Much Ado In the Moonlight (39 page)

Fulbert snorted. “Knife work, to be sure. History, customs, local politics—if you can stomach them.”

“And you’ll want to know Connor’s particulars,” Thomas added, “though I suspect he may be unwilling to give them.”

Victoria sighed. “He won’t remember me, will he? Since I would be preventing him from being a ghost for eight hundred years—”

“Well,” Thomas said with a smile, “that is a matter of opinion. We’ll have a very long discussion about remembering the future on our way to Jamie’s.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“You can talk to Iolanthe about it later. For now, I’ll give Jamie a call and see if he can help you. He’s generally willing to make time for this kind of thing. How soon do you want to leave?”

“Fred’s overseeing the storing of our gear. If Mrs. Pruitt lets me keep the costumes in the shed, I won’t have to deal with that until right before I go back to the States.” She considered. “I suppose I could leave day after tomorrow. Monday,” she clarified. “Maybe Tuesday.”

“Tuesday it is,” Thomas said.

Victoria nodded, struggling to swallow past the lump in her throat.

She would do this and hope that Connor would change his mind.

She couldn’t bear to think about the alternative.

 
Several
hours later, she staggered to the library, wondering if she might not quite be equal to the task before her.

She had passed the morning in Gaelic-land, learning the depth and breadth of her lack. Even Thomas sounded like a native—an annoying fact in and of itself. She’d begged, after a couple of hours, to go deal with the post-production details she normally detested.

Unfortunately, those had been wrapped up far too soon for her taste, and without a Connor sighting for the whole of the afternoon.

She’d discussed defenses with Ambrose and Thomas over dinner, with a few mutterings from Fulbert thrown in for good measure. By bedtime, she was past being tired. And far past being overwhelmed.

She was numb.

She entered the library and closed the door behind her. She was surprised to see a fire in the hearth. She was even more surprised to see Connor sitting in his accustomed chair. He rose at once and waited until she had taken the seat across from him before he sat.

And then he merely stared at her for an eternity in silence.

She had nothing to say. What was there to say? How could she convince him to agree with her? And what was the point if he didn’t want her to go and get him?

Connor closed his eyes and bowed his head for several minutes. Then he lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at her.

His eyes were moist.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

She started to cry. She didn’t mean to, but when it came right down to it, she simply couldn’t help herself.

“Please,” he pleaded, leaning forward and looking at her with tears in his eyes. “Please do not do this thing.”

She would have taken his hands if she could have. Instead, all she could do was look at him with tears streaming down her face.

“Please don’t ask me not to.”

“Victoria, you cannot fathom the danger.”

“You’re right,” she said. “But I can fathom the misery if I don’t try.”

He bowed his head for several minutes, then he sighed deeply. “Can you imagine how this galls me? The only way I can have you is to allow you to risk your life for mine. How can I tell you that I agree with this? By the saints, Victoria, how can I help you find your way to hell?”

“Is medieval Scotland that bad?” she asked lightly.

“I was talking about myself.”

“Are you telling me I’m going back in time to rescue a jerk?”

“I was . . . difficult.”

“You’re difficult now. Big deal. I’m a pain, too.”

He smiled briefly, then sobered. “Nay, my love, you are all that I could wish for and more. Should I spend the rest of my days simply loving you from afar, I would be content.”

She snorted. “You wouldn’t be and neither would I. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more Gaelic lessons in the morning and I don’t want to be bleary-eyed.”

He looked heavenward for a moment, then met her eyes. “I do not like this.”

She waited.

“My pride will suffer.”

She waited a bit more.

“I want you to understand that when we succeed, and when we return to your day,
I
will be the one seeing to you.”

“Head of the house? Breadwinner? Presiding officer?” she said with a smile.

“I am in earnest.”

“And I’m just thrilled you want to come back to my day.”

“Indoor plumbing,” he said succinctly. “French wines, French cooking, French chocolate.” He paused. “I’ve heard rumors.”

She rose and smiled down at him. “Good night, my laird. Are you going to bed?”

“I’ll keep watch over you, if it doesn’t trouble you.”

She felt a moment of awkwardness when she would have preferred to kiss him senseless, but considering that she couldn’t even shake his hand politely, she settled for a smile and a hasty retreat to her bed.

“A tale?” he asked when she was comfortably ensconced under her covers.

“A song, instead.”

“All right.”

It was a love song. She only recognized a few words, but
battle
and
death
weren’t among them.

Love
and
forever
certainly were.

She would have to have him translate the whole thing in the morning.

She fell asleep smiling.

Three
weeks later, Connor stood on the edge of James MacLeod’s garden and considered several things.

First, there was the complete improbability of standing on MacLeod soil without a sword in his hand and death on his mind. It never would have happened during his lifetime. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that it happened during his death.

Second was the somewhat surreal experience of being back in the Highlands. It had been, literally, centuries since he had walked over his native land. That he should be there seven hundred years after his death was almost too much to be believed.

Victoria had come with Thomas and Iolanthe in Thomas’s car; Connor had made his way at a more leisurely pace with the Boar’s Head Trio. Even Fulbert had been rendered mute by some of the scenes they had viewed on the way. There was nothing quite like Scotland during high summer to leave a man sorry that he had to return any time soon to anywhere south of Hadrian’s Wall.

Last on his list of things that consumed his attention was the consummate dread he felt watching Victoria try to make herself over into some sort of medieval Highland warrior lass.

By the saints, she would never manage it.

That wasn’t because Jamie’s facilities were lacking. The MacLeod castle was nothing short of spectacular and the surrounding environs were just as lovely. The keep itself lacked nothing in the way of modern conveniences, which made for a good rest after a hard day of training. There was ample room near the garden for training and large expanses of countryside for the mastery of horsemanship. Jamie seemed to have all manner of family with medievalness clinging to them like perfume, who seemed to be more than happy to provide any sort of training a body might desire.

Unfortunately, in spite of her enthusiasm, Victoria hadn’t been very successful at learning what her masters had endeavored to teach her. Though she had made some progress in her speech and now knew what end of the dirk to point away from herself, her ability to reduce a man to tears with anything but her sharp tongue was indeed lacking.

“Well?”

Connor jumped slightly and turned to find Thomas McKinnon standing next to him. “Well, what?”

“I imagine I know what you’re thinking,” Thomas said.

And he said it in Gaelic. Connor wondered about that. “How is it that you speak my mother tongue so well?”

“It’s a gift,” Thomas said modestly.

“Why can’t your sister do the same?”

“She’s only been at it a month. Give her some time.”

“She doesn’t have time,” Connor said grimly.

Thomas smiled suddenly. “I have an idea. Why doesn’t Vic take Jennifer along as a translator?”

“The saints preserve me,” Connor said with horror. “You wish to have the blood of
two
of your sisters on my hands?”

Thomas laughed. “No, I think Vic’s will be quite enough for the time being.” He looked at his sister, who was trying to stab Ian MacLeod with a dirk and failing gloriously. “I think we’re in trouble.”

Connor could only grunt in agreement.

“Maybe she just needs a bigger sword. I’m sure she had fencing lessons somewhere along the way.” He looked at Connor. “Would anyone notice a woman with a very long sword, do you think?”

“Anyone with eyes will notice your sister. Her beauty alone will be a beacon which will call any and all males in the area to her, all with no doubt less-than-noble designs upon her person. If she lives to see my hall, it will be a miracle. If she survives an encounter with me, she will have accomplished what few other souls have—be they wenches or men.”

“It doesn’t sound promising.”

“Did you ever consider that it did?” Connor exclaimed. “Did I not say it was folly? Did I not endeavor to convince her it was madness?”

“She doesn’t listen very well.”

“She does not listen at all!”

Thomas shook his head. “She really must like you, to be doing this.”

“Daft wench,” Connor muttered.

“Well, she’s also a determined one, so since you can’t do anything about the former, maybe you should do something about the latter.”

Connor folded his arms across his chest and donned his fiercest frown. If he offered Victoria aid, that meant he agreed with her decision.

But if he didn’t offer her aid, he would quite possibly be condemning her to a horrible fate of some unthinkable kind in the wilds of medieval Scotland, with him being the only one capable of rescuing her, but likely—as much as it galled him to admit it—too stupid to do so.

He sighed deeply. It was the kind of sigh that came straight from a man’s toes when he resigned himself to the fact that, in the matter at hand, he was not going to be master of his own fate.

“Very well,” he said. “I will aid her.”

Thomas was too wise to smile. “I imagine she will appreciate it.”

“It does not mean I agree with her decision, nor do I approve of her plan.”

“I never would have thought either was the case.”

Connor grunted at him. “Well? Any suggestions?”

“A longer sword and a few insights into your medieval persona might be a good place to start.”

Connor chewed on his lip for a moment or two. “It galls me to admit it, but in life, there was not much at all to recommend me.”

Thomas did smile. “There wasn’t much to recommend you last summer, either, but look what a charmer you’ve become. Vic’ll work on you.”

“You assume I’ll allow myself to be worked on.”

“It’s Victoria. Even I, as her jaded and skeptical brother, have to admit she’s gorgeous. And she’s just as bad-tempered as you are. I imagine you’ll take one look at her and fall madly in love.”

“Ha,” Connor said grimly. “I wish I could credit my mortal self with such good sense, but I cannot. Your sister will be fortunate indeed if she doesn’t see the inside of my dungeon before she can spew out her message to me.”

“Connor, my friend, give yourself some credit.”

Connor looked at Victoria’s brother for a moment or two in silence, then spoke. “Would you allow your lady to do this for you?”

Thomas McKinnon was, mercifully, silent.

Indeed, he looked as if Connor had jarred him quite forcefully in the gut. It took him several moments before he could recapture his breath.

“I see,” he said finally.

“Now you do.”

“I’ll work on her Gaelic; you work on her swordplay and landmark-reading skills.”

“I suppose I can do nothing less,” Connor said. “Unless I could find a way to thwart her plans.”

Thomas shook his head. “Don’t think it. Let’s go prepare her as best we can. The rest will take care of itself.”

“As it did during your trip to the past?”

“We’ll talk about that after it’s all over.” Thomas smiled. “I think Vic’s beginning to tax Ian’s patience and that’s saying something. Start making your list of what she should know and I’ll get with the language.”

Connor nodded and wished he could pour his whole heart into the idea. All he could think about was Victoria, alone and unprotected in the wilds of medieval Scotland. Or, worse yet, in the wilds of his hall, with him never the wiser and ready as he had always been to toss out of his hall anyone who displeased him.

The saints pity them both.

 
T o
his surprise, the longer sword proved to be a great success. Connor stood in Jamie’s garden a day or two later and watched Victoria spar with Ian—Ian who was apparently the resident swordmaster to women who had lost all sense and were determined to pursue a course of madness. She was not only holding her own, she was forcing Ian to actually exert himself to maintain his dignity.

“Peace,” Ian exclaimed with a laugh. “This is a more delicate and refined fighting that I am used to and it taxes me greatly.”

Victoria dragged her sleeve across her brow. “Then go get your broadsword and hack at someone else for a while. It will make you feel better.”

Ian made her a low bow, swished his rapier through the air with a delightful sound, then took Victoria’s advice and sought out a different blade and a sturdier partner. Connor waited for Victoria to have a drink before he began peppering her with questions.

“How do you find west?”

She sighed. “Take a stick, mark the shadow. Wait fifteen minutes and put another stick where the shadow has moved to. Draw a line between the two. That points east and west.”