Much Ado In the Moonlight (24 page)

She blinked as if she’d been slapped briskly. “Oh. I see.”

He wondered if it would disturb her if he cut off his own head. He considered blurting out that he thought her a right fearsome wench and one he would have been honored to guard day and night for the rest of her life. He considered telling her that the foregoing was a load of tripe and that he bloody well had fond feelings for her, and that if she took another serious look in Fellini’s direction he bloody well would take his blade to her. He even considered telling her that if she didn’t think him all that a man should be, he would walk out of the inn and find another part of England to haunt—

“Connor?”

“Aye?” he snarled.

“I think you need a nap.”

“I most certainly do not need a nap!”

She sat back in her chair and studied him. He almost drew his sword in self-defense. At least then she would have been distracted by the glint of steel and ceased with her staring at him. He started a fire in the hearth with a flick of his wrist. Blades were better admired by firelight, he decided.

And damn it, so were red-haired, porcelain-complected women of the kind to steal his breath in spite of his iron self-control.

“Connor?” she asked quietly.

“Hmmm?” He put away his unreasonable and impossible thoughts. He was spirit; she was flesh. There was no circumnavigating that small inconvenience.

Would that he could.

“Thank you,” she said.

In Gaelic.

The saints pity him, he thought he just might love her.

“For what?” he asked gruffly.

“For today,” she said. “For keeping me company and wanting to avenge my bruised honor.”

“A shade’s work is never done,” he managed.

Her smile faded, but didn’t disappear.

“No,” she said softly, “I suppose it isn’t.” She looked at him for several minutes, then rose slowly. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I ken that well enough, woman,” he said gruffly. “Go to bed. I’ll make certain Fellini doesn’t slip something foul into your tea on the morrow.”

She crawled into bed and closed her eyes. “Good night, Connor.”

He was a very long time in answering, mostly because he wanted her to be asleep before he did.

“And to you, my lady,” he whispered.

Damnation, he was past any hope of reason.

Victoria
walked along the way from the castle back to the inn, cursing in Gaelic. Learning the language was her new obsession and curses were the extent of her vocabulary so far. That was okay. She’d been swearing at Michael Fellini all morning, which was the only thing that had kept her from killing him.

She’d managed to eat breakfast with him that morning without doing him bodily harm. Then she’d bored him to tears with talk of technical things she knew he couldn’t possibly have the patience for. He’d lasted until noon, which had been three hours longer than she’d been betting on. She’d learned nothing more than what she should have known from the start, which was that the man was a complete jerk. Why she’d ever found his exuberant, over-the-top, diva-type personality appealing, she would never know . . .

She hesitated.

She had obviously spent too much time around men packing swords.

She shook her head and continued on her way back to the inn. She no longer recognized her life and that should have sent her speeding off to a therapist’s couch. That it didn’t was something to be examined another day. For now, she would just go with it. Maybe when she was striking the set after the show was over, she would do an equal amount of tearing down of her own life.

So many things she had taken for granted.

So little time spent on what really mattered.

Not that she was going to quit the theater and start making baby clothes any time soon. Jennifer could lose her mind that way, but Victoria had no intentions of doing the same thing. But balance? Yes, balance was something she could definitely stand to find.

She walked along the path up through the garden and smiled with the pleasure of sniffing Mrs. Pruitt’s quite lovely-smelling flowers. There was also the fact that another day had been successfully conquered to savor. And that was no small feat. With only two days remaining until opening night, she was past being nervous. There was nothing else she could do at this point. Her actors knew their lines; they had their blocking down; they knew where to find the castle; no one was sick.

And no one was being haunted, either, at least today. Even the Boar’s Head Trio had deserted her. She hadn’t seen a one of them all day, not during the morning when Michael had been hanging onto her like a limpet, nor when her rehearsal had flown by during the afternoon.

She hadn’t seen Connor, either. She’d grown so accustomed to him hanging around the stage or waiting to walk her back to the inn that it seemed strange to have seen nothing of him. What was he, a fair-weather ghost only willing to make an appearance if there was a good scream in it for him? Too busy with his afterlife to show up for five minutes and say hello?

She went immediately into the library. Connor sat there before the fire, poring with furrowed brow over a Gaelic version of
Thomas the Tank Engine
.

“Interesting book?” she asked.

He looked up at her and shrugged. “There are fewer letters in my language.”

“You weren’t at the castle today,” she said briskly, putting her hands on her hips before she thought better of it.

He looked as shocked as she had ever seen him. “I was there this afternoon.”

“Were you?”

“Aye, I was. Don’t you remember?”

She rubbed her eyes, then sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“You should go in to supper,” he said, folding up his book and sending it into oblivion. “I should likely come, as well. The saints only know what Fellini will be about.”

“He’s probably still recovering from this morning,” she said. “I kept him busy at the castle this afternoon, but I didn’t follow him when he left.”

“I should have done so,” Connor said. “I would have, but you bellowed at me to leave and I thought it best to comply.”

She blinked. “Did I? Bellow at you?”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Can you not remember it?”

“Opening night is two days away,” she explained.

“Will this condition of yours grow worse?”

“It always does.”

“The saints preserve us,” he said, with feeling. He rose and nodded toward the door. “Let us be away. Supper will do you good.”

Victoria made her way to the dining room. It was packed to the gills. Mrs. Pruitt had apparently been forced to feed the King of Denmark and Gertrude in the kitchen, due to the new company, but the rest of the cast and Victoria’s family found places at tables. She contented herself with a plate on her lap while she sat on a chair set up against the wall. She looked around to see if anyone else was as on-edge as she was.

Her parents were quiet, but not unsettled. Jennifer was listening, with glazed-over eyes, to Michael going on about heaven only knew what. Thomas and Iolanthe were as they always were: delighted beyond measure to gaze deeply into each other’s eyes and ignore everyone around them.

No one seemed to be worried that Granny was gone or that James MacLeod had disappeared in like manner. Victoria felt as if she were in a terribly written play, portraying a character that she loathed and living for the moment when she could get offstage.

She choked down lukewarm vegetables and tried to keep a stiff upper lip. Everything would be okay. Jamie would show back up from wherever he’d gone. Her granny would pop back in the same way.

One could hope.

She was working on very dry bread when the door to the dining room burst open. She fully expected to see one of the ghosts burst in to put Michael to shame. But it wasn’t a ghost. It wasn’t even an actor.

It was James MacLeod.

Dressed in head-to-toe Elizabethan gear.

“Wannabe,” Cressida said with a sniff. “The local costume shop hasn’t got a clue and he hasn’t got a talented bone in his body.”

Victoria heard a crash. She realized as she stood up in surprise and felt something squish beneath her shoe that the crash had been her dinner landing on the floor. But before she could say anything, Thomas had risen and gone to welcome Jamie into the dining room. Victoria wanted to begin the grilling right then, but she was distracted by the food on her shoe and the necessity of cleaning it up. Mrs. Pruitt arrived with a dish towel and helped her. It was just as well, as Victoria found herself without the presence of mind to do it.

Jamie was back.

And Thomas didn’t look at all surprised to see him.

Victoria leaned back against the wall, having given up any thought of eating. “Thomas knows something,” she murmured.

Connor grunted. “I daresay.”

“Did you know him when he was remodeling Thorpewold?” she asked out of the side of her mouth.

“Aye, you know I did.”

“Why didn’t you do him in when you had the chance?”

Connor snorted out a half laugh. “I should have.”

“If you have the chance again, don’t be such a gentleman. But let me use the thumbscrews on him first. I have a few answers to pry out of him.”

“As you will, lady.”

Jamie wasted no time ingesting quite a substantial dinner. Victoria considered while Jamie inhaled. Why did Thomas look so unsurprised? Had he expected Jamie to return? It wasn’t possible that her brother had done his own hopping in and out of fairy rings.

Was it?

She let that percolate for a moment or two in her head, then dismissed it out of hand. This was Thomas she was thinking about. He was great with money, great with power tools, and spectacular with a pair of crampons on his boots, but anything to do with a sword? Ha! He would probably trip and impale himself on it, thereby saving his foe the trouble.

She turned her attention back to the known quantity. Jamie wasn’t wasting any time with his meal and she was grateful for that. She was chafing at the bit to know what he’d found out.

Unfortunately, her actors were dawdling over their damned desserts. She tapped her foot impatiently. When they showed signs of lingering over coffee, she reached over and thumped her brother on the back of the head. He scowled at her as he rubbed the spot, but the wordless communication did the trick.

“Well, good night everyone,” Thomas said, rising. “A family conference in the sitting room?”

Her family rose, and Michael rose along with them. Victoria strode over to him.

“Good night, Michael,” she said with a smile. “I’m sure we’ll see you in the morning.”

He looked primed and ready to protest. Victoria opened her mouth to speak, but found that unnecessary.

“Sit down, you bloody bugger,” Connor said sternly from behind him.

Michael shivered, then sat. “You don’t have to be nasty about it,” he groused. He looked at Victoria. “I suggest you don’t use that tone with me again.”

“Pre-performance stress,” Thomas said, shaking Michael’s hand.

“Whatever,” Victoria said, brushing past him and Thomas both and heading toward the sitting room. She got there first so she could stake out her territory and have a good place to pace at the back of the room.

Her family took an inordinate amount of time lingering outside the sitting room. She tapped her foot, counted to ten, and scowled.

“They live to torment me,” she said to Connor, who had joined her near the wall.

He lifted one eyebrow. “I can believe anything of your brother, but your parents seem quite lovely. Especially your mother. She has your grandmother’s eyes.”

“She has you under her spell, as well, I see.”

He went so far as to duck his head a little. “Aye, likely so.” Then he cleared his throat roughly. “Both she and your granny have been very kind to me.”

Victoria studied him. It seemed preposterous that she should be entertaining such thoughts at a time like this, but she found herself unable to restrain them.

“Was no one kind to you before?”

He lifted his head with a snap and looked at her darkly. “Daft wench, I’m a warrior, not a bairn. What need have I for kindness?”

“I see.”

“I daresay you do not.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Connor MacDougal, you’re a fraud.”

“A fraud? How dare you—”

“You’re right. You aren’t a fraud.”

He nodded stiffly. “I accept the apology.”

“You’re a marshmallow.”

“A . . . a what?”

“Marshmallow. It’s something that’s very soft in the middle. Some people even call it food.”

His eyes were very wide. “You compare me to food?”

“I didn’t call you a haggis now, did I?”

He began to splutter. She would have given him a more thorough explanation of why she considered him soft inside, but she was distracted by the entrance of her family. The Boar’s Head Trio came in first, taking up their places against the back wall. Thomas came in and claimed a prime spot on the couch without delay. Jennifer followed him, scanning the room until her gaze fell on Connor. She walked over to him in a daze. Victoria watched as her sister stopped before him, then looked up at him and gaped.

“Jenner,” Victoria said sharply, “nothing to see here. Keep moving.”

“Vikki,” Jennifer whispered, pointing at Connor, “do you realize—”

“Yes, I realize,” she hissed.

“But . . .”

“Look,” Victoria said impatiently, “buck up, will you? For pity’s sake, Jennifer, too much time fondling fleece and fingering baby yarn has ruined you. You were, before your descent into baby-clothes madness, a professional violinist and a damned good actress. Dig up some of that professionalism and put it to good use.”

Jennifer shut her mouth and looked for a chair. It was occupied by Fulbert. She squeaked, then looked around desperately for somewhere else to sit. In the end, she collapsed next to Thomas on the couch. Victoria supposed she was probably safer there.