Love Came Just in Time (10 page)

Miles ducked, his eyes wide. “Abigail—”

“Go,” she shouted, pointing to the door. “Just leave if you're going!”

Miles thought it best to do just that, while he was still in one piece. And when Abigail reached for another heavy stick of wood, he did the most sensible thing he could think of.

He bolted for the door.

He'd barely pulled the hall door to when he heard the thump of wood striking it on the other side. So he'd left his dignity behind. He would smile as he told his children how difficult it had been to woo their mother. It would make a fine tale.

He was halfway to the stables before he realized in how precarious a situation he was leaving his lady. He couldn't allow her to remain in a keep with an unbarred door and no men to protect her.

He turned back to the hall and pushed on the door. There was no budging it. Abigail had obviously made use of the crossbeam. Well, perhaps that would do. He would make as much haste as possible. The sooner he was home, priest in tow, the better he would like it.

Assuming, however, he didn't have to break down his own door to get to his bride.

He smiled as he strode to the stables. What a fine life it promised to be!

ABBY THREW ANOTHER log onto the fire, then dragged her hand across her eyes.

“What a jerk,” she said, with a snuffle against her sleeve. “He's no better than the rest of them.”

She could hardly believe Miles had just walked out, leaving her behind to ponder the reasons for his hotfooted departure. Maybe her soulbaring had scared him. Abby scowled. Coward. And he'd flat-out admitted that part of it was the sex thing. And after how readily he'd accepted it before, as if he would have been surprised by anything else! She scowled again. For all she knew, he'd just been toying with her.

Abby moved closer to the fire, with a muttered curse. It had been a very bad day. After Miles had left around noon, she'd spent the afternoon pacing and raging. Then she'd cried. When she'd tired of that, she had retreated to Miles's chair. She'd been sitting there since dusk, cursing both his inadequate bonfire and the day she'd landed in his moat. After slandering his hall and his person to her satisfaction, she'd simply sat and pondered life and its mysteries, shaking her head. Her grandmother had always shaken her head a lot. Abby was beginning to understand why.

Miles's actions baffled her. She had been prepared for him to lose it when she'd told him where and when she'd come from. But when she had told him her tiny little dream of home and hearth to call her own, not only had he not given her dream the proper respect and attention it deserved, he'd walked out on her. And on Christmas Eve, of all times! Tonight was the night to have people around her who cared for her. All she had was an empty castle. She had no Christmas tree, no twinkling lights, and no presents. Hell's bells, she didn't even have any fruitcake to worry about disposing of!

But that wasn't the worst of it. Much as she didn't want to admit it, what she didn't have was what she wanted the most.

Miles.

She'd always wondered if there were such a thing as meeting a person and knowing immediately he was the Right One. She'd never experienced it before. She was very familiar with attraction to the Wrong One. She would meet a man, think he was handsome, then ten minutes later start making excuses for his glaring flaws. But no amount of fiddling had ever turned any of those men into the Right One.

With Miles, it had been completely different. One minute she'd been chewing him out for not having indoor plumbing, the next she'd been comparing him to her Ideal Man requirements and finding nothing lacking. Until today. Running out on her was a big check mark on the Red Flag side of the list. If he didn't love her enough to stay, he just wouldn't do.

Besides, what did she want with primitive old medieval England anyway? No running water, no phone, and no History Channel on cable. Hell, she was
living
the History Channel.

She needed modern comforts. Hot showers. Soap that came pre-wrapped and contained moisturizers with long, scientific names. Craft stores, where she could buy makings for Christmas decorations. Good grief, even simple things like flipping a switch for lights, indoor plumbing, central heat ... the Mini Mart!

Well, time was awastin'. She jumped to her feet purposefully and headed toward the door. She'd just go home. There wasn't anything there for her either, but at least she'd be miserable in comfort. It was definitely a step up from being miserable in a drafty old castle that was ratty even by
medieval
standards!

She put her shoulder under the crossbeam and gave it a shove over to her left. It took several tries, but finally she managed to slide it far enough to one side that all it took was a good push upward to tip it out of the remaining bracket. She took hold of the iron door ring and started to pull.

“Meow.”

Abby paused, then shook her head. “That's not going to work this time. I'm late for my date with the moat.”

“I say, old girl,
meow!”

Abby whirled around, fully expecting to see someone behind her.

She was alone.

This was way too spooky. She took a few hesitant steps out into the middle of the room, searching the shadows. Then she squeaked in surprise.

Sir Sweetums sat on the bottom step of Miles's circular stairway. He swished his tail impatiently, then turned and disappeared upward into the shadows.

“I'm going to regret this,” Abby muttered under her breath.

She crossed the room, then climbed up the circular stairs. She waited until her eyes had adjusted fully. The moon was full, which helped. But one of these days Miles was really going to have to do something about a roof over this part of his castle—

“Really, my dear, you are the most stubborn of women.”

Abby shrieked and jumped back. All she succeeded in doing was smacking herself smartly against the stone of the stairwell.

“Who's there?” she said, her voice warbling like a bird's.

“ 'Tis I,” a cultured voice said from the darkness. “Your beloved Sir Sweetums.”

Against her better judgment, Abby strained to see into the shadowy hallway across from her. What she really needed to be doing was getting up and looking for a weapon, not peering into the shadows to catch a glimpse of a ghostly cat who seemed to be having delusions of conversation. Maybe that big cleaver in the kitchen would be protection enough.

And then, before she could gather her limbs together and move, Sir Sweetums himself appeared across the gaping hole that separated the stairwell from what should have been, and likely would be again, a hallway leading to bedrooms.

Abby sank down onto a step and gaped at him in amazement. “Sir Sweetums?” she managed.

“But of course,” he said, giving his paw a delicate lick and skimming said paw alongside his nose. He finished with his ablutions and looked at her. “Who else?”

“Ooooh,” Abby said, clutching the rock on either side of her. “I've really lost it this time. Garretts aren't supposed to hallucinate!”

“No hallucination, dearest Abigail,” Sir Sweetums said placidly. “Just me, come to bring you to your senses. I've been trying for years, since the moment you lost your wits over that pimply-faced chap named Mad Dog McGee when you were twelve.”

Garretts never whimpered. Abby thought moaning might not be a blot against her, so she did it thoroughly.

“No vapors, I beg of you!” Sir Sweetums exclaimed, holding up his paw.

“You're talking,” Abby said, hoarsely. She shook her head. “I'm talking to a cat. I can't believe this.”

“We've talked before,” Sir Sweetums pointed out. “I have many fond memories of conversing whilst I stalked the butterfly bush and you puttered amongst the hollyhocks—”

“That was different. You were using words like ‘meow' and ‘prrr.' You weren't going on about me puttering amongst my hollyhocks.” Abby glared at him. “This is unnatural!”

“ 'Tis the season for giving, my dear, and this is the gift given to animals each year from midnight on the eve of the Christ Child's birth to sunrise the next morning.”

“But you aren't alive,” Abby whispered. “I know you aren't.”

“Ah,” Sir Sweetums agreed, with a nod, “there's the heart of it. I wished I could have come to you and told you, but once a feline enters the Guardian's association, he cannot go back. Unless he has further work to do.” Sir Sweetums cocked his head to one side. “And to be sure, I had further work to do with you, my girl!”

Abby leaned back against the stone and shivered once. When it had passed, she took a deep breath and let it out again.

“All right,” she said. “I can handle this.” She laughed, in spite of herself. “I'm living in 1238. If I can believe that, I can believe I'm talking to you.” She looked at her very beloved Sir Sweetums and felt her eyes begin to water. “I missed you so much.”

Sir Sweetums coughed, a little uncomfortably it seemed to her. “Of course, my dear.”

“Did you miss me?”

“Of course, my dear,” he said, gently. “Out of the mortals I had charge of during my nine lives, you were my favorite. Didn't you know?”

Abby smiled through her tears. “No, I didn't know. But thanks for telling me.”

Sir Sweetums smiled, as only a cat can smile. “My pleasure. Now, on to the reason I am here. You really must get hold of yourself in regards to The Miles. He is a perfectly acceptable human. Indeed, I would have to say he is the best of the matches you could have made.”

“He's a total jerk,” she grumbled.

“Strong-willed,” Sir Sweetums countered. “Sure of himself and unafraid to speak his mind.”

“He may speak, but he doesn't listen. I told him my most precious dream yesterday morning and he didn't even acknowledge it!”

“Maybe he was giving thought to your words.”

“Hrumph,” she said, unappeased. “If that's true, why did he leave?”

“When he returns, you'll ask.”

“I'm not going to be here when he gets back.”

“Tsk, tsk,” Sir Sweetums said. “My dearest Abigail, you don't think I brought you all the way here just to have you leave, do you?”

“You?” she screeched.
“You're
the one responsible for this?”

“Who else?” he said, with a modest little smile.

“Why?” she exclaimed. “Why in the world did you drag me all the way here?”

“Because this is where you need to be,” he said, simply.

“Right. Without chocolate, my superfirm mattresss, and running water. Thanks a lot.”

Sir Sweetums shook his head patiently. “Really, my dear. Those are things you can live without.”

“No, I can't. I'm going home.”

“Conveniences there may be in the future, dear girl, but who awaits there to share those conveniences with you?”

Well, he had a point there. Abby scowled and remained silent. She was not going to let a cat, no matter how much she loved him, talk her into remaining in miserable old medieval England.

“Abigail,” Sir Sweetums said gently, “Miles is a dashedly fine chap.”

“He's a convicted heretic!”

“Abigail,” Sir Sweetums chided, “you know the truth of that.”

“Well, then . . . he's always trying to kiss me into submission,” she finished, triumphantly. “It's barbaric.”

“Consider his upbringing, my dear! The man is a knight. He is used to taking what he wants, when he wants it.”

“And what if I don't want to be taken?” she said, feeling peevish. Peevish was good. It beat the heck out of feeling hurt.

“Then tell him so. But I rather suspect you would find you like it.”

“I'm surrounded by chauvinists,” she muttered—peevishly.

Sir Sweetums looked unruffled. “Think on the alternatives you've had in the past, my dear. What of Brett? Would he have fought for you? Exerted himself to do anything but help you spend your funds and deplete your pantry?”

“No,” she admitted reluctantly.

“And what of those other insufferable fops you managed to find yourself keeping company with? Anyone there who had the spine to care for you?”

“Lord over me, you mean.”

Sir Sweetums conceded the point with a graceful nod. “As The Miles does. Perfectly acceptable behavior for a medieval knight. A most modern medieval knight, if I were to venture an opinion. He's quite liberal-minded in his thinking, my dear. I've no doubt that you two will see eye to eye in the end.”

“He has a big check mark in the Red Flag column,” she insisted. “Running out is the kiss of death with me.”

“Perhaps he had affairs to see to.”

“It would have been nice to have been told, you know. How are we supposed to work things out, not that I'm sure I want to, when he isn't even around?”

“You've waited all this time for him, my dear. What are a few more hours in the grander scheme of things?”

Abby looked at her most beloved of cats and, in spite of herself, found she had to agree with him. Maybe Miles had left for a reason. A good reason.

“It'd better be a
damn
good reason,” she muttered. “And he'd better come rolling back in here before long, or I'll give my second thoughts a second thought!”

A throat cleared itself from immediately behind her. “Actually, my lady, there was very little rolling involved. I walked in quite well on my own two feet.”

Abby whipped around to look at Miles, who was standing at the crook of the stairs. He climbed up another step or two. He smiled at her, then his gaze drifted across the gap to Sir Sweetums.