a sword, Nathaniel?”
Good lord, would the evening never end? He was caught firmly between the proverbial rock and that unyielding hard place. He couldn’t lie because Emma would know, and he couldn’t be honest because Patrick would know.
“I’ve seen one,” Nathaniel said, settling for at least some of the truth.
“My cousin Ian runs a stunt training school,” Patrick said. “You should come visit sometime. Never know what’ll come in useful up here in the woods, aye?”
When hell froze over and not a moment sooner.
“I’ll definitely give that some thought,” Nathaniel lied. “I’m not sure I would manage to do anything but embarrass myself.”
“Never know till you try.”
Nathaniel found he had absolutely nothing useful to say to that, so he nodded and buried the curses he wanted to hurl at his host in his cup instead. He was vastly relieved when Madelyn came into the great hall. It gave him reason to stand up for her, then sit back down and try to sink far enough into the sofa that he might be missed.
Fortunately for his peace of mind, the conversation turned to far less perilous subjects. He found he was even able to offer the occasional comment that didn’t leave him feeling as if he’d revealed far more of himself than he cared to.
But the longer he sat there, the more he had to admit that rumors that went around down at the pub generally contained a bit of truth. He was a recluse. Mrs. McCreedy was immortal.
Patrick MacLeod was a medieval clansman.
Even allowing the thought to take shape in his head left him feeling like a complete nutter, but there was nothing to be done about that. The man might have been dressed comfortably in jeans and a jumper, but there was something about him that said very clearly that if anyone even considered threatening his wife or bairns, they would be dead before they lifted a hand.
The longer he thought about that, the more convinced he became that Emma Baxter deserved something, someone actually, who could offer her that sort of sword lifted in her defense. He would have quite happily stepped forward to offer himself as that lad, but how could he when he could hardly keep up with his bloody emails to his solicitors? He had eventually taken to paying his bills a year at a time because he never knew when he was going to be home or for how long. He ate at the bloody pub because he’d learned not to keep fresh veg in his house.
His life was, he thought he might like to point out angrily to anyone interested enough to listen, absolute hell.
’Twas a pity the MacLeods didn’t keep a witch in that little house to the north of the keep as they had in times past. He might have been tempted to make a visit and see if the crone had a bit of advice for him. It was for damned sure he didn’t have any for himself.
He came back to himself to realize a transaction had happened and he hadn’t been aware of it.
“Oh, are you sure?” Madelyn was asking in surprise. “You can stay as long as you like, really. Jamie insists that the cottage is yours for as long as you want it.”
“Oh, I think I should probably just get back to the States,” Emma said.
“The States,” Nathaniel said in surprise. “That’s a bit far, don’t you think?”
The look she sent him should have had him in pieces on the floor, but it was gone so quickly, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it.
“Best to throw Sheldon off the scent,” she said with a smile, then she turned to Patrick and Madelyn. “I do appreciate the offer, though.”
“Keep the car, though, until you’re sure,” Patrick said. “I can have it picked up in Inverness if you do decide that heading back to Seattle is what you really want to do.”
“Or I can ferry you about,” Nathaniel offered. “It’s no trouble.”
She smiled again. “I know you have things to do, Nathaniel, but I appreciate it. Oh, and look at the time. It’s been a long day, and I think I’m still not quite over the jet lag.”
Nathaniel was fairly certain she was and that she was simply looking for a polite way to leave. Actually, he felt quite sure that she was less interested in getting away from their hosts than she was him, but that was nothing more than he deserved. He just wasn’t sure what other choice he’d had. She needed to be safe, he needed to stop living two lives in two separate centuries. He didn’t see how those things could reasonably exist in the same place without eventually colliding in a fairly catastrophic way.
Emma made more polite leave-taking talk, but he doubted he could have repeated any of it upon pain of death. He smiled, nodded, and hung back as the ladies walked ahead in proper Regency fashion.
He was utterly unsurprised when Patrick leaned closer to share a private word with him.
“Here’s my number,” Patrick said, rattling off a series of digits in that rustic brand of Gaelic he seemed to feel the need to trot out every now and again. “Text me and come for a bit of exercise.”
Nathaniel knew when to surrender. “If you like, my lord,” he said with a sigh.
“Bring your sword.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Patrick laughed and switched effortlessly back to modern vernacular. “Knee-deep in it, are you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You might ask for aid.”
“I might,” Nathaniel agreed. “Or I might not.”
Patrick rolled his eyes, then went on to help Emma with their little runabout. Nathaniel offered a final thanks for a wonderful meal, then hopped in his own car and pulled out onto the wee road that meandered away from the hall. He waited until Emma was behind him before he started for home. It wouldn’t have surprised him if she’d decided to drive off in a different direction entirely, but she was as sensible as he’d given her credit for being. Then again, he did have her things in his backseat.
He waited for her to open up her house, then lingered on the front stoop instead of just walking in, because his mother had raised him with decent manners.
Emma took her gear from him. “Thank you for a lovely pair of days.”
“Emma—”
She started to shut the door, but he caught it.
“Please.”
She looked as unhappy as he felt. “Please, Nathaniel. Please just go.”
“I don’t want you mixed up in the madness that is my life,” he said honestly. “That’s all.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Then let me buy you a house,” he said, “so you can stay in Scotland. Let me make you comfortable.”
She looked less unhappy than angry. “You want to buy me a car and a house?”
Damn it, what he truly wanted to do was buy her a ring and, aye, an authentic castle to live in whilst she wore it, that’s what he wanted.
“It would save you hiring one,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth. “A car, that is.”
“I’m going home.”
“Please don’t.”
She blew her hair out of her eyes. “Make up your mind. Either you want me or you don’t.”
“My life is daft—”
She shut the door in his face.
Well, to be honest, he couldn’t blame her for that. He nodded to himself and turned away. That
way, as the saying went, lay madness, and she couldn’t be a part of it. Leaving her angry with him was better than having her want to help him.
Assuming she would have wanted to help him.
He crawled into his car, realizing only then that he hadn’t switched it out for his Range Rover, then sighed and drove home.
There was nothing else to do.
• • •
He was still trying to convince himself of that the next morning over a cup of ridiculously terrible coffee he had brewed to compensate for the sleepless night he had just spent. It only took three sips before he realized the truth.
He couldn’t do it.
He couldn’t watch her go and say nothing. At the very least, he had to tell her what was going on in his life and ask her if she could wait for him to sort it. That wasn’t unreasonable, was it?
He decided it wasn’t. He left his car parked behind his house in the garage, pulled on a jacket and trainers, then decided a bit of a run to her house might give him a few minutes to gather his thoughts. That sort of thing came in handy when one had a case to plead.
It took him half an hour only because he didn’t hurry and he stopped to think a time or two. He wasn’t sure he’d done himself any favors by any of it, so he continued on and was happy to stop on her porch and take a few restorative breaths.
He knocked.
There was no answer.
He frowned and knocked again. When he still had no answer, he made sure Patrick’s little Ford was still on the side of her house, then made a nuisance of himself by peeking in her windows.
The house was empty.
He wasn’t one to enter where he wasn’t wanted, but he didn’t hesitate before he picked the lock on her front door with tools he kept in a discreet pouch in one of his jacket pockets. He knocked one more time just to be polite, then opened the door.
“Emma?”
There was no answer. He walked over to her stove, but it was only lukewarm. It was as if she’d built a fire the night before, then let it burn out over . . .
Overnight.
Panic slammed into him. She had touched his dagger in Campbell’s back room, hadn’t she? For all he knew, she had been drawn back—