Ever My Love

by Lynn Kurland

  Breakfast instead.

  The negotiations had begun, apparently, but he had tried to give her a big kiss-off, so she wasn’t sure she wanted to concede any ground. Then again, he’d also rescued her from what she suspected was a medieval dungeon, so that might earn him at least a bit of leeway. She considered, then texted him back.

  Need normalcy.

  The reply was instantaneous.

  Understood.

  There was a pause, then another one came through.

  Shopping at Harrods?

  She would have smiled, but she thought she might rather weep. She should have taken him up on his offer, then cost him buckets—only the man had buckets of cash, so she imagined she wouldn’t be able to stomach all the shopping it would require to make him wince.

  Something closer, she replied. But normal.

  Be right there.

  She sighed and went to find her coat only to realize that her coat was sitting on her front porch, covered in a layer of goo. She opened her door and looked out at the pile, trying to reconcile what she was seeing with what had happened to her and where she was currently standing.

  She thought her brain just might split in two.

  She was starting to have some sympathy for the man pulling to a stop in front of her house in his very expensive sports car. The speed of his arrival made her wonder if he’d been lurking just around the corner.

  Watching over her.

  He got out of his car and walked up the one step to her porch. He came to a stop on the other side of the pile of clothes, looked at them for a moment or two, then looked at her.

  “Ready?” he asked pleasantly.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t have a coat.” She took a deep breath. “Anymore.”

  He shrugged out of his jacket and walked around the pile to drape it around her. “We’ll sort that right away. Go fetch your keys, lass.”

  She nodded, because she figured that was probably a good thing to do. It made her feel normal. She watched Nathaniel eventually come inside her kitchen, put her stove to bed, then wash his hands. He looked at her.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded, wishing she didn’t feel so absolutely fractured.

  He walked outside with her. She realized the pile was gone, but didn’t bother to ask him where he’d put it. On the compost heap, probably.

  She didn’t protest when he tucked her into his car. It was, after all, what he did. That rescuing thing. She wanted to burst into loud, messy tears, but she forced herself to cling to the idea that maybe she had just had a very bad dream. A terrible, awful, extremely vivid nightmare that had somehow carried on into her waking life.

  “Could we go somewhere besides the village?” she asked. Well, she croaked it, actually, but there was no point in trying to justify how she sounded. She was a woman on the verge of losing it.

  He nodded. “We can drive up north. We’ll at least find something to eat there.”

  “I should have taken you up on Harrods while I had the chance.”

  “There’s time.”

  She didn’t want to remind him that he’d told her to get lost. She wondered if he now thought it was too late, now that she’d seen the madness that was his—

  No. She shook her head, on the off chance her brain hadn’t gotten that message. Nathaniel MacLeod’s life wasn’t crazy, and neither was hers. She had a good imagination, she was still suffering from jet lag, and she’d wandered into the forest while sleepwalking. She had gotten herself back to her house only after no doubt having fallen into a bog. Nothing more, nothing less.

  She didn’t touch him, though, and he didn’t reach for her hand. She thought if she made any sort of contact with him, she just might shatter in truth.

  Maybe he felt the same way.

  She looked out the window and tried to ground herself in her current reality.

  It was harder than she’d expected it to be.

  Chapter 16

  It was difficult to decide what to say to a woman you had rescued from a medieval dungeon, killed a man in front of, and subsequently invited out to breakfast as if none of the other events had taken place.

  Nathaniel had never had company on his adventures, and he certainly hadn’t the company of a woman he’d saved from being drowned in the lake at sunrise only thanks to some very fast talking. He was actually rather glad she didn’t speak Gaelic or she likely would have slapped him instead of going off with him after what he’d had to say about her to Iain MacLeod there at the door earlier that morning.

  He drove north because he knew where to find a quaint little pub where he imagined he could procure something tasty to eat. The region was also famous for scenic footpaths, which might come in handy as a distraction. He thought he might even be able to find Emma a coat.

  He turned on the radio, because whilst he was very fond of piping, he would have preferred to get the medieval version of it out of his head. Piping left him thinking about battle, which left him wondering why the hell that Fergusson clansman he’d slain had been where he shouldn’t have been. At least he had done his duty to the MacLeods and spared them an unexpected early-morning assault.

  Of course, none of that began to explain why Emma had found herself joining the medieval madness he’d believed was reserved only for him, but perhaps he knew the answer without giving it too much thought. She’d put her hand to his dagger in Thomas Campbell’s museum. For all he knew, that had been enough to send her to a place where neither of them belonged.

  He would investigate that later. At the moment, all he wanted to do was stop thinking and keep driving. In truth, he had no idea what to say and he was frankly terrified to look at Emma and possibly find her watching him too closely.

  “What’s that castle there?”

  He looked to his left and suppressed a shiver. “An old Fergusson stronghold.”

  “Is Hamish the policeman related to them?”

  “I imagine so.”

  She was silent for a moment or two. “Mrs. McCreedy doesn’t seem to like him very much.”

  “He’s a royal pain in the arse,” Nathaniel said with a snort. “She has good reason.”

  “She said he gave her a speeding ticket.”

  Nathaniel looked at her then. “Did he? She doesn’t drive.”

  “She was riding her bicycle.”

  He smiled. “The bloody punter. He’d best be careful. She has a mean swing with a golf club.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

  He felt himself relax just the smallest bit. “Do you play?”

  “Play what?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Golf, of course.”

  “Golf is a ridiculous game that takes up great amounts of time that could be used more sensibly.”

  He felt his mouth fall open, then he considered. He slid her a brief glance. “Your mother?”

  “Word for word,” she agreed. “I wish I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard her say that.”

  “Yet you still don’t play, not even to vex her.”

  “No time, no money, no desire,” she said. “Do you play?”

  “Every chance I get.” He glanced at her. “Not interested in being my caddy?”

  She glared at him. He would have smiled, but he suspected that might be the best it got for him that day. He had convinced her to come to breakfast with him. He might be wise to take that and run with it.

  He was happy to leave the Fergusson ruin behind them and continue on. The roads were very good, the weather overcast and chilly, and he was driving his favorite car. It was an ostentatious bastard, but he loved it in a way that he supposed didn’t do him any credit. He was fond of his Vanquish, but it felt a little too tame to him. What he had under his hands at the moment . . .

  He shook his head. His life was ful
l of too many good things.

  If only he could have convinced the woman sitting next to him that perhaps she might like to share a few of those things with him, he might have enjoyed them more.

  He would have held her hand, but he supposed she might sooner want to clout him on the nose than touch him, so he forbore and concentrated on not driving them off into a ditch.

  It took an hour and a bit to get where he wanted to go, but he was relieved to see the pub was open even so late in the year. He supposed there were even a few intrepid hikers braving the chill to venture out for the view. He couldn’t blame them. He loved the forest near his house, true, but there was nothing quite like Scotland’s coastline to truly restore something elemental to the soul.

  He pulled into the car park, then turned off his car and looked at his companion.

  “Normalcy,” he said, then almost wished he hadn’t spoken. She looked as though she might just weep if pushed any further.

  He got out, walked around and opened her door, then locked it behind her. She looked up at him and he almost pulled her into his arms. The poor lass looked haunted. Sheldon the louse might have annoyed her, but the night before . . . that had done something entirely more devastating to her.

  He reached for her hand against his better judgment. She didn’t pull away, though, which he appreciated. Her fingers were icy cold, which bothered him, but he wasn’t sure what to do for her save look for a pair of gloves after he’d fed her.

  There was a hot fire inside, something for which he was enormously grateful. He saw Emma seated next to it before he went and ordered breakfast for them. He returned with two steaming cups of coffee and sat down across from her. She was looking at a tourist brochure and he left her to it. He hardly knew what to say, if anything, and he wasn’t going to force her to process anything she wasn’t ready to.

  It had taken him a solid fortnight after his first foray into the past before he’d managed to put two words together in any useful fashion. If Mrs. McCreedy hadn’t sent a lad out to his house with groceries, he likely would have starved to death.

  He pulled out his phone and went shopping. It didn’t matter what Emma chose to do; she would need a way to get around. And whilst it was very good of Patrick MacLeod to lend her a car, that wouldn’t do over the long term.

  Assuming there was a long term.

  His tastes ran to things that were fast and expensive, but he didn’t imagine either of those things would appeal to Emma presently. He supposed the best he could do was get what he felt was safe and reliable and hope she would accept it. He looked up to find her watching him. He smiled faintly.

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Blue, why?”

  “Dark or powder?”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  “Because I’m buying you a car and I want you to like it.”

  She looked at him evenly. “I thought you wanted me to move.”

  He felt any smile he might have been wearing fade. “I wanted you to be safe. I still do.”

  She took a deep breath. “I had a bad dream that I don’t want to talk about and you can’t buy me a car.”

  “What color?” he asked politely.

  “Black,” she said shortly, “and don’t put it in my name or I won’t drive it.”

  “Then I’ll purchase it and you drive it as long as you want it,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes and reached for her cup. Her hand was trembling, so she curled her fingers into her palm and put her hands in her lap. He would have winced, indeed he suspected he had, but he didn’t know what he could do about it outside of putting her on a plane to a different country himself.

  He didn’t think he could manage that.

  They ate in silence and he finalized a car inquiry over the phone with a dealer in Inverness. Short of either sending her away or locking her in her house, he had provided what safety and security he could for the next pair of days.

  After that, he just didn’t know.

  • • •

  Several hours later, he was standing with her on her front porch, waiting for her to let herself inside. It had been a pleasant day as days out went, full of nothing but the sea and sky and a decent afternoon tea on the way home. He hardly knew what to say and he wasn’t going to force her to talk about anything she didn’t want to.

  She let herself into her house, flicked on the lights, then paused.

  “Shall I light your fire for you?” he asked.

  She nodded, looking as if not even that could warm her. He’d driven home only after having wrapped her in a blanket he’d bought in the same store where he’d found a warm coat for her, but neither had seemed to be of any use to her.

  He lit the fire, brushed off his hands, then turned and looked at her. She was standing by the kitchen table, looking exhausted. And why not? She’d likely been standing in that dungeon the whole time. He understood. He’d spent his own share of time in that pit, and he hadn’t dared sit, either.

  “I could make you tea before I go—”

  “Stay.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Sorry?”

  She gestured inelegantly toward the little lounge. “Surely you have crap TV here in the UK. Why don’t you stay and watch some with me.” She looked at him. “You know. Normal stuff.”

  He let out the breath he realized he’d been holding all day. “Happily.”

  She moved to take the kettle to fill it. He supposed he wouldn’t have managed to catch it before she dropped it if he hadn’t been expecting the like.

  “Why don’t you sit,” he suggested. “I’ll bring the tea.”

  “We don’t have anything stronger.”

  “I would imagine there’s whisky in the cupboard,” he assured her.

  “I was hoping for chocolate.”

  He smiled. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  She nodded, but she didn’t move. He put the kettle on around her, then led her out of the kitchen and installed her on the sofa. He turned on the telly, found the least objectionable bit of satellite rubbish he could—some sappy period piece he was sure would put them both to sleep within moments—then retreated to the kitchen to catch his breath and fix what would have to pass for supper.

  Twenty minutes later, he was looking for somewhere to set his burdens down. Emma moved a sketchbook off the coffee table, then watched him pour tea with a liberal splash of something strengthening. He pretended not to watch as she struggled to even get the damned cup to her mouth without spilling its contents.

  “You’ve been sketching,” he noted.

  “Not today, but before,” she agreed. “Yes.”

  “Might I look?”

  “If you like.”

  He took the sketchbook from her and opened the cover. He froze. It was him, leaning against his Range Rover. He suspected it was the day when they’d gone to Inverness to drop off her car. Her talent was absolutely staggering, but that wasn’t what left him feeling completely winded.

  He was standing there in medieval dress.

  He flipped through the rest of the pages slowly, then shut the book and looked at her. “You’re very good,” he said finally.

  “You’re a good model.”

  “I’m stunned at my own handsomeness, truly.”

  He looked at her to find her smiling slightly. It was the first true expression of anything but panic he’d had from her all day. She looked at him and her smile faded.

  “I don’t want to talk about anything that absolutely couldn’t possibly have happened yesterday.”

  He considered what he should say for several minutes before he attempted to speak. “You have to be where I’m not,” he said finally.

  “I had a very bad dream. Nothing more. I’m fine.”

  He looked at her seriously. “You need to be where I am not,”
he repeated.

  She lifted her chin and glared at him. “I might not want anything to do with you.”

  “Well, I suggested you be choosy. I didn’t imply that you should be daft.”

  She blinked.

  Then she burst into tears.

  He rescued her cup and put it on the table with her sketchbook, then sat back and gathered her into his arms. He held her and had to admit he got a bit misty-eyed himself. He’d been in her shoes exactly, save that he hadn’t been a woman and he’d spoken Gaelic—at least the modern-day incarnation of the same. He had at least been able to understand the lads about him as they’d been trying to decide how best to put him to death whilst inflicting the most amount of pain possible beforehand.

  He eventually found tissues for her—nothing more elegant than half a loo roll—and made as many soothing noises as he dared. In time, she was merely breathing raggedly as she pressed her face against his neck and held on to him. She finally stopped shaking and simply breathed, a bit unevenly but without the shudders.

  “The program wasn’t that terrible,” he said finally. “You wanted crap telly.”

  Her hand twitched as it lay on his chest. “Shut up, you horrible man.”

  He laughed a little and settled her more comfortably. “Your tea is cold, darling.”

  “You put a little Scottish flag cozy over the pot. Besides, I wasn’t losing it for that long.”

  He smiled. “I meant what’s in your cup. Let me fetch you more, though it grieves me deeply to toss even a splash of that extremely expensive whisky James MacLeod had locked up in his liquor cabinet.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him. “Did you pick that lock?”

  He considered. “Might have.”

  “Some day you and I will play Truth or Dare,” she said hoarsely. “It won’t go well for you, I’m sure.”

  He took her cup and stood up. “I’ll think about it. Don’t move.”

  She only watched him go, which he supposed should have made him very nervous indeed. But she didn’t move and her hand was much steadier on her next attempt at throwing back whisky-infused tea. He should have been appalled at the waste of the first batch of it, but he couldn’t say he hadn’t done the same thing himself, and more than once.