Much Ado In the Moonlight (43 page)

He watched his surroundings with a piercing eye, all his senses on alert. His horse was skittish. Connor cursed. Damned beast. He would have been better served to have purchased that ugly thing that had greeted him pleasantly rather than this prancing ninny who had blinded him with his beauty.

“Just up ahead,” the messenger said, plunging into the trees. “There is a clearing up ahead. She awaits us there.”

Connor caught his breath. The glade? Would his death await him there?

He rode slowly, fighting his horse and his suspicions both. He saw the clearing up ahead. The messenger slowed down and looked back over his shoulder as if he feared Connor would not come along.

Connor hesitated at the edge of the forest. He saw nothing.

But that made him no less suspicious.

There was no reason to believe that would happen. There was also no reason to believe it wouldn’t.

Connor rode out into the glade.

The sound of an arrow leaving a bow came from his left.

His horse reared. Slipped. Went down.

Connor’s feet were out of the stirrups already, though, as he had been anticipating the like. He went down with the horse, but instead of being crushed beneath it, he dropped to a crouch beside it. He quickly flattened himself on his back and waited.

And the Frenchman came, just as Victoria had predicted.

Was she a witch, then, or in league with this devil? Or did she indeed possess the Sight?

Connor feigned groans of anguish.

“I see you are almost finished,” the Frenchman said with a smile. “I will help you along,
mon ami
, but first let me tell you a small tale that will interest you greatly.”

“Will it?” Connor groaned. “More than the stealing of my children and bedding of my wife?”

“Your children died of the ague,” the Frenchman said with a negligent shrug. “I did not want them, anyway, so it grieved me naught. But your lady is dead as well. A pity. She was, how do you say it, quite spirited in bed—”

And then he began to gurgle. Connor drove his sword harder into the man’s belly and twisted. The man gasped in agony, then slowly and satisfactorily died a most uncomfortable death. Connor shoved him over, then stood, wrenching his sword from the man’s belly.

“For my children,” he said bitterly. “Braw Donaldbain and bonny Heather. Perhaps now you will join their dam in hell.”

The Frenchman wheezed out one last breath and died.

Connor looked at his horse, which was thrashing about. Broken leg, the damned beast. Connor did what was necessary, then looked about for the messenger. He saw the flash of clothes in the forest. He threw his sword with all his strength. There was a cry, then nothing. Connor strode into the forest and found the man who was now carrying it in his back. He wrenched it out and rolled the messenger over.

“Where are my bairns?” he asked coldly.

“Never—”

“Tell me!” Connor roared.

“Day’s ride east,” the messenger wheezed. “Abandoned crofter’s . . .”

He said no more. Connor cleaned his sword and stood. Then he turned and walked away, wondering what he was to do now. His wife and children were dead. His enemy was dead. He paused in the middle of the glade and looked at the scene of death.

It could have been him there, lying with his life ebbed from him, his eyes staring unseeing at the sky. And it would have been, if not for Victoria McKinnon.

The Future? What, by all the saints, did that mean? The Future was ever before him and he needed no gate to get there. It would arrive as surely as the sunrise without him doing aught to invite it.

But the fairy ring was another thing entirely. He knew where it was. Indeed, he’d even had a look at it once or twice, but that had been years ago when he’d been young and willing to be afrighted by tales of ghosties and boggles and other otherworldly creatures who were rumored to haunt the place. But to give it serious thought now?

Ridiculous.

As if in agreement, rain began to fall. He shook aside his unproductive ruminations and strode back through the forest. By the time he reached his hall, the rain had plastered his hair to his head and his plaid bore a fine sheen of drizzle. He shook himself off like a hound and walked inside his keep.

There was nothing out of the ordinary therein. Cormac stood by the fire, listening to one of their more witless clansmen spewing out some sort of problem that required all the laird’s time and attention. Connor would have tossed the fool out his door.

But Cormac listened gravely, then gave the man a small list of things he should do to see the problem solved by himself, then yet another list of things Cormac would do for him after those had been done.

Connor considered. That was well done, to be sure. Indeed, the crofter had certainly fared better with Cormac than he would have if Connor himself had listened to his sorry tale.

Connor wondered if he could drown out Victoria McKinnon’s words with vast quantities of ale. It was tempting to try, but he had other things to see to before he indulged in that. Besides, he wasn’t one to blot out his troubles with strong drink. Better to face them with his sword drawn and ready. The thing to do now was find his bairns and bury them properly. He would give thought to the rest of his future after that was done.

A future that he had thanks to Victoria McKinnon.

“Connor?”

Connor blinked and looked at his cousin. “Aye?”

“You’ve returned. I didn’t expect you back for days. Ho, Angus, go see to the laird’s horse—”

“My horse is slain,” Connor said briskly. “My gear could be fetched, though. There are two dead assassins there, as well. They can rot in the rain, for all I care.”

Cormac’s eyes bulged. “The McKinnon wench was right?”

“Aye.”

“Then the bairns are—”

“Dead.”

Cormac closed his eyes briefly, then looked at his cousin. “What will you do now?”

“I must bury my children.”

“That is as it should be.” Cormac paused. “And while you’re gone?”

“You will see to the keep and the clan.”

“But what of Robert and Gordon—”

“My brothers are fools. I’ll see that our people know to follow you.” He cursed. “Damn that useless horse. If it hadn’t broken its leg—”

“Take mine.”

Connor sigh. “I’ll pay you for him.”

Cormac smiled. “Connor, there is no need. You have been brother and father both to me all these years. ’Tis but a small thing in return.”

Connor was not given to displays of affection, but he thought a hand placed briefly on his cousin’s shoulder was not inappropriate, given the seriousness of the moment.

“My gratitude,” he said. “I will fetch supplies and be on my way.”

“So soon?”

Connor looked for a way to explain how uncomfortable he suddenly felt walking about his hall when he should have been dead. It was not at all the same feeling he’d had countless other times when he’d cheated death thanks to his prowess. In this case, he had the very cold, unyielding suspicion that he would have met his end, were it not for Victoria McKinnon seeking him out and delivering a warning to him.

Why had she?

He considered that for several minutes. She had come because she knew what would happen? Why had she cared? What had she hoped to gain? What if she had come not expecting anything at all?

He could scarce fathom that. But all things seemed to point to it.

“Connor?”

Connor looked at his cousin. “I need to go. Today.”

“Of course.”

Connor left his cousin standing there watching him and went to fetch himself some food for his journey.

It took him a handful of hours to prepare, which did not please him. His supplies were gathered quickly, but ’twas the business of the clan that delayed him. In the end, he had to draw his sword to cow his brothers into obedience, and he suspected it would last no longer than the time it took for him to ride out of sight, but that would not be his affair then. Cormac could keep them in check until he returned.

If he returned.

He stopped still as he was preparing to swing himself up onto his cousin’s horse. Not return? Where had that daft idea come from?

His grandmother’s parting words came back to him forcefully, though not unexpectedly. He tended to think on them before each setting out, especially if he was off on a long journey. He’d always assumed that she meant he would be the first to rout out that pesky group of Gordons to the west, but now he began to think differently.

Had she suspected he might travel to the Future?

Could
he travel to the Future?

“Connor, are you unwell?”

Connor looked at Cormac and felt as if he’d never seen him before. Or perhaps it wasn’t that; it was that he might never see him again.

“ ’Tis Victoria McKinnon,” Connor managed. “Her daft words have affected me adversely.”

“Have a good long ride,” Cormac advised. “Perhaps some cattle-raiding on your way home.” He rubbed his arms for emphasis. “A hard winter’s coming.”

Connor almost smiled. It wasn’t his habit to smile, but his cousin almost inspired it in him now and again. He swung up into the saddle feeling quite a bit more himself.

“Until we meet again,” he said, then wondered where those words had come from. His usual sentiment at parting was a grunt and a nod.

Cormac looked equally shocked. He nodded, wide-eyed.

Connor rode off before he did anything else unsettling, such as burst into tears.

His first destination was the last croft he knew had sheltered the fugitives. The Frenchman had threatened the poor couple with death if they made known anything about their unwelcome guests, but Connor’s former minstrel obviously had no concept of clan loyalty. Connor had received the message not an hour after his wife and her lover had taken his bairns farther away.

He should have ridden off after them then, but he had foolishly assumed Morag would see the error she had made and return with all haste. That, and the fact that Campbells had attacked that eve from the west, had taken too much of his time.

He would have to live with that misjudgment for the rest of his life.

He sighed deeply. He would find his children and bury them. And then perhaps he would seek out that ring in the grass and see where it took him. Perhaps it would take him off to Titania’s lair, where she would force him to be her lover for centuries. He supposed a body might be subjected to worse fates.

Aye, he would try that haunted bit of ground and see what happened to him. If he was carried off to the Fairy realm, he would survive it. If he was carried off to the Future, he would find Victoria McKinnon, offer his thanks, and return home as quickly as he could.

And if none of it worked as promised, he would take a day or two and go fishing.

At least he would have a full belly when he went home.

Victoria
stood on the stage and wondered if she would ever be able to look at any part of Thomas’s castle again without weeping. She folded her arms over herself and looked heavenward. She wept anyway, no matter how she tried to thwart gravity and her own broken heart.

Time-traveling did that to a person.

She was really going to have to give it up someday.

She walked the boards, from one end of the stage to the other. There was no scenery left. That had long since been put into storage for use in some other production. Lights and sound had also been put into storage for use in some other production.

She wondered if she would ever be able to stage another production.

She stopped in the middle of the stage and frowned as she looked around her. Not only was all the stage paraphernalia gone, the ghosts were gone, as well. She’d been back almost a week and nary a sight of a single one. She suspected the Boar’s Head Trio had decamped for France, leaving her time to deal with her grief on her own.

She hoped they were planning on staying a good, long time.

Connor was probably giving ghostly thought to what a jerk he’d been during her visit to the past and was wisely giving her time to cool off before he showed his face again.

She couldn’t blame him.

Though she would be the first to admit that she hadn’t been angry at that point. She hadn’t even cried—not at first. She’d stumbled out of the fairy ring one afternoon a week ago and somehow managed to make her way back to the inn. Thomas had been standing at the end of the driveway, as if he expected to see her. He’d made her eat, then put her to bed without asking any questions.

She’d needed to tell Iolanthe that her husband wasn’t such a bad nursemaid after all.

Fortunately for her, the rest of her family had left for London before she’d even attempted her trip to the past, so she’d had no questions to answer upon her return. Thomas, she supposed, had just assumed that since she hadn’t returned with Connor, she hadn’t been successful.

“I warned him,” she said at supper, five days later.

Thomas had looked at her for several moments in silence, then picked up his fork and dug into Mrs. Pruitt’s meat pie. “You couldn’t do more than that.”

She hadn’t talked to either Thomas or Iolanthe much since then. They had departed the day before for another visit to Artane. Perhaps they had grown tired of her silence.