Love Came Just in Time (34 page)

“Where is she? Where is that girl?”

The imperious tone that had the power to etch glass cut clearly through the midday summer air. Jane felt her teeth begin to grind of their own accord. And then her jaw went slack as she realized she was hearing Miss Petronia Witherspoon in person. Well, maybe that was what she deserved for even alerting Miss Witherspoon to her whereabouts.

Even the two combatants in the yard turned to look as Miss Witherspoon rounded the corner of the castle like a battleship in full regalia, all sails unfurled. Alexis, clad in a painted-on leopard-print catsuit, came trotting behind her in her wake, loaded down with a couple of bolts of fabric and a pair of dressmaker's shears in her arms. Miss Witherspoon clutched a rolled-up drawing in her hand and brandished it like a sword.

This was not good.

Jane watched Alexis come to a dead stop when she saw both Ian and Jamie in skirts, wielding swords. Jane was used to the sight of them fighting in their plaids. She couldn't decide if Alexis was more shocked by the sight of bare knees or bare chests. Then she took a look at the men and decided it was the latter—definitely the latter.

Miss Witherspoon, however, seemed unmoved by the sensational view in front of her. She gave Jamie a cursory glance, did the same to Ian, then turned and fixed Jane with what Jane always called her eighteenth-century bring-your-sorry-indentured-servant-butt-over-here-this-instant look.

“Jane! Jane!” Miss Witherspoon said this with an imperiousness that even Queen Elizabeth likely couldn't have mustered on her best day. “Jane!”

Jane looked at Ian to see how he was taking all the name-calling. He'd impaled the dirt in front of him with his sword and was resting his hands on the hilt, all the while watching with a smile playing around his mouth. She'd become very familiar with the look. It meant he found something vastly amusing but didn't want to spoil the fun by sticking his oar in where it might not be wanted. That was the thing about Ian. He always seemed to find something delightful about what was going on around him. Jane liked that about him. She especially liked that about him now that Miss Witherspoon was waving a bony finger in her direction and screeching her name. After having spent many days in Ian's company, she too could appreciate the absurdity of what to her had been life or death—read rent and food money—to her but a short three weeks ago. Ian had been talking to Jamie about his share of the MacLeod inheritance. Who needed Miss Witherspoon's paltry offerings?

Assuming he intended to see to the care and feeding of the both of them with that inheritance.

Well, if Elizabeth was worth her salt as a romantic, Ian intended to do something along those lines. In honor of that, Jane slouched back against the wall, and propped an ankle up on the opposite knee in a very un-eighteenth-century pose.

“Miss P.,” she said with a little wave, “what's shakin'?”

“You disrespectful chit!” Miss Witherspoon said shrilly. “Without me you would be wallowing in the gutter!”

She had a point there, but Jane wasn't ready to concede the match. She went so far as to put both feet on the ground and stand up. She nodded her head in proper servant like fashion, but refused to curtsey.

“You're right,” Jane said with another nod. “You took a chance on me. I wouldn't be where I am if it hadn't been for you.”
And
I
never would have found Ian.
That alone had been worth three years of slavery.

“I should say not!”

“Your showroom wouldn't be where it is without me, either,” Jane said pointedly, “as you cannot help but admit.”

Miss Witherspoon, surprisingly enough, was silent, but Jane could hear her teeth grinding from twenty paces.

“Alexis as well has benefitted from my skills,” Jane continued.

“Alexis is a brilliant designer,” Miss Witherspoon said stubbornly.

“Then why are you here?” Jane asked.

“She needs a wedding gown,” Miss Witherspoon said briskly. “You'll sew it. She wants, and I cannot understand this for he certainly is not the man I would choose for her,” and she drew in a large breath and released a heavy, disappointed sigh that almost blew Jane over, “but she wants
him.
”

The bony finger lifted, spun around like a needle on a compass, and pointed straight at Ian.

Ian's smile disappeared abruptly. His glance dropped to Alexis's red fingernails and he emitted a little squeak.

“I like him,” Alexis said, raking her claws down the bolt of tulle. She fixed Ian with a look that made him back up a pace. “Do you always carry that sword?” she purred.

“By the saints,” Ian said, backing up again. “I want nothing to do with this one.”

“Of course you do,” Miss Witherspoon said briskly. “Jane, come here and take the materials. Get started right away.”

Jane walked past Miss Witherspoon, pushed Alexis out of the way, and stood in front of Ian.

“Get lost,” she said. “The both of you. I found him first and I'm keeping him.”

“I want him,” Alexis protested. “Auntie said I could have him.”

“Auntie was wrong,” Jane said, pointing toward the gate. “Beat it.”

“Wait,” Ian said, putting a hand on Jane's shoulder and pulling her to one side.

Jane looked at him in astonishment. “Wait?” she echoed.

“Aye,” he said, looking in Alexis's direction with what could have been mistaken for enthusiasm. “Wait.”

“But you just said you didn't want anything to do with her,” Jane said. She shut her mouth abruptly, amazed that the words had come out of it. As if she should point out to Ian where she thought his eyes should and shouldn't be roaming!

“Aye, well, let us not be so hasty,” Ian said, continuing to study Alexis closely.

Jane felt her face go up in flames, taking her heart with it. She couldn't believe she'd misread Ian so fully, but apparently she had. He wouldn't look at her, which convinced her all the more that somehow she had overlooked the fact that he was a rat.

A rat. Hadn't it all started that way? She should have known.

“Let me see the design,” Ian said, holding out his hand to Miss Witherspoon.

He unrolled it and looked it over. Jane didn't want to look, but her curiosity got the better of her. She snorted at the sight. One of her designs, of course, and one Alexis had no doubt swiped from her office. It wasn't Miss Witherspoon's normal fare. It was gauzy and flowing and like nothing Miss Witherspoon or Alexis had ever imagined up in either of their worst nightmares.

Ian help up the drawing and compared it with Alexis, as if he tried to envision how it would look on her. Then he looked over the materials she'd brought with her. He fingered, rubbed a bit against his cheek, then fingered some more. Alexis had begun to salivate. Jane wanted to barf and she was on the verge of saying as much when Ian spoke.

To her.

“Make this,” he said, gesturing toward the drawing.

Jane was speechless. She could only gape at him, wondering where she was going to find air to breathe again since he'd stolen it all with his heartless words. It was bad enough he was dumping her for Alexis. To demand that she make the wedding dress was just too much to take.

“I have my measurements written down for you,” Alexis said, baring her teeth in a ferocious smile. She shoved the material at Jane.

Jane had just gotten that balanced when Ian placed the drawing on top. It was the killing blow. Jane felt the sting of tears begin to blind her.

“If you think for one moment,” she choked, “that I'm going to do any of this—”

“Of course you'll do it,” Ian said. “The gown is perrrfect.”

Jane had the distinct urge to suggest he take his damned r's and wallow in them until he drowned.

“But,” he added, reaching over and placing the point of his sword down in the dirt between Alexis and her, “ 'tis the wrong color entirely, that fabric.”

“Huh?” Alexis said.

“Huh?” Jane echoed, looking up at him. Damn him if that little smile wasn't back.

“White isn't your color,” he said, the smile taking over more of his face, “but I suspect you'll look stunning in blue. A deep blue, perhaps. We'll find the dye for the cloth and then you'll make up the gown.”

Alexis stamped her feet, setting up a small dust storm. “Blue is
not
my color!”

“Aye,” Ian said with a full-blown grin, “I daresay it isn't. But 'twill suit Jane well enough.”

“But . . . but . . .” Miss Witherspoon was spluttering like a teakettle that couldn't find its spout to vent its steam.

Ian waved his sword in their direction and sent both Miss Witherspoon and Alexis backing up in consternation.

“Off with ye, ye harpies,” he said, herding them off toward the gate with the efficiency of a border collie. “Ye've made my Janey frrrown and I'll not have any morre of it.”

Jane stood in the middle of James MacLeod's training field, her arms full of her future and could only stare, speechless, as Ian threw her tormentors off the castle grounds. Then she looked at Jamie who was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He made her a little bow.

“I'll see to a priest,” he said, then he walked away.

Jane watched him go, then continued to stand where she was, finding herself quite alone.

It had to be something in the air. Or the water.

“I think,” she said to no one in particular, “that I've just been proposed to.”

No one answered. The clouds drifted lazily by. Bees hummed. Birds sang. The wind blew chill from the north, stirring her hair and the material in her arms. The castle stood to her right, a silent observer of the morning's events. It seemed disinclined to offer its opinion on what it all meant.

And then Ian peeked around the corner, startling her.

“Well?” he asked.

Jane looked at him, noted the grin that was firmly plastered to his face, and considered the possibilities of this turn of events.

She tilted her head and looked at her potential groom.

“Will my little stone house have indoor plumbing?”

“For you, my lady, aye, I'll see it done.”

“Electricity?”

“If it suits you.”

Well, Ian had lived most of his life without it. It was a certainty that he'd probably live a lot longer if he didn't have any outlets to stick metal implements in.

“I'll give it some thought,” she allowed. “How about cable TV?”

That brought him around the side of the castle and over to where she stood. Before she could find out how he felt about television in general, he'd put his hand behind her head, bent his head, and kissed her.

And then before Jane could suggest that perhaps it might be more comfortable if she put the material and sundry down, Ian had wrapped his arms around all of her and her gear and pulled her gently to him. He smiled down at her before he kissed her again, a sweet, lingering kiss that stole her breath and her heart.

By the time he let her up for air, she was convinced he intended that her heart be permanently softened and her knees nothing but mush. If she hadn't been such a good designer, she probably would have lost her grip on the material. As it was, she was sure she'd lost her grip on her sanity because she was seriously considering marrying a medieval clansman who kissed like nobody's business. Heaven help her through anything else he might choose to do.

“Wow,” she gasped, when he finally let her breathe again.

He smiled down at her smugly. “We won't need TV.”

“I guess not.”

His blue eyes were full of merriment and love and dreams for the future. “A spinning wheel, though,” he said. “And a hearth large enough for us to warm ourselves by in the evenings.”

“And to gather the children around to hear glorious stories of their father's conquests in battle?” she asked, feeling her heart break a little at the thought.

“Aye, that too,” he said gently, then he kissed her again. “That too, my Jane, if it pleases you.”

She would have told him what pleased her, but he kissed her again and the sensation of having her toes curling in her boots was just too distracting to remember what it was she'd meant to tell him.

Then he put his arm around her and led her back to the castle. He was already planning their future out loud and she suspected she wouldn't get a word in edgewise until he was finished. But since his dreams included her, she wouldn't begrudge him his plans. She was a weaver and he was a storyteller. She would weave her strands in and out of his dreams and he would tell everyone who would listen how it had been done.

And somehow, she suspected they would live out their lives in bliss, quite likely by candlelight.

When you had a fourteenth-century husband, things were much safer that way.

IAN MACLEOD SAT in a comfortable chair in front of a large hearth, toasting his toes against the warmth of the fire, and contemplated life's mysteries. They were many, but the evening stretched out pleasantly before him, so he had the time to examine them at length.

The first thing that caught his attention and qualified for an item of true irony was that he warmed his toes against a fire in a little stone hut when he had a perfectly good manor house up the way with all the modern amenities a goodly portion of his money could buy. His toes could also have been enjoying a fine Abyssinian carpet and his backside a well-worn leather club chair. Even more distressing was the thought of the stew simmering in the black kettle in front of him when there was a shiny red Aga stove sitting in the kitchen waiting for him to pit his skill against it.