Much Ado In the Moonlight (47 page)

She looked at him in surprise, then smiled wryly. “I didn’t, either. Before.”

“Do you now?”

She shrugged. “We’re in Scotland.”

“The Lowlands,” he reminded her.

“Well, it’s still Scotland and Scotland is a magical place.” She tilted her head to look at him. “Remember the fairy ring?”

He pursed his lips. “Aye, there is that.”

“I don’t think that’s the only gate between the Past and the Future here in Scotland.”

“Don’t you?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t believe easily in things I can’t see,” she said. “But I’ve seen those ghosts before. And I told you the inn is haunted, didn’t I?”

“I haven’t seen any ghosts there,” he blustered.

“I think they’re on holiday.”

“Foolishness.”

“Whatever you say,” she said with a smile.

He studied her for a moment. “Your Gaelic has improved.”

“I was nervous there at your hall.” She shrugged and looked down at her feet.

“Why did you bother?”

“So I could warn you.”

“Indeed?” He looked at her in surprise. “No other reason?”

“No other reason.”

He pondered that for a moment or two, then rose and made her a low bow. “Then I thank you, Victoria McKinnon, for my life. Now, let us be away from here. This quarterdeck here makes me uneasy. It tugs at me in a way I do not care for.”

“Then what about supper?”

“A wonderful idea,” he agreed. Then he paused. “Is it too soon?”

“It’s never too soon for a meal. Especially when you compliment Mrs. Pruitt on her cooking.”

“Then I will endeavor to dredge up a nice word or two.” He offered her his arm again, but this time it did not feel strange. Indeed, it seemed as if it was something he had wanted to do for a very long time. He looked at her.

“I will go home,” he said, realizing that he sounded a bit desperate. “Soon.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“I think I will be sorry not to see you anymore.”

She looked up at him. He frowned.

“You’re weeping again.”

“Allergies.”

“Hmmm,” he said, nodding. He walked with her away from the castle, not giving in to the impulse to look back and see if he could see the ghosts again. The path to the inn was shorter this time and he knew what to expect when he got there.

Except there was a shiny box with wheels sitting before the inn now. Perhaps it had been there the last time and he hadn’t noticed it. He was halfway up the path when the door to the inn opened and a dark-haired man stepped out. Connor came to a standstill so quickly that he almost jerked Victoria off her feet. He reached out to steady her, then realized he had forgotten his sword.

By the saints, if that wasn’t indication of his pitiful state, he didn’t know what would be.

“Fetch me my sword,” he hissed. “Go ’round to the kitchen. I’ll distract this one with my bare hands.”

“Connor—”

“Go!”

She sighed and went.

“Run!” he bellowed.

She ran, but without enthusiasm. Connor stood there tapping his foot, swearing, and wondering if he should just do in the man facing him with the knife in his boot. It took far too long, but finally Victoria came back out the front door, damn her for a silly wench, and brushed past the man, who stood there with his arms folded, watching Connor with no expression on his face. Victoria handed him his sword.

“There. Now what?”

Connor shrugged. “I know not. I feel this overwhelming desire to kill that man.”

“You’re wearing his clothes.”

“They’re too small. That must be part of it.”

“That’s my brother, Thomas.”

“That could be adding to it.”

Her brother, Thomas, pushed away from the door. “Vic, get my sword, will you?” he said in a friendly voice. “It’s propped up against the reception desk. I just had the feeling I might need it.”

“Are you out of your mind?” she demanded, turning to look at him.

Connor admired the way she put her hands on her hips and bellowed. She was a formidable wench. But now she was standing in the way of his swordplay, so he nudged her forward with a gentle push.

“Fetch his sword. Let us see if it is sharp.”

She looked at him, looked back at her brother, then threw up her hands and went into the house.

Connor grinned.

The other man grinned in return.

Connor reconsidered. Maybe his time in the Future would be more worthwhile and exciting than he dared hope. Victoria McKinnon and her beauty, Thomas McKinnon and his sword. Connor flexed his fingers and chortled happily. If nothing else, he would have a pleasant afternoon.

He would think about returning home later.

Victoria
spotted Thomas’s sword leaning against Mrs. Pruitt’s reception desk. She picked it up and admired it. It looked to have seen a bit of action, probably when he’d gone back to rescue Iolanthe. She should have grilled him more about his escapades in the past while she’d had the chance at Camp Medieval. Unfortunately, she’d been too busy trying to develop her own skill set so that she didn’t get her throat slit ten minutes into the Past to ask him too many questions about the mileage on his blade. She would take him to task later—maybe after Connor went back home and she was wallowing in despair. It would take her mind off her misery.

She marched out the front door and threw her brother’s sword at him, hoping it would plunk him between the eyes and knock him out, thereby avoiding what she was certain would be a bloodbath.

She retreated to the safety of a side path to watch. She wasn’t sure what she worried about more—that Thomas would kill Connor or that Connor would kill Thomas. She was pretty sure she knew what Connor was capable of.

Of course, she’d also watched her brother train with Jamie, Patrick, and Ian, and noticed impassively that he wasn’t far behind any of them in skill. Well, except Jamie. Jamie lacked nothing and augmented his skill with sheer presence.

Sort of like Connor.

She came to the conclusion that the battle due to begin any moment might just be a draw.

They crossed swords. There was a shriek from one of the upper windows. Their blows rang out again.

“By the saints, will ye move yerself?” a weak, feminine voice demanded crossly.

“Oh, sorry, love,” Thomas said, standing aside so Iolanthe could come outside. “The best seats are over there.”

Iolanthe had brought a little folding camp stool, which she immediately made use of behind a clutch of lavender. Then she put her hand over her nose.

“Och, the smell,” she moaned.

“Maybe you should go back inside,” Victoria suggested.

“And miss this? I’ll puke my guts out into the delphiniums, thank ye just the same, just for the pleasure.”

Victoria laughed, then she caught wind of what the combatants were saying and stopped laughing abruptly.

“I feel I have much to repay you for,” Connor said, pausing to scratch his head. “But damn me if I can remember what.”

“Do you want to know?” Thomas asked.

Victoria pursed her lips. His Gaelic was very good. Perhaps that came from living with a medieval Scot. It could also have come from his time-traveling. Or it might have had something to do with hanging out with medieval ghosts. Good heavens, they were popping up like mushrooms. She wondered if the Inland Revenue would have to develop a new department soon just to track down those pesky time-travelers. Would a former ghost have the same status?

Then she found she had no more time for thinking of implausible scenarios, because the battle raging through Mrs. Pruitt’s garden demanded her full attention. Apparently, it demanded Mrs. Pruitt’s attention, as well.

“Me petunias!” the innkeeper bellowed from the door. “Me violas! Damn ye both to hell, be off to trample some other garden!”

Both men looked at her, made profuse apologies, and then walked off down the path, chatting companionably.

“Come on,” Victoria said, pulling Iolanthe’s seat from underneath her. “Let’s go. We can’t miss this.”

Iolanthe groaned and stumbled after her stool.

Victoria set Iolanthe up in the car park and stood next to her as the men fought. Nothing much was sacred, including a black Sterling that soon acquired dusty footprints as it was used for a launching pad.

More shrieks, of the male kind, ensued from the inn for that outrage.

“I’ve wanted to kill you for quite some time,” Connor said, his chest heaving. “The opportunity to do so is very pleasing, even if I can’t remember what you’ve done.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you have any idea.”

“You didn’t like me changing the castle up the way,” Thomas said pleasantly.

“Why would I have cared?”

“Thomas . . .” Victoria warned.

Connor pointed briefly at Iolanthe with his sword before he used it for more immediate business. “You know, I’ve a wealth of irritation for that wench there, as well. I wonder why.”

“You can ask her later, but be careful. She’s my wife.”

“Your wife. She wasn’t always your wife, though, was she?” Connor paused in midswing and looked at Thomas. “I knew her before you wed her, didn’t I?”

Thomas nodded seriously. “You did.”

“But ’tis impossible. I just arrived in the Future yestermorn.”

“Iolanthe lived in the castle up the way for quite some time,” Thomas said carefully.

“Thomas,” Victoria warned, more loudly this time.

Connor stared off into the distance for a moment or two, then looked at Thomas. “How can I know these things?”

“It’s a bit of a tale.”

“Tell me.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

“Thomas!” Victoria exclaimed.

Thomas ignored her. Connor was ignoring her, as well. She was tempted to take both their swords away and clout them over the head with them. Thomas went to lean against the hood of the Sterling, propping his sword up against his hip. Connor did the same.

Protests ensued from inside the inn, but the two men ignored those as well.

“Would you rather sit down?” Thomas asked politely.

“Will I wish to at some future point?”

“Probably.”

Connor waved the idea away. “I’ll content myself with this beast, for now. If I find myself truly irritated, I’ll move on with trying to kill you again. You may proceed.”

“Well, this is the story.” Thomas smiled easily. “I bought Thorpewold castle a few years ago. I came over last summer to repair it, but found out that it was haunted.”

Connor’s eyes widened. “Then you saw them, too? The men up the way?”

“Yes.”

“Just those lads?”

“No.”

Connor paused. “Who else, then?”

“Two others.”

Connor became very still. Victoria watched him clutch his sword. His knuckles were white.

“Two others?” he asked carefully. “Who?”

Thomas nodded toward Iolanthe. “That lovely woman there.”

“But she is a spirit no longer.”

“No, she isn’t, is she?”

Connor seemed to digest that for quite some time. Then he took a deep breath. “The other shade? Who was it?”

Thomas looked at Connor. Victoria wondered if she would ever forget the moment, frozen in time, when her brother looked at her love and said the one word that would change everything.

“You,” he said finally.

Connor looked at him in shock. Then he looked at Victoria. He looked at Iolanthe. Then he looked at Thomas again, in horror this time.

Victoria would have said something, but the warning look on Thomas’s face stopped her.

Connor took his sword in his hands. Victoria wasn’t sure if he was going to stab Thomas, stab Iolanthe, or just fling it at her to make himself feel better. Instead, he jammed it into the gravel and strode away.

The sword quivered for quite a long time before the motion stopped.

Iolanthe leaped up suddenly and bolted for the house. Victoria assumed that she knew where all the bathrooms were and felt no compunction about not helping her, nor about swiping her chair. She sat and looked at her brother.

“Thanks,” she said sarcastically.

He put his sword up on his shoulder like a rifle and walked over to her. “You will. Later.”

“Did you have to?” she asked plaintively. “Couldn’t you have just zipped your lips and thrown away the key?”

Thomas squatted down in front of her. “Your eyes are leaking.”

“Damn it, it’s allergies!”

He smiled. “Vic, he had to know.”

“He would have figured it out in time.”

“Yeah, eventually. But I thought you might want a fall wedding.”

She dragged her sleeve across her eyes. “He’s probably gone home.”

“Without his sword? Sis, you don’t know anything about Highlanders if you think that.” He rose and pulled her up with him. “Let’s go in. He’ll come back eventually, when he’s come to terms with it all.”

“He’ll probably never come to terms with it all.”

“Then he’ll go back to his miserable life and you’ll go back to yours. Did I tell you what a great Ophelia you were? Think of all the misery and madness you’ll be able to put into your characters, thanks to Connor dumping you and heading home. I’d thank me if I were you.”

“Thomas?”

“Yes?”

“You suck.”

He laughed and slung his arm around her. “Ah, that’s music to my ears. You’ll be fine.”

“But will he be?” she muttered. “I doubt it.”

 
 
And
she did. She doubted it even more when she looked out the front door at one point during the afternoon and found that Connor’s sword was no longer in the driveway. She glared at Thomas.

“Theft or Return to Neverland; you decide.”

“Patience.”

“I have none.”