Much Ado In the Moonlight (34 page)

She walked through the dining room and paused at the sound of low voices coming from the kitchen. She didn’t hear any cursing or the loud, declarative type of thing that bespoke insults being delivered between Highlanders or between Highlander and late medieval Englishman, so she assumed it was safe to enter.

But as she stood at the door, she heard the strains of something far more interesting than threats of bodily harm.

“ ‘My hour is almost come, when I to sulphurous and tormenting flames must render up myself’,” Ambrose quoted.

“ ‘Alas! poor ghost,’ ” said Connor sympathetically.

Victoria felt her jaw slide a little south. Ambrose and Connor, reading lines?

“ ‘Pity me not,’ ” Ambrose said, “ ‘but lend thy serious hearing to what I shall unfold.’ ”

“ ‘Speak, I am bound to hear.’ ” Connor snorted. “And that, my laird, is the first and last time you shall hear me beg to hear you blather on at length without interruption.”

“My good Connor,” said Ambrose, “I am only repeating the lines of the play.”

“At least you are not bleating them like that pitiful excuse for a ghost Victoria finds herself saddled with. I vow, if he bellows
adieu
once more in that groaning fashion, I will clout him over the head with a dirk myself!”

“Then I thank you, lad, for the compliment on my acting. Let us continue, shall we?”

“Aye,” Connor said, “but let us make haste in this run-through. The night will not last forever and I wish Victoria to have no idea that I waste my time thusly.”

There was silence for quite a lengthy period of time. Victoria wondered if she’d made a noise to alert them to her presence, or if Connor was pausing to count all the reasons why spending his night practicing Shakespeare was less useful than grinding guardsmen into the dust.

“Connor, my lad,” Ambrose said slowly, “this is not a waste of time. You’ve learned a goodly number of Hamlet’s lines—a not unworthy accomplishment. You’ll find that it will aid you in learning to read them. And there is more to a full, rich life than the ability to best any soul on the field.”

“I daresay,” Connor said with a snort.

“I daresay,” Ambrose countered. “Young William Shakespeare was full of large, profound thoughts.”

“And many bawdy ones.”

“A happy marriage of both. Soon, you will be able to read all his plays yourself. Time spent with great thinkers is never wasted. Consider what a connoisseur of human nature he was. How much time you will save when you can label a man a Rosencrantz, or an Iago, or a MacBeth and be done with them.” Then Ambrose made a dismissive noise. “But what am I lecturing you for? You have a keen eye and a mighty intellect, else you would not have learned so many lines already. Victoria will be impressed.”

There was another pregnant pause.

“Think you?”

“A man who can quote Shakespeare is always in fashion.”

“In court circles, perhaps, but not on a windswept moor. But I am not above learning a thing or two if it will aid me in my reading. Let us continue.”

Victoria backed away, then backed into something solid. She turned around and screamed.

Mrs. Pruitt stood there, flashlight under her chin again.

“Only me,” she whispered.

The lights went on in the dining room and Victoria whirled around to find Connor, Ambrose, Hugh, and Fulbert in a little cluster at the kitchen door.

“Oh,” Mrs. Pruitt purred.

Ambrose disappeared.

“Why does he do that?” Mrs. Pruitt asked.

Victoria turned around and gave her a fake smile. “Maybe he thinks you’ve transferred your affections to Dr. Morris. You know those Highland lairds.”

“I would certainly be happy to.” She sighed and clicked off her flashlight. “And now look; there go the other ones. Perhaps they’ve not the spine to face a mature woman with a mind of her own.”

“I’m sure that’s probably it. What did Dr. Morris say?”

“He’s on his way.” Mrs. Pruitt patted her hair. “I’m off to do me curls.”

“Still hedging your bets?” Victoria asked.

“Och, aye, lass.”

Victoria watched her turn and make tracks out of the dining room. Then she went back to see if anyone was left in the kitchen. The stove was lit, the lights were on, and the four ghosts in question sat around the table, playing cards.

Interesting.

“A good game?” she asked.

“Quite,” Ambrose said. “It passes the time pleasantly between sword fights.”

Victoria looked at Connor. “You’re chummy with these three.”

“I’m regaling them with tales of Elizabeth’s London,” Connor said, stroking his throat gingerly as if he feared his lie might get stuck there. “Quite interesting.”

“I’ll bet. Mrs. Pruitt’s off to wait for the doctor to come and sedate Michael.”

“How lovely,” Ambrose said. “He is rather ruining our game with his endless complaining.”

“Well, you boys don’t lose your shirts gambling here,” Victoria said, backing out of the kitchen. “Good night.”

“Good night,” came the rather casual chorus.

Victoria hadn’t been a damned good actress herself without good reason. She made noises as if she walked across the room when in reality she remained by the door.

“Lose our shirts?” Fulbert huffed. “What the devil does that mean?”

“Nothing personal,” Ambrose said. “A term from the Old West. Apparently Victoria doesn’t want us gaming overmuch. Now, let us put away our ruse and be about our true work. Connor, where were we?”

“The ghost was on the verge of describing his own murder. I do not like this part, by the way.”

“You’re not reciting the lines,” Ambrose said pointedly, “you’re just listening.”

“I’m not all that fond of
listening
to this part,” Connor grumbled.

“Make do,” Ambrose suggested. “Think on why you’re doing this and let us be about it.”

Victoria snuck away before she could hear any more of Connor’s grumbles. She walked back to the library without encountering either Mrs. Pruitt or Dr. Morris. She sat down in one of the chairs in front of the fire and closed her eyes briefly.

Was it possible that three days ago she had been in another world with no running water and no toilets but really great theater? And now, there she was, in her sister’s comfortable inn, safe and well-fed.

With theater going on in the kitchen.

Amazing.

Now, if she could just assure herself of good theater at Thorpewold. Michael’s understudy was doing a great job, but Victoria couldn’t help but chafe at the fact that Michael was lying uselessly upstairs, when he should have been doing his job up at the castle. She had contracted to pay him for a certain number of performances. If he couldn’t be bothered to show up, she wouldn’t be bothered to pay him.

Or, at least she
thought
she wouldn’t be bothered. She could hardly bear to think about what Bernie the Bardmaker would do if she dared.

She contemplated this for several more minutes until she heard a discreet knock on the front door. Well, at least she would have one distraction removed for a while. What would happen when Michael was more himself was another thing to worry about, but later, when she had to.

She sighed. Michael would need hand-holding, and though she was tempted to relegate that job to Mrs. Pruitt, she was half afraid to do so, lest Michael find himself with more injuries than he’d started with.

She rose and went to make certain her star would survive his medical attention.

Connor had finished the rest of his lines in the last scene, but those were the words that haunted him as he listened to the rest of his little band of players do their final bits. There was truth in what Shakespeare had written, just as Ambrose had said. But of late, in his heart, there was very little fighting indeed.

Longing was what had taken the fighting’s place.

He sat down at the table and conjured up the final page of Shakespeare’s play of life and death. He was, quite frankly, surprised by how many of the words he could read. Apparently his time in the inn’s kitchen with Ambrose hadn’t been time wasted. If nothing else, he was beginning to read things that pleased him.

It did little to assuage the sorry condition of his poor heart, but perhaps he should have been grateful for what he did have instead of longing for what he didn’t.

Hugh and Fulbert sat down at the table with hefty tankards of ale and began discussing the strengths and weaknesses of their performances.

“Nay, you were not so bad,” Fulbert conceded to Hugh. “You have that annoying, cloying superiority that so suits Polonius.”

Hugh’s ale sloshed over the side of his mug with the force of him slamming it down. “I beg your pardon! I was playing the part—and quite well, I’d say.”

“And
I
say you don’t need to act,” Fulbert said, shoving aside his own ale and glaring at Hugh. “And I say as well that if you tell me once more how it is I’m to play Claudius, I will draw my sword and teach you a thing or two about kingly executions!”

Hugh leaped to his feet, his chair crashing down behind him. “Draw your sword and let us see who has more nobility in their breeding!”

“Outside,” Ambrose barked.

Hugh stopped in middraw and looked at Fulbert. “I suppose the garden will suit.”

Fulbert shrugged and had one last gulp of ale. “Well enough, as usual.” He gestured politely to the door. “After you.”

“Nay, you.”

“I insist.”

“I wouldn’t dream—”

“Go!” Ambrose bellowed.

Hugh and Fulbert went. Connor sighed and put his book away. He fussed with his own ale for several minutes before he looked at Ambrose.

“Why did you choose me?”

Ambrose blinked. “Choose you? You mean to play Hamlet in our little company?”

“Nay,” Connor said impatiently. “Why did you choose me for Victoria?”

Ambrose smiled faintly. “Well, she needed a man equal to her in ferocity and determination. ’Twas a certainty no man with those qualities existed in Manhattan. You were the obvious choice.”

Connor glared at him. “Damn you.”

“Damn me?” Ambrose asked in surprise. “Why?”

“Because you’ve thrown us together and now look where we are!”

“You weren’t without choice,” Ambrose said placidly. “Neither was Victoria.”

“She hasn’t made a choice.”

“Hasn’t she?” Ambrose shrugged. “I daresay you shouldn’t decide that until you’ve asked her.”

Connor would have drawn his sword and taken Ambrose to task, but he was too sick at heart. “She has made no choice,” he said flatly. “I daresay what she feels for me is . . . friendship.” By the saints, even saying the word made him want to grind his teeth. “Unfortunately, that is not the case for me.”

“Well,” Ambrose said, “what are you going to do about that?”

“I daresay stabbing you repeatedly each and every day for a few centuries might keep me occupied.”

Ambrose laughed. “As entertaining as that might be for you, perhaps you should consider other alternatives. I wouldn’t discredit Victoria’s feelings—or your own. Why don’t you take yourself off to the keep and see if you can’t discover a way to make both your lives tolerable. Woo her. Befriend her. Make her life better than it was when she came here with only Michael Fellini to love.”

“The saints preserve her,” Connor said grimly. He rose and looked at Ambrose with a scowl. “You and your matches. Have you never considered that some of them might be attempted where they should not be?”

“Aye.”

Connor folded his arms over his chest. “But you’ve no apology to offer?”

Ambrose looked up at him, untroubled. “Are you worse off than you were at the beginning of the summer? Have you not made friendships that you did not have before? Have you not found a purpose to your days that did not exist before Victoria came?”

“I am still lacking a bloody captain,” Connor grumbled.

“Aye, well, there isn’t a man alive or dead equal to that duty, so perhaps that is not a good way to measure your success.”

Connor pursed his lips. It was the best way to disguise the fact that he couldn’t deny that Ambrose was right. He had formed a friendship with Victoria’s granny. He had passed the occasional moment in less-than-unpleasant conversation with Thomas McKinnon. He had even found comrades in the Boar’s Head Trio—a thing he never would have suspected could be possible. He had learned to read. He had discovered that there was a world that existed outside himself and his fury over his own life cut short.

And he had met Victoria.

For that alone, he would be forever indebted to the shade before him.

He grunted. “I’m off to the keep. I have things to see to before the sun rises.”

Ambrose raised his cup. “Until sunset, then.”

Connor left the kitchen before he did the unthinkable and thanked Ambrose for his bloody interference.

He walked up to the keep in predawn calm, surprisingly light of heart and step. His life, such as it was, could have been worse. It
had
been worse.

He hoped it wouldn’t get worse than it had been.

He walked into the keep just as the sky was beginning to lighten. There was no activity in the inner bailey. Well, except for the man up on the stage, striding about, reciting his lines with vigor.

Connor swallowed his surprise and walked over to the stage to look up at Roderick St. Claire, who was dressed in a rather finely made costume and seemed to be perfectly comfortable exhibiting his acting talents, which were not unworthy.

Roderick paused, then turned and bowed. “My laird.”

“What are you doing?”

“Playing Laertes,” Roderick said, straightening. “How do you find it?”