“You, darling, have spent too much time watching spy programs on telly. I’m just trying to avoid having my pockets picked. But you can come stand over here if you like. I’ll be—”
He stopped speaking, mostly because he had gotten a robust view of the man who was looking at him, aye, as if he had indeed just seen a ghost.
Actually, ghosts were what they reputedly had in that great whacking castle that found itself residing a ways down the coast. That man now walking toward them would know, given that he was lord of that particular fortress.
Nathaniel bid a fond farewell to any hopes of avoiding anything untoward for the rest of the day.
“Who is that?” Emma murmured.
“The owner of Artane, actually.”
She looked at him in shock. “He’s nobility?”
“He puts his trousers on one leg at a time, just like the rest of us,” Nathaniel muttered, “but aye, he is.” He took a deep breath, then found himself preparing to nod deferentially to the earl of Artane as surely as if he’d spent the past five years dealing with all kinds of medieval nobility.
Lord Stephen came to a rather ungainly halt in front of them, gaped for a moment or two, then seemed to get hold of himself. “So sorry,” he said with a posh bit of something he’d likely picked up at Cambridge, “I thought you were someone else.”
“I get that a lot,” Nathaniel said, striving for Brooklyn and settling for Eton. He was too off balance to come up with anything better. “My lord.”
Lord Stephen held out his hand. “Stephen de Piaget.”
“A pleasure, my lord.”
To his credit, the man only laughed a little. “Ah, deference. Delightful. And you are?”
“Nathaniel MacLeod, my lord. Just a humble Scot taking in the sights.”
“Again, you look a great deal like someone I know,” Lord Stephen said politely, “though it would be a startling coincidence to discover that you know him as well.”
Nathaniel suppressed the urge to sigh. “Patrick MacLeod?”
“As a matter of fact,” Lord Stephen said, not looking all that startled, “yes.”
Nathaniel suppressed the urge to bolt before Stephen started asking questions he wasn’t going to want to answer.
“Related, are you?” Lord Stephen continued, studying him.
“Not that I know about,” Nathaniel said. “I’ve only encountered the man once in passing. Just a couple of words, but no time to investigate our genealogies.” No sense in spewing out that what he’d encountered had been the driver’s door of Patrick MacLeod’s car, where he’d more than likely left a dent.
His ability to keep his mouth shut was truly something to be envied.
“I imagine there’s some common ancestor somewhere,” Lord Stephen said. He smiled, then turned to Emma and held out his hand. “Stephen de Piaget.”
“You’re the earl of Artane?” she asked, looking absolutely starstruck.
“Or so they tell me,” Stephen said with a smile. “And you are . . . ?”
“Just a peasant from across the Pond,” she said. “Emma Baxter.”
Stephen laughed a little. “You should make a visit and meet my wife. She’s from Seattle, you know.”
“So am I,” Emma said breathlessly. “What a coincidence.”
Nathaniel wasn’t much of a believer in coincidence, especially when those sorts of things seemed to be piling up in increasingly large piles around him. He wasn’t about to credit Stephen de Piaget with anything nefarious, but he was more than happy to look narrowly at Fate and her favorite henchman, Father Time.
Barbados. Surely time couldn’t find him in Barbados.
“That would be wonderful,” Emma said. “Wouldn’t it, Nathaniel?”
He focused on the conversation and realized that whilst he’d been about the necessary work of wondering how long it might take to get himself to some tropical destination, Lord Stephen and His Lordship’s newest fan had been making plans to amble around the corner to Stephen’s favorite chippy.
“Ah, brilliant,” he said. “Thank you, my lord.”
“It’s Stephen,” the earl said, nodding up the street and starting off with them. He shot Nathaniel a look. “I should be honest and tell you that I’ve heard about you.”
Nathaniel ignored the chill that went down his spine, then he realized what Stephen was talking about. “Benmore’s a small village,” he conceded. “Hard to be a recluse there with much success. You do business with James MacLeod’s brother-in-law, Zachary Smith, don’t you?”
Stephen laughed a little. “And so I do. I’m not sure Robert Cameron has cornered you at any parties in London to invite you to give him funds for the preservation trust, but I imagine that’s just an oversight.”
“I’ve thought about investing,” Nathaniel admitted. “Just haven’t had the time to do anything about it yet.”
“We’re always here,” Lord Stephen said with a smile, “and always looking for a few quid to pour into some tatty old national treasure.”
Nathaniel nodded, then listened to Stephen and Emma discuss just how old and tatty those treasures could be. He wanted to be involved in the conversation, truly he did, but it was all he could do to choke down food he didn’t taste and drink whatever it was Emma had shoved across the table at him.
He had never been without that dirk in the past. It had saved his life countless times.
What in the hell had happened to him to leave the past without it?
It was quite possibly the oddest sensation he’d ever felt—and he wasn’t unaccustomed to things that were out of the ordinary. To know that at some point in the future that had already happened, he had lost the dagger that, along with his sword, had kept him alive—or, rather, would keep him alive, because if it didn’t do what it was supposed to, he wouldn’t be breathing at the moment.
He realized with a start that he was still sitting at a little bistro table, Emma was missing, and Stephen de Piaget was watching him thoughtfully. He blinked.
“Where’s Emma?”
“Off to powder her nose, or so she said,” Stephen said easily. “Good of you to bring her south and show her the sights. She seems to have a fondness for history. I understand that you read medieval literature at university.”
“Aye, I did—”
Nathaniel felt the words drop off into the silence of the room, mostly because university wasn’t something that translated into medieval Gaelic, which led him to realize abruptly that that was what the good lord of Artane was speaking.
“Ah,” he attempted, then he looked at the man sitting next to him. “Hell.”
“Hmmm,” Stephen noted.
Nathaniel took a deep breath. “Lovely Gaelic you have there.”
“Not learned at home, I assure you,” Stephen said easily.
Good hell, the man’s accent was flawless. Nathaniel wasn’t sure what the protocol was for the moment when one’s luncheon companion was speaking with an accent last used several hundred years in the past, but he decided there was no reason to add offense by not continuing in the native tongue. His native tongue, that was, not Stephen’s.
Though at the moment, he wasn’t sure whose native tongue it was.
“I’m not entirely sure how to comment on that,” Nathaniel managed.
“I suspect there are several things you might hesitate to comment on,” Stephen said.
Nathaniel felt the need for a little lie-down, but he didn’t imagine the present was the right time to beg for one. He was in a medieval city with a modern earl speaking an antique version of a Scottish tongue.
His life was, as he would have readily admitted to anyone with stomach enough to listen, very strange.
“My great-grandfather, Rhys de Piaget, built my hall, you know,” Stephen said, toying with whatever it was he was drinking.
Nathaniel wondered if it would be rude to send one of the employees over to the nearest pub to procure him a whisky.
“I never had the chance to meet him,” Stephen continued.
“His living eight hundred years ago likely gets a bit in the way,” Nathaniel observed politely.
Stephen met his eyes. “I know his son, Robin. And his son, Phillip, as it happens. I’m surprised by the men I know.”
Nathaniel felt his mouth go dry. “Read a lot of histories, do you?”
“No more than you, likely.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,” Nathaniel said evenly. “My lord.”
Stephen was unflappable. That could have come from all the years he’d spent with students at Cambridge. It also could have come from any number of other experiences Nathaniel didn’t want to attempt to investigate.
“You know what the secret of the MacLeod forest is, don’t you?” Stephen asked mildly.
“Haven’t a clue,” Nathaniel said promptly.
“You and Patrick MacLeod could be twins, you know,” Stephen said.
“I hadn’t known that, either,” Nathaniel said, “before I encountered him a few days ago.” He suspected that, given the look he had seen on the good lord of Benmore’s face, neither had Patrick MacLeod.
“I’m at Ian’s now and again,” Stephen said. “Less than I used to be, but my focus now is on my family and my ancestral seat.” He smiled briefly. “Less time for swordplay, as it happens.”
“A pity, that.”
Stephen smiled, a feral sort of smile that sent chills down Nathaniel’s spine—and he was by no means a coward.
“I can keep this up all afternoon, you know,” he said pleasantly. “This dancing about what you don’t want to discuss.”
Nathaniel suppressed the urge to bolt. “I vow I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Don’t you?”
Nathaniel gave in. “My lord,” he said in a low voice, “even if I knew what you were talking about, which I absolutely do not, I wouldn’t admit it. Would you?”
Stephen studied him for a moment or two in silence, then he smiled wearily. “I suppose not. The idea of making a journey to—well, how shall we term it? Off the beaten path? Into the mist? It’s completely barking. And to venture into the shadows of the past and encounter one’s ancestors? Mental, that, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I daresay I would.” He paused, then looked at the current earl of Artane. “Do you know Robin of Artane personally?”
“Did I say that?” Stephen asked, apparently stopping just short of scratching his head. “I meant I read a lot. Don’t you?”
“You rotter.”
Stephen laughed, looking far too amused for his own good. “I know how to use a sword, you realize.”
“I think I could as well.”
“Finally we begin to get somewhere,” Stephen said in satisfaction. He had a final chuckle, no doubt at Nathaniel’s expense, then shook his head. “They don’t know anything about you past what Patrick’s lad Bobby has turned up, if you’re curious. They know just enough to know you aren’t dangerous.”
“How kind.”
Stephen looked at him in obvious amusement. “You don’t have a bloody clue what—or who, rather—you have living next to you, do you?”
“What, a laird from the early fourteenth century?” Nathaniel said with a snort. “His equally medieval brother? His cousin, who you apparently know, who runs a medieval survival school? I hear the rumors down at the pub and consign them to the bin with the rest of the rubbish, as does every other lad with two wits to rub together.”
“I think,” Stephen said slowly, “that you might want to pay a little visit to your laird.”
“He’s not my laird.”
Stephen only smiled briefly. “I’d make sure of that before you offend him. And bring a sword.”
“I am a modern-day businessman,” Nathaniel said, grasping for anything that sounded reasonable. “I drive expensive sports cars, drink expensive wine, and enjoy the company of very rich women—”
“And wide-eyed Americans who get a little breathless at the thought of a perfectly preserved medieval English castle?”
“That as well.” He looked at the lord of Artane. “Where did you learn Gaelic?”
“From Ian MacLeod. I believe I might have picked up a bit more from Patrick as he was teaching me to survive in the wild under very adverse conditions.”
Nathaniel couldn’t help but wish he’d taken that class before his adventures had begun.
Stephen smiled. “You’re welcome at Artane any time you like, you know. Bring your girlfriend. And you might ring me in the future, if you need aid.”
“Very kind, my lord.”
“I once found myself in a place I hadn’t intended to go, doing things I wasn’t at all prepared to do, and I survived only thanks to the aid of a few choice souls I fortuitously claim as family. I’m paying it forward.” He pushed his cup aside. “Go talk to Jamie, Nathaniel. Ring Robert Cameron as well, about the trust. We’re always happy to lighten your purse for a good cause.”
Nathaniel wasn’t going to argue. His head was swimming with things he had never before considered and wasn’t at all sure he cared for. He looked at Stephen.
“Do you know Thomas Campbell, the one with the museum down the way?”
“I do,” Stephen said, looking faintly surprised. “He’s very passionate about steel. I go to him, actually, for all my carbon-dating needs, simply because he doesn’t need to run tests. Why?”
“He has a dagger in his back room,” Nathaniel said carefully. “From the fourteenth century, or so he claims.”
Stephen studied him. “Yours?”
Nathaniel took a deep breath, then nodded.
“And?”
“That dagger is presently also sitting at home in my closet.”
“Under your trainers, no doubt.”
“And a jumper or two.”
Stephen smiled. “That’s a bit of a problem.”
“I think so as well.”
Stephen stood up suddenly. “Ah, Emma, you’ve returned.” He held out her chair for her. “I think Nathaniel will wither away and perish if he doesn’t go up to the castle and hug a few old stones. Since he’s robbing you of the opportunity to see a proper castle down the way, you’ll have to make do with what you have here. Make sure he pays your entrance fee, won’t you?”
Emma slid into her chair and smiled. “I will. I’d like to see Artane at some point.”
“Come see us when you have a chance, and plan to stay for a bit. We have plenty of guest rooms, a wide selection of paranormal experiences, and my wife, who will no doubt love to catch up on Seattle gossip.”
Nathaniel felt as though he had just taken a step out of his own life and was watching it from outside himself. He listened to Emma and Stephen make small talk while he contributed the occasional grunt, then heard himself thank the earl of Artane for such pleasant conversation.
“I’m off to take in a museum or two,” Stephen said with a smile. “Do come south, Emma, and bring your lad here. It would do him good to venture out of his comfort zone now and again.”
Nathaniel supposed punching Stephen de Piaget wasn’t the proper way to thank the man for lunch. Worse still, he suspected by the smirk on His Lordship’s face that he knew exactly what Nathaniel was thinking. Lastly, he had the feeling fists were not the earl’s weapon of choice.
He walked out of the shop with Emma and Stephen, bid the earl a fond farewell, then looked at the woman who was wearing an expression that a less cynical lad might have called wonder. She managed to keep her enthusiasm in check until Stephen had rounded the corner, then she looked at him in astonishment.
“We were just invited to Artane,” she said, sounding as if she were all of tw
elve years old and on the verge of jumping up and down. “To spend the night!”
“A sleepover,” he said, unable to truly add the proper amount of sourness to the words. “Thrilling.”
“I bet they have lots of treasures there,” she said. “Don’t you think?”
He looked at her standing there, wrapped in what passed in the present day for MacLeod plaid, and thought that his heart might just break if he had to look at her much longer. He was tempted almost past what he could bear to pull her into his arms and keep her there for a bit, say the next few decades.
He chose differently, because he was caught up in something that she needed to stay far away from.
“I’ll try to get you there” came out of his mouth before he could think better of it. “But first, let’s go examine that pile of stones up the way. Then I might have to resign myself to doing a bit of business, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I could take another nap,” she said. “You know, to recover from the excitement of being invited to have a sleepover in a real live castle.”
He laughed a little in spite of himself, put his arm around her shoulders, then pulled her in the right direction. “That sounds delightful. As does tromping over history right now.”
• • •
An hour later, he leaned against a bit of castle wall and knew his peace was over.
His mobile rang at him, a single, delicate bell noise that generally signaled some sort of doom. Legal, personal, paranormal, who knew? It was generally one of the three and always unwelcome. He realized at that moment that he was almost tired of looking at those texts, but he was also too damned curious for his own good. He opened a message he realized was from the earl of Artane.
Blade was found in the Fergusson dungeon by P. MacLeod. Campbell reluctant to say how he came by it. No other details, sorry—SdP
Nathaniel watched Emma standing ten feet away from him with her hands on a piece of castle foundation. He almost couldn’t see her for the stars swimming in front of his eyes.
His dagger in the Fergussons’ dungeon?
He was never without that blade. If Patrick MacLeod had unearthed it in the present day only after it had been lingering in the mud for hundreds of years, that could only mean that he himself had lost it in the past. The only way he could have lost it in the past in the Fergusson dungeon was if he had been trapped in the Fergusson dungeon in a condition that would have made it impossible for him to hold on to that blade.