“It’s battle, my laird, only on a different stage.”
“With mock swords.”
“No, the swords will be real, just dull.”
He smiled. “Well, I suppose if the part is offered me . . .”
Victoria laughed. “All right, Stu, we’re in.”
“Good.”
“Ask him if he needs a witch,” Connor said.
“Why?”
“Your granny made a fabulous one.”
Victoria nodded. “Hey, Stu, need a witch?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I am looking for one. What are you, a full casting service now as well?”
“My family has suddenly developed stage fever,” Victoria said.
“Yeah, well, don’t let it take over.”
Victoria blinked. “Why do you say that?”
“Because something’s in the water. You wouldn’t believe what Fellini’s up to.”
“Enlighten me,” she said, feeling a little knot form in the pit of her stomach.
“Fellini’s having delusions of grandeur. He claims that—and I can hardly believe I’m saying this—that he went back in time and saw the Globe for himself. That he met Shakespeare and the Bard told him to come back to the present and direct his plays as only Fellini can.”
“He met Shakespeare,” Victoria repeated, looking at Connor with wide eyes. “What do you think about that?”
“He’s a nutcase,” Stu said succinctly. “Rehearsals start Monday.”
“We’ll be there.”
“Victoria, you are a dream.”
“Why, Stu, I think I’ll blush.”
He laughed and hung up the phone. Victoria hung up her end and looked at Connor. “Well, it looks like your New York debut looms large.”
“The Scottish play?”
“It seems particularly appropriate, don’t you think?”
“Am I allowed to use my own sword?”
Victoria laughed and went to throw herself into his arms. “No,” she said, kissing him thoroughly, “you are most definitely not allowed to use your own sword. You do want this gig to last more than one night, don’t you?”
“I want this gig to last forever,” he murmured against her mouth. “We’ll worry about the play later.”
Victoria laughed and couldn’t have agreed more.
I t was quite a bit later that she paced about her small apartment, coming with every pass to stand at the foot of her very small bed and look down at the man who had changed everything; her life, her career, her heart.
Hamlet.
Perfect.
She smiled and paced yet another round. She would have quite a few things to say to her brother the next time she saw him.
Thank you would be the first thing out of her mouth.
“Victoria?”
She turned and smiled at her laird. “Aye?”
“I love you.”
Yes, a very big thank you. Maybe even no complaints about Brussels sprouts.
She went back to bed with a smile on her face.
Epilogue
Ambrose MacLeod sat in front of the stove in the kitchen of the Boar’s Head Inn and enjoyed a well-deserved mug of ale with a pleasant evening stretching out before him. Victoria was well settled and his work was done.
For the moment, at least.
The door behind him blew open and Fulbert stomped in, followed directly by Hugh. They grumbled about the weather—it was wet out—before they took up their own cups and settled themselves for their own well-deserved rests.
“That was a difficult case,” Fulbert noted, after an appropriately long drink of ale. “I never thought he would come to his senses.”
“But he did,” Hugh allowed. “To my surprise, him being a MacDougal and all.”
“Did you know him in life, Hugh?” Ambrose asked mildly.
“He was well after my time,” Hugh said, “but I haunted his cousin, Cormac, for a bit. A sensible lad was that one, despite his propensity to attempt to steal McKinnon cattle.” Hugh smiled pleasantly. “He didn’t make off with many. I imagine Connor wouldn’t be pleased to know that.”
“Well, for pity’s sake, don’t tell him,” Fulbert said with a snort. “For all we know, he’ll attempt a return to the past to right the wrong.”
“Nay,” Ambrose said thoughtfully, “I daresay not. He and Victoria are perfectly suited. I cannot imagine anything with enough power over him to pull him away.” He shook his head. “They will live out their lives in bliss, treading the boards where they can, raising their bairns, loving fiercely all the while.” He smiled. “Their passion is enviable.”
The door behind them squeaked open just the slightest bit. Fulbert leaned over to Ambrose.
“You could have that kind of passion,” he said pointedly, with a nod toward the door. “There she is, bedecked in her finest wooing gear. I would take advantage of it, were I you.”
“You aren’t me,” Ambrose said, tossing his cup into the open stove door and preparing to flee.
“Coward,” Fulbert said with a glint in his eye.
Ambrose leaped to his feet. “You will pay for that remark!” He drew his sword with a flourish.
Mrs. Pruitt leaped into the kitchen. “Nay, Laird MacLeod, do not! Do not put yourself in danger!”
Ambrose wasn’t the laird of a wily and ferocious clan without reason. He looked at Mrs. Pruitt, then made her a low bow.
“Dear lady,” he said, straightening and putting his hand over his heart, “I must deal with this ruffian here. When I have put him to shame as he so richly deserves, I will return and we will have speech together.”
Mrs. Pruitt’s eyelids fluttered.
Hugh squeaked and fled.
“Oh,” she said, fanning herself surreptitiously. “Oh, well, my laird, of course. Will ye be long at yer labors?”
Ambrose stroked his chin thoughtfully. “He is a particularly difficult case. It might take me quite some time. A se’nnight at least.”
“I’ll wait.”
Fulbert snorted. “I daresay she will.”
Ambrose pointed toward the door. “Outside with you,” he thundered. “I’ll teach you respect, if it is the last thing I do!”
Fulbert tromped out the back door. Ambrose made Mrs. Pruitt another low bow, then exited the kitchen with a flourish. He resheathed his sword with a great thrust.
Fulbert looked at him, open-mouthed. “Are we not going to do battle?”
“Are you daft, man? I’m for the Highlands!”
“But, you promised!”
“Aye, but I never said when! It will take me years to cow you properly. I daresay I should have a rest before that labor begins.”
Fulbert folded his arms over his chest. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought you had more spine than this.”
“I have an abundance of spine. I also have an abundance of aversion toward women who flutter their eyelashes in that manner.”
“You gave your word.”
Ambrose opened his mouth to protest again, but found that there was no defense for his actions. Aye, he had promised. ’Twas also true that he had never said exactly when he would parley with the woman.
And it was unfortunately too true that she might sit up for nights, waiting for him to have a simple mug of ale with her.
Ambrose sighed. “Very well. You have it aright. I will have my parley with her.”
Fulbert smirked.
“Next week.”
“Ambrose—”
“I said it would take me a bloody se’nnight and a bloody se’nnight it will take! Besides, I need rest from our recently accomplished labors before I think about anything else.”
“Weenie,” Fulbert said, with another smirk.
“What?” Ambrose thundered.
“Lily-livered, weak-kneed, white-knuckled woman.” He snorted. “There. Now you have a se’nnight’s worth of insults to repay me for and I have saved your honor.”
Ambrose pursed his lips. “Perhaps you were
not so unworthy of my dear sister as I suppose.”
“Too much time making matches,” Fulbert said, clucking his tongue. “You’ve gone altogether soft.”
Ambrose thought he might have agreed, but he would think on that later, when he’d repaid Fulbert for his insults. He threw himself happily into the fray, but vowed he would visit the Highlands again before long. It was the home of his heart and he could not go long without being there, even after so many centuries.
Besides, he would need the rest. Mrs. Pruitt might be taxing, but she paled in comparison to his next match to be made.
Ah, but a shade’s work was never done.
Fortunately.
He drew his sword and went about his current business, joyously throwing himself into the fray and leaving the happy contemplation of the future in the Future, where it belonged.
Lynn Kurland, Much Ado In the Moonlight
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