He shook his head as he walked. Was it possible? That he had been a specter for several centuries, privy to ghostly counsels, tormenting hapless mortals simply because he could?
He considered the last. Perhaps he had been irritated at his ghostly state. And given that it would have been the Frenchman to plunge him into such a state, mayhap he had good reason to be other than his normally sunny self.
Aye, ’twas possible.
But he simply could not wrap his poor, weary mind around the thought that perhaps he had indeed been a shade for centuries.
If that was so, why was he alive now?
He was alive because Victoria McKinnon had braved medieval Scotland to tell him things he never would have known on his own.
“Who do you want to see down at the inn?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
He sighed. “I’ve no desire to see anyone else, but I daresay I must.”
She nodded and walked alongside him without saying anything else for some time. Connor studied her surreptitiously. Had she truly learned Gaelic to save his life? But why? Surely there was little to recommend him here in her Future. In the past, aye, perhaps there was a bit. He was laird there, laird of a fierce and honorable clan. It had at least meant something to Morag, though for considerably less honorable reasons.
He grieved afresh for his children.
But not for the life he had left behind.
That surprised him, though the longer he thought about it, the more it rang true. What life was there to go back to? If the Frenchman had ended his life in truth, his clan would be no worse off than they were now. His cousin was quick witted enough to lead the clan in Connor’s absence. Indeed, hadn’t he instructed Cormac to do just that? Connor had assumed his absence would not be more than a day or two.
Now, he wondered.
He wondered about a great many things, actually.
Was it possible? Could he have lived centuries as a ghost, haunting the castle behind him, wreaking havoc upon those who dared enter and doing his damndest to make everyone who knew him as miserable as he?
He paused in midstep.
It sounded quite a bit like him in life, actually.
“Connor?”
Connor looked at the woman next to him, who had stopped as well and was looking up at him in faint consternation. Now, here was a wench for you. Handsome, fearless, red-haired, with a temper to match. She reacted to his frowns with a mere lifting of one eyebrow, as if she thought them interesting, but not too worrying. She treated his demands lightly. She honored his requests when she apparently thought them worth the effort. She only yawned when he bellowed.
Aye, what was not to like about a wench such as she?
“’Tis naught,” he said. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
“Lay on,” she corrected, then walked away.
He frowned and caught up with her in a pair of strides. “Aye, I suppose it is. Isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“It feels a familiar phrase.”
“It’s a phrase from Shakespeare. From the Scottish play.”
He looked down at the ground as they walked. “The Scottish play? That is the name of it?”
“No, but you never say the name of it unless you’re acting in it. It’s bad luck.”
“Is it?” he mused. “I daresay I do not fear bad luck. I survived a Frenchman’s would-be killing blow and the loss of my bairns. Perhaps things will go well for me from now on.”
She looked at him with a faint smile. “I hope so. For your sake.”
And for her sake, as well. He was tempted to ask her what she thought of everything she had seen that morning, but he found himself distracted by the sight of Thomas McKinnon coming down the inn’s stairs. His hand went to his sword before he could stop it. Thomas only smiled.
“Laird MacDougal.”
“McKinnon,” Connor growled.
“Oh, good grief,” Victoria said. “Didn’t you two have enough yesterday?”
“I daresay we did not finish our argument,” Connor said, throwing Thomas a look full of promise.
Thomas only smiled. “Whenever it suits you.”
“Don’t bring that MacLeod wench you wed along to watch. She irritates me overmuch.”
“Don’t worry,” Victoria muttered. “She’s sick with Thomas’s first child, poor woman.”
“Oh, she’s much better,” Thomas assured her. “But she’s having a nap. I was just looking for some way to get a little exercise. How kind of your friend here to offer me that opportunity.”
“Friend?” Connor repeated. He turned the word over in his mind and found it easily as irritating as looking at Thomas McKinnon was. “Do not use that word again. It makes me desire to run something through.”
“As long as that something isn’t my sister, I’m all right,” Thomas laughed. “I imagine you all are looking for a snack. I think Mrs. Pruitt’s still on duty in the kitchen. Besides, who knows what else you’ll find in there besides food?”
Connor looked at Thomas and frowned. “Not more ghosties.”
Thomas shrugged. “Let’s just go and see. Then I’ll trample a few of the weeds down the way from Mrs. Pruitt’s garden with you if you like.”
Connor grunted his assent and gestured for Victoria to lead the way into the kitchen.
And there, sitting at the table as innocently as you pleased, were three hale and hearty men enjoying their own repast. Two were Scots, that he could see readily. The other was an Englishman; that he could tell just as readily.
Victoria made introductions. “My grandfathers from both sides, Ambrose MacLeod and Hugh McKinnon.”
“A MacLeod and a McKinnon?” Connor echoed in surprise. “What next?”
“Fulbert de Piaget. He’s kin to my younger sister’s husband.”
“An Englishman?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Fulbert de Piaget opened his mouth, no doubt to retort as he saw fit, but Connor growled at him before he could begin.
Fulbert disappeared with a curse.
Connor had to sit down. He held on to the table for support and looked at Victoria. “Inn ghosts?”
“Back from their holiday, apparently,” Victoria said, sitting down next to Connor.
He turned his attentions to the flame-haired ghost. “You’re the McKinnon.”
Hugh nodded proudly. “Aye. Grandfather several times removed to young Victoria. And a fine lass she is,” he said, as if he dared Connor to disagree with him.
“Spirited,” Connor said, finding he had no reason to argue the point. “Beautiful, as well.”
A wheezing noise came from next to him. He looked to find Victoria turning quite red.
“Breathe, Vic,” Thomas suggested.
“Shut up, Thomas.”
Thomas calmly handed her a plate full of very interesting things. Connor watched her sort through the vegetables, then continued to watch as she flung a particularly plump something at her brother. It landed with a satisfying splat in between his eyes.
“What was that?” he asked in wonder.
“Brussels sprout,” she said curtly. “I only wish I had more.”
“I would give you mine,” Connor said as Mrs. Pruitt set an overflowing plate before him, “but I might find them to my liking.” He applied himself to a goodly bit of his repast, then realized he was being watched. He looked up to find the other Scottish ghost staring at him. “Who are you?” Connor asked.
“Ambrose MacLeod.”
Connor studied Ambrose’s clothing. “When did you die?”
“Sixteenth century.”
“And you’ve been here how long?”
“Long enough,” Ambrose said, “to make several interesting matches.”
“Matches?” Connor gaped. “You make matches?” He looked at Thomas in shock. “Is this a manly business to be engaged in?”
Thomas shrugged. “They brought me together with Iolanthe. I can’t complain.”
Connor grunted and looke
d at Ambrose. “I want to approve whomever you choose for Victoria. I daresay she would take a particular kind of man.”
“I daresay,” Ambrose said dryly.
Connor almost questioned what that might mean, then decided against it. He looked at Victoria. “I think I have eaten enough. I will go train with your brother. It will soothe me.”
“Well, don’t kill each other,” she said.
Connor rose and looked at her. “Thank you for your aid this day, Mistress Victoria. I think I must think about returning home, though.”
“Of course.”
He wondered why her eyes were so bright. Perhaps one too many Brussels sprouts. He put his hand on her head briefly, then nodded to Thomas. “Let us go.”
“Of course.”
Connor wondered at the look Thomas exchanged with his sister, as well, but decided that could wait to be unraveled until he had Thomas at sword point. He walked with the man past Mrs. Pruitt’s most delicate flowers and looked for a likely spot in the gravelly place where the cars were parked.
Cars. If that wasn’t enough to tell a man he had come centuries into the Future, he didn’t know what was. He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he admired a pair of the beasts, wondering what it might be like to travel about in one. He looked at Thomas, who regarded him with a smile.
“You know,” Thomas said slowly, “you might want to purchase different jeans.”
Connor realized his mistake immediately. “I apologize. I have used your clothing without giving you thanks for it.”
“It wasn’t that,” Thomas said easily. “I just thought finding clothes would be a good excuse to go for a long ride in a car.”
“A ride in one of those?” Connor asked, feeling a goodly bit of enthusiasm rush through him. “Aye, I would like to do that before I go.”
“Are you still going to go?” Thomas asked.
“Certainly,” Connor said. But he suddenly felt quite uncertain. “I left my cousin in charge during my absence,” he managed.
“Did you?” Thomas asked, leaning on his sword. “Interesting.”
Connor considered. “I did see to something else before I left.” He paused. “I buried my children.”
“I would have done the same,” Thomas said quietly.
Connor rested his sword in the dirt and put both hands on the hilt. It was a familiar thing to do, that motion. He had done it countless times; on the field, resting in battle, in his own garden whilst enjoying the hint of fall tingeing the air. It made him feel more himself, that small gesture he had carried with him through the ages.
He felt that same hint of fall blow over him suddenly, that hint of change, that whisper of something coming that might be more lovely than what had come before.
Something in the Future.
Connor looked at Thomas. “If I were to stay,” he began slowly, “what would I do here? If it is, as Victoria has claimed, hundreds of years away from my clan, whom would I lead? How would I conduct my manly labors each day, and where? There at this castle, which is nigh on to crumbling to ruins?” He frowned. “Victoria says you own the keep.”
“I bought it,” Thomas said with a shrug. “I could sell it again just as easily. To you, if you like.”
“That is something to consider,” Connor agreed. “It would help if I had a bloody pair of coins to rub together. Unfortunately, I’ve nothing but my sword and my wits.”
“Men have made do with less,” Thomas said with a smile. “And given that you have those two things in abundance, I wouldn’t worry.”
“But I do worry. It worries me enough that I suspect that there is not future for me here. In your Future.” He frowned. “Damn me if that doesn’t give me pains in the head to think on it.”
“Then let us be about something less painful,” Thomas said, drawing his sword. “Shall we?”
“And you think a little light exercise with me will be painless?” Connor asked, feeling the thrill of potentially using his sword for nefarious purposes rush through him. “I could slay you by accident.”
“I wouldn’t,” Thomas said with a grin. “My wife is quite handy with a blade and she’s damned stealthy.”
“Your babe leaves her puking her guts up at each turn.”
“Ah, but that was yesterday. Today she’s much more herself. I daresay she will only become more trouble as time goes on.”
“They always do,” Connor said wisely, drawing his own sword and tossing the scabbard atop the feed end of what should have been a horse but wasn’t. ’Twas a shiny blue car that looked as if it might go very fast. “Is this yours?”
“For a bit,” Thomas said. “We’ll take it for a ride later. It will make you forget your humiliation at my hands this morning.”
“Ha!” Connor said with a ferocious grin. “Engage me, if you dare, you womanly McKinnon.”
Fortunately for them both and the state of entertainment that morn, Thomas McKinnon was as skilled a swordsman as Connor could have wished for.
Of course, that didn’t mean that Thomas would best him, but he would certainly be sport enough for the morning.
Connor threw himself joyously into the fray and let all thoughts of his future slide away, where a sensible man would have let them go.
There would be time enough for thinking later.
Chapter 33
Victoria sat on the front step of the inn and looked out over Mrs. Pruitt’s garden. It was a peaceful place, really, with bees buzzing here and there and the sweet, heady smells of dozens of varieties of flowers wafting through the air. She took a deep breath and, well, sneezed, of course. Zinnias were, in reality, the bane of her existence.
But the lavender and roses more than made up for that. She concentrated on them and tried to block out what was troubling her. If only she could have managed that so easily in other aspects of her life.
The door opened behind her. So Mrs. Pruitt wasn’t going to give up on pawning that afternoon snack off on her. Victoria sighed and turned, prepared to offer a polite thanks followed by a firm refusal, but it wasn’t Mrs. Pruitt.
“Oh,” Victoria said. “Iolanthe.”
Iolanthe came unsteadily out the door and sat down gingerly. “Sister.”
“Are you sure you should be out here? You know, the smells and all.”
“I feel much more myself.”
Victoria smiled gravely. “You know, Iolanthe, I hate to say it, but you don’t look any better.”
“It will end, eventually,” Iolanthe groaned. “Or so I’ve been told.”
“Yeah, when the baby’s born.”
Iolanthe scowled at her and Victoria laughed.
“Now, that’s a look that rings true. I’m sure you won’t have to wait that long to feel better again. That would just be wrong.”
Iolanthe put her hand over her nose and nodded. “Aye, it would.”
Victoria nodded as well, then resumed her admiring of the garden. Mrs. Pruitt either had a small army of weeders, or she spent far more time digging in the dirt than she let on. The place was perfect. It was worthy of a great deal of time spent appreciating it. And given that such appreciating took her mind off Connor’s indecision, she indulged in it fully.
“Hey,” she said suddenly, sitting up straight, “Thomas’s car is gone.”
“He and Connor went to Jedburgh.”
“Thomas took Connor with him in a car?” Victoria said incredulously.
Iolanthe nodded gingerly.
“He’s out of his mind.”
“He’s done it before.”
“Been out of his mind?”
“Nay, taken a nervous passenger clothes-shopping in Jedburgh.”
Victoria realized that she’d hit the motherlode. Iolanthe could provide her with all the answers she needed to exactly when and how she had regained her memories. The question was: Did she want those answers?
She was afraid of what she would learn.
“He took you?” Victoria asked, finally.
“Aye.”
>
“Did you enjoy the trip?”
Iolanthe hesitantly took her hand away from her nose. When she seemed to think it would not go ill for her, literally, she smiled. “I was still at the point where I wasn’t completely convinced that your brother was not a demon.”
“And you’ve changed your mind since then?”
Iolanthe laughed easily. “Oh, aye. I’ve found him to be passing tolerable.”
Victoria shifted to more easily look Iolanthe full in the face. “How long did it take you to remember?” She paused. “You know, your other life.”
Iolanthe sobered. “Weeks.”
Victoria felt herself pale. “Weeks?”
“But I did remember,” Iolanthe added quickly. She paused. “Eventually.”
Victoria sighed and looked back over the garden. “It’s all very strange to me. I don’t know how a person can remember an afterlife they once lived then subsequently didn’t get to live.” She looked at her sister-in-law. “I don’t get it.”
“Time is not our natural element,” Iolanthe said slowly. “Who’s to say how its strands weave together to make the tapestries of our lives? The paths we took and those we might have but didn’t . . .” She shrugged. “Thomas says those who study space vow that time goes forward and backward at the same time. Perhaps that applies to our memories, as well.”
Victoria gave that some thought, then shook her head. “I can believe a lot of things, but I don’t know about that.”
“Sister, you had best learn to believe if you have any hope of the MacDougal remembering what he had with you.”
Victoria’s eyes burned suddenly. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes until she thought she could look at Iolanthe without weeping.
“I suppose so,” she said quietly.
“Give him time,” Iolanthe said. “He will remember.”
“You would know.”
“Aye, I would. Besides, for all we ken, the MacDougal won’t be such a hard case. I am powerfully stubborn.”
“And he isn’t?”
Iolanthe smiled. “Aye, he is. But he’s also had the testimony of many ghosts in the past day or so, regaling him with deeds of great glory during his years as a shade. That will flatter his vanity, which may well be so pleasing to him that he will welcome those other memories when they come.”