Much Ado In the Moonlight (45 page)

“He’s eating,” she whispered loudly.

“That he is,” Victoria agreed.

“But . . .”

“I know,” Victoria said.

“Ye didn’t . . .”

“That, too.”

Mrs. Pruitt looked at her. “Did he come today, then?”

“Apparently.”

“Is he real?”

“He’s eating, isn’t he?”

Mrs. Pruitt rose and gaped at Connor until he frowned so fiercely that she shut her mouth and looked at Victoria.

“I should make up the guest room, hadn’t I better?”

“He wants to go home.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Pruitt said in a small voice.

Victoria understood completely.

“But just in case,” Mrs. Pruitt offered.

“Just in case,” Victoria agreed.

Mrs. Pruitt took another very long look at Connor, then left the kitchen as quickly as possible. Victoria came around and sat down next to her laird and applied herself to breakfast.

She didn’t taste a thing.

Connor inhaled all of his, then looked around for more. When he saw that she wasn’t eating her meal, he commandeered it.

“Anything else?” he asked, licking his fork, after polishing off what she hadn’t.

“I’ll see.”

She raided Mrs. Pruitt’s larder and began to cook. Connor consumed half a dozen more eggs, several more tomatoes, and all the rest of the sausages in the refrigerator before he sat back and belched heartily.

“You’re a passing fair cook yourself,” he said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Passing fair.”

“Thank you.”

He pushed his chair back and rose. “As interesting a place as this is, I’ve no stomach for the rest of my days spent with fairies and their ilk. I’m not certain where you fit in, but as fetching as you are, I’m for home.”

“Do you want company on your way back to the fairy ring?” she asked.

“Nay, I’ll be fine.” He made her a small bow, turned, and walked through the kitchen, swearing at the swinging door and cursing further as something else troubled him on the way through the dining room.

Victoria stood in the kitchen and wondered if now would be a good time to cry.

He didn’t want her to follow him.

That pretty much said it all, didn’t it?

He would find his way back to the fairy ring, pop back through time to medieval Scotland, go and live out the rest of his life in an unmurdered state. He would probably marry again. He would have more children. He would raid cattle, learn more depressing battle dirges, and use the pointy end of his sword to make pincushions out of more men who displeased him.

And she would be in the future.

Very alone.

Without even his ghost to keep her company.

It was for the best, she decided briskly. Now, at least, she knew what had happened to his ghost. Since he hadn’t been murdered, he had no reason to haunt the castle, and she would never see him again.

No matter, she reminded herself. She didn’t really like him that much, anyway. He was loud, ill-mannered, and short-tempered.

Magnificent. Talented. Gentle.

And in love with her when he’d been a ghost.

She washed the dishes. She scrubbed the pans until they cried out for mercy. She dried everything and tried not to break it as she put it away. And then she sat at the table. Mrs. Pruitt came into the kitchen, took one look at her, and departed for safer ground. Victoria sat until it occurred to her that she could be sitting and grieving in a more comfortable chair. She got up and went into the library.

She sat in her accustomed chair, with only the light coming in from the window to keep her company until that light began to fade.

He was probably walking into his keep by now.

She was momentarily tempted to follow him, in spite of her freshly made vow not run other people’s lives. But even if she hadn’t been determined to live and let live, she wasn’t sure she could get back to Connor’s time again even if she tried. Jamie said he had never been to the same place twice. What, was she to try again and wind up twenty years from her target date? Twenty years after Connor had found someone else to marry and have kids with? Hundreds of years before he had ever met and loved her?

And what if she made it back to medieval Scotland and couldn’t get back home? The fact that she’d simply traipsed there and back was something of a miracle in itself. Of course, she’d been crying so hard when she’d stumbled into the fairy ring that she wouldn’t have noticed if it had dumped her into the wrong century or not.

It was over.

She’d gone, she’d seen, she’d come home empty-handed.

She wondered, absently, if there would be a lower point in her life than at that moment. She was too tired to move; too tired to weep; too tired to breathe. She sat and let the tears trickle down her cheeks because she couldn’t muster up the energy to wipe them away.

It grew dark. In fact, it grew so dark that she couldn’t see her hand before her face. That frightened her for some reason. She didn’t want to be someone who sat in the dark and didn’t care. So her life was ruined. At least she could have some light while she was examining the breadth of the destruction.

She reached over and turned on the lamp that sat on the little table next to her. She sat back with a sigh.

Then she sat bolt upright in her chair and shrieked.

Connor stood just inside the door. He was holding up his hands. “I mean you no harm.”

“Oh,” she said weakly, slumping back and putting her hand over her heart. Sure. That’s why he was carrying that enormous sword unsheathed in his hand. “You scared me.”

He blinked. “What did you say?”

She tried in Gaelic. “You frightened me.” She paused. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You were weeping.”

“Yes.”

He looked at her, looked at the chair across from her, then looked at her again for a very, very long time. And then he closed the door behind him.

“May I?” he asked, nodding toward the chair.

It wouldn’t be the first time
. She smiled as unassumingly as she could. “Please.”

He resheathed his sword and walked toward her, but had to stop several times, as if he couldn’t believe what he was doing and had to complete a few spot checks to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. She knew this because he kept stopping, then shaking his head, then continuing on another step, only to stop and repeat the cycle.

He finally sat. He laid his sheathed sword across his knees and looked at her.

“I failed.”

Thank heavens
. “You failed?” she asked sympathetically.

“I tried to go home. Your fairy world won’t release me.”

“This isn’t Faery,” she said slowly.

“I wonder.” He looked at her assessingly. “If I were a superstitious man, I would say you had cast a spell over me and carried me off to your world.”

I would have tried that if I’d thought it would have worked
. “I’m not a witch,” she said. “It really is the Future.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully and looked at the light next to her. Then he looked at her. “I find it difficult to believe.”

“There will probably be many things you’ll find difficult to believe.” She paused. “For as long as you’re here.”

He chewed on that one for a while. “I will go home,” he said finally. “But later. For now, I will stay and see your land.”

Victoria managed a nod. “If you like.”

He studied her. “You saved my life. Why?”

Where to start? She considered several options for answers, then shook her head. “It is too long a tale for tonight.”

He nodded. “Very well. But I will have it tomorrow.” He looked around. “Your floor is very clean. If I may sleep there?” He pointed over to the door.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” she said. “We have beds upstairs.”

“I prefer to sleep by the door,” he said. “Unless I will trouble you?”

Trouble her? Disturb her? Plunge a dagger into her heart and break it off so it could do the most damage?

She managed to shake her head no. “I’m going to go to the bathroom and get ready for bed. Do you want me to show you one you can use?”

“Bathroom?”

“A fancy garderobe.”

“Very well. Shall I bring my sword?”

“Why not?”

She rose and walked over to the door. He followed her. Victoria knew this because she was excruciatingly aware of him but a single step behind her. And when he put his hand on her shoulder, she shivered.

“Are you unwell?” came the deep voice from behind her.

Just out of my mind to sleep with you anywhere near me
. “No,” she managed.

He took his hand away. “I didn’t thank you.”

She turned to look at him. “For what?”

He frowned. “I do not accept favors easily. But I thank you for my life.” He took a step backward and made her a low bow. “I am in your debt.”

“It was my pleasure,” she managed. “Bathroom now?”

He straightened and looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Please.”

She left the library in front of him and picked up her sanity right there where she’d left it in front of the buffet, the morning she’d left to go to Jamie’s. Connor would stay the night, have another mighty breakfast, then be on his way. He would go back to the wilds of medieval Scotland. She would go back to the wilds of Manhattan.

Life would go on.

And at some point, she would think about living again, because it was for damned sure she wouldn’t be doing much of it at first.

She sighed and led Connor down the hall to Mrs. Pruitt’s extra-fancy, use-only-if-she-really-liked-you modern garderobe.

Connor
woke. He realized immediately that he was not on his own bed filled with crunchy straw in his own bedchamber that smelled faintly of wet dog in his own hall that smelled much worse than that. He was on a floor. He sniffed. A not-unpleasant smelling floor.

Damnation, he was still trapped in Faery!

He had assumed he would go to sleep and wake up where he was supposed to be. Apparently, his escape would take more cunning and a bit more effort than collapsing on the floor and hoping for the best.

Then again, perhaps he really wasn’t in Faery, he was actually in the Future. Victoria McKinnon had said as much. He suspected she might be telling the truth. Faery had to be more, well, flowery. To be certain, there were flowers aplenty on either side of the pathway leading up to the inn, but they were flowers that looked quite ordinary. And he had seen no small sprites dancing amongst them the day before.

He was quite certain there had to be sprites in Faery.

He sat up. It was not full light yet, but there was light enough that he could see the contents of the chamber he was in. Not that he needed to see the contents. He knew what they were. How he knew that, he wasn’t sure. He was, he had to admit modestly, quite a vivid dreamer. But that Victoria McKinnon should find herself in his dreams was something else indeed.

Nay, he had to admit to himself, he was not dreaming. Somehow, beyond reason, he had ventured forth into the Future.

It was sobering, indeed.

He rolled to his feet and stretched silently. Then he walked over to look down at his hostess curled up on a small cot, her riotous hair spread out behind her and her face peaceful and untroubled in sleep. By the saints, he had never before seen such a beautiful woman. Surely that had to count against her. Her beauty was put there to tempt him.

Then again, he had never once heard of a fetching witch.

He retrieved his sword, took one last look at Mistress McKinnon, and left the chamber. He found the doors strange and difficult. It would have been so much easier to have merely walked through them.

He froze. Was he losing his wits as well, then? Since when could a man walk through doors?

He shook his head and made his way down the passageway to the garderobe. To call it that was to truly minimize its splendor. He opened the door, pushed the switch down to kindle the lights, and merely stared in fascination at the luxury that greeted his eyes.

Never mind that said luxury was displayed mostly in pink.

He looked first at the lights. He was not as troubled by them this morning as he had been the night before. Victoria had assured him they were a Future marvel and not small fairies trapped inside little glass bulbs—fairies who had displeased their queen and were paying a heavy price. He walked over to the lights and stared up at them. Nay, no creatures inside; just strings and such.

He looked at the mirror and that brought him face to face with . . . himself. He looked at his unshaven face, examined his jaw, looked deeply into his own eyes, and inspected his hair. He wondered, absently, why his late wife had found him so much less appealing than the Frenchman.

He paused and considered. The Frenchman had possessed a certain, well,
je ne sais quois
. And even Connor could admit that the Frenchman had, before his timely and well-deserved end, sported not unhandsome French features and a fine French form. Surely by now that Gallic form was beginning to rot, but perhaps that was a pleasant eventuality, to be examined at a later time.

Nay, Morag had never found him to be pleasing and he’d been a fool to wed with her. She had come unwillingly to his bed, borne him children begrudgingly, and eagerly sought any excuse to flee his arms and his keep. He was well rid of her.

His bairns were another tale entirely.

But as the very thought of them made his eyes look suspiciously moist, he turned his attentions to something else. He took his knife and shaved, feeling a bit more in control of his emotions by the time he finished. He explored the marvels of the sink, but stopped short of taking it apart. He’d done that to the shower the night before and found himself facing a very annoyed yet still slack-jawed Mrs. Pruitt, whom he had apparently awoken with his cursing.