Love Came Just in Time

  “I suppose I would.”

  Gideon shivered. “All right,” he said, to the middle of the room. “I take the hint.”

  Hugh harrumphed and disappeared. Gideon looked at her and laughed uneasily.

  “I don’t suppose we’ll have any privacy on our wedding night either.”

  “I think they know where to draw the line.” Or so she hoped.

  “Will I pass muster if I limit myself to kissing you? After all, it is Christmas Eve. I think it’s tradition.”

  “And we wouldn’t want to break with tradition,” she said, the moment before she found much more interesting things to do with her lips besides form words.

  And between kisses, Gideon briefly described the makings for Christmas dinner he’d found. He polled her opinions on what other holiday traditions she thought they could indulge in to distract themselves until they could arrange a wedding.

  “Yule log,” he offered, then kissed her thoroughly.

  “Bing Crosby on the stereo,” she managed when he let her breathe again. “Counts as Christmas caroling.”

  “Wassail and other trappings,” he said, winding his fingers through her hair.

  “It’s a Wonderful Life,” she suggested.

  He smiled. “It certainly is.”

  Megan started to tell him that he didn’t understand what she meant. Then she saw the look in his eye and realized he understood completely.

  And it certainly was.

  IT WAS VERY late when the fire had burned down and Megan woke, only to realize she’d fallen asleep in Gideon’s arms. He was sound asleep, still fully trapped in the chair’s embrace. Megan blinked as she saw Fulbert come up behind the chair. He gave her a scowl that wasn’t as scowly as his former expressions, then plopped a red bow on top of Gideon’s head. He huffed something under his breath, then turned and went to join Hugh and Ambrose who were standing next to the fireplace. Hugh was beaming. Ambrose looked perfectly satisfied with his work.

  “Stocking stuffer,” Ambrose clarified.

  “Thank you,” Megan said, with a smile.

  “Hmmm?” Gideon said, stirring.

  Megan kissed him softly. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  Once he had drifted off again, Megan looked at the small collection of gifts on the floor next to the fallen tree, gifts that represented the time Gideon intended to commit to their relationship. The last glowing embers from the fire sparkled against the thin gold band on her hand, a symbol of love found in the most unexpected of places.

  Then she looked at Gideon and decided that he was by far the best Christmas gift of all—even if he was too big to fit into her stocking.

  She tucked her head into the crook of his neck and closed her eyes, content.

  Epilogue

  AMBROSE MACLEOD, GRANDFATHER several generations removed, escorted his granddaughter down the aisle. Her sire walked on the other side, preoccupied with not tripping over his daughter’s flowing medieval gown.

  “Good grief, Megan, where did you come up with all this medieval hoopla?” her father muttered.

  “Oh, Dad,” Megan said, with a little laugh, “the inn just seems to inspire it.”

  Ambrose looked down at her and felt pride stir in his breast. Of all the places he could have been, this was the best. Of all the posterity he could have matchmade for, this lass was the sweetest. She looked up at him and smiled brilliantly. Ambrose returned the smile proudly.

  He turned his gaze to the front of the chapel. Gideon stood there already, resplendent in his medieval finery. Fulbert stood to one side, his hand on his sword, Artane pride etched into his very bearing. Fulbert had made his peace completely with Megan over the past month, once he’d realized she actually increased Gideon’s capacity for proper labor. The office Gideon had installed in the inn had satisfied them both. Ambrose knew he would miss Megan when she and her love made for London, but Gideon had given his word they wouldn’t stay overlong. Of course, Gideon had been looking in the wrong direction when he’d said as much, but Ambrose had accepted the gesture just the same. The lad’s vision would clear up soon enough.

  Hugh stood next to Megan’s sisters Jennifer and Victoria, clutching a beribboned nosegay of conservatory flowers. Megan smiled fondly at him. Hugh pulled a snowy linen cloth from his sleeve and blew his nose into it with a honk.

  Gideon jumped half a foot and whipped his head around to stare straight at Hugh.

  Then he seemingly caught sight of Fulbert’s blade and jerked around to stare at him.

  “Uh oh,” Megan said, looking up at Ambrose. “The jig’s up.”

  Ambrose felt Gideon’s eyes on him and he returned the lad’s startled look.

  “Come on, Dad. Gideon’s going to faint if we don’t hurry up.”

  Ambrose stood back and let her hasten to her blanched groom’s side. It was rather touch-and-go until Fulbert barked for the lad to stand up straight. At that, the boy stiffened as if he’d been skewered up the spine.

  Ambrose didn’t relax truly until the vows had been spoken, the rings exchanged and the kiss given. Then he sat down wearily next to Megan’s father and his own kinswoman.

  “Where does she come up with these things?” the man asked, shaking his head. “All this medieval hocus pocus. Look at me, Helen, I’m in a kilt!”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “It’s that damn MacLeod blood, Helen.”

  “Of course it is, dear. It’s a family trait.”

  Ambrose smiled at his daughter, many times removed, then blinked in surprise as she looked straight at him and winked.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

  IT WAS SEVERAL hours later that Megan and Gideon were sent off on their honeymoon, the guests were all put to bed and Ambrose could finally relax in the kitchen. Even Hugh and Fulbert seemed at peace. They were only hurling mild insults at each other. No blades were bared.

  “I say we turn our sights to those two sisters of hers,” Hugh said, clutching his cup. “I’m thinkin’ they’ll be a far sight easier to see settled.”

  Fulbert snorted. “Didn’t you mark that Victoria? By the saints, Hugh, she’s a bleedin’ garrison captain!” He shivered. “I wouldn’t cross her if me life depended on it.”

  “Ambrose?” Hugh prodded. “What think ye?”

  “I’m leaving it up to you two for a bit,” Ambrose said, rising and stretching.

  Hugh and Fulbert gaped at him.

  “Where’re ye off to?” Hugh asked.

  Ambrose stared off into the distance thoughtfully. “The Highlands, I believe.”

  “But ye can’t,” Hugh gasped.

  “We’ve more matches to make,” Fulbert spluttered.

  Ambrose smiled fondly at his two compatriots. “They’ll keep well enough until I return.”

  “But—”

  “How can you—”

  “Lads, lads,” Ambrose said, shaking his head. “A well-earned rest is nothing to take lightly.”

  “A holiday?” Hugh’s ears perked up.

  Fulbert tossed his mug aside. “I’m for France.” And he vanished.

  “The Colonies,” Hugh announced, standing and tilting his cap at a jaunty angle. “I’m feeling quite the risk-taker at the moment.” He made Ambrose a quick bow and disappeared.

  “And I’m for the Highlands,” Ambrose said, feeling his pulse quicken at the very thought.

  Home.

  And, of course, the precise area Megan and Gideon had chosen for their getaway.

  After all, a grandfather’s work was never done.

  Ambrose smiled, set his mug on the table and made his way from the kitchen, turning out the lights behind him.

  And the Groom Wore Tulle

  Prologue

  Scotland, 1313

  IAN MACLEOD LAY in the Fergusson’s dungeon and, not having much else to do, contemplated life’s many mysteries.

  How was it that the Fergusson could be so hopelessly inept at growing grain or raising aught but stringy cattle, yet
have the knack of producing such a fine, healthy crop of rats? Ian would have been annoyed by this if he’d had the energy—especially given the fact that one of the rats was currently making a nest in his hair while the rodent’s fellows sat in a half-circle around Ian, apparently waiting for the nest maker to finish and invite them to have a closer look at his building skills—but Ian didn’t have the energy to even shake off the offender, much less muster up a good frothy head of irritation.

  Secondly, he gave thought to the location of his sorry self. It wasn’t often that a MacLeod found himself in a Fergusson hall, much less in his pit.

  It wasn’t as though his kinsmen hadn’t made attempts to liberate him from their bitterest enemy’s dungeon. They had and he had appreciated their efforts, even though they’d been to no avail. He would have liked to have forgotten about the entire affair, and the accompanying indignity of it, but he was, after all, the one sitting amongst the vermin, so thinking on it was almost unavoidable.

  And then lastly, and by no means the least of any of the things clamoring for his attention, he thought he just might be dying.

  That, however, was the only good thing to come of the past two months.

  Ian settled back against the wall—or pretended to, as there wasn’t much movement in his once finely fashioned form anymore—and gave thought to the whole business of dying. It was actually the only thought that had cheered him in days. His time in 1313 was obviously over and no one would miss him if he perhaps managed to elude death’s sharp sickle and sneak off to the forest near the MacLeod keep. And if by some miracle he reached that forest and happened to find the exact spot that would carry a man hundreds of years into the Future, well, who would begrudge him that? What would one fine, manly addition to the Future hurt? It was either escape to there or toast his backside against the fires of Hell.

  Unfortunately, Ian had no illusions about his sins. He’d spent too much time at the ale kegs, wenched more than any man should have without acquiring scores of bastards, killed with too much heat in his blood, and—surely the most grievous of all—wooed Roberta Fergusson to his bed and cheerfully robbed her of her virginity.

  It was the last, of course, which had earned him a place in Roberta’s father’s dungeon.

  It wouldn’t have mattered so much had Roberta possessed any redeeming qualities besides her virginity. More was the pity for Ian that she sported a visage uglier than a pig’s arse and the temper of an angry sow. Her guaranteed virtue had been her only desirable trait and she possessed that no longer.

  Ian suspected that her new unmaidenly condition didn’t trouble her overmuch. After all, he had taken great care with her and spared no effort to make the night memorable for her. ‘Twas rumored, however, that her father had been less than enthusiastic upon learning of the evening’s events. Ian had known there would be retribution. He also knew that’twas almost a certainty that the Fergusson was in league with the Devil, which left him wondering what conversations the two had already had about him.

  Best not to think on that overmuch.

  He turned his mind quickly from the contemplation of Hell and setled back instead for speculation about where he would have gone had he had the choice.

  The Future. Even the very word caused his pulse to quicken. He knew as much about the distant future as a man in Robert the Bruce’s day should—likely more. He’d had a young kinsman travel to the Future and return briefly to tell of its wonders. And then another miracle had occurred and a traveler from the Future had arrived at the MacLeod keep. She had married the laird Jamie and carried him home to 1996 with her. Ian had grieved for Jamie’s loss, for he was Ian’s closest friend and most trusted ally, but he’d been afire with the idea that one day he too might travel to a time when men flew through the skies like birds and traveled great distances in carts without horses. At the time Jamie had forbidden him to come along with him to that unfathomable point so far ahead, telling Ian that his time in the fourteenth century would not be over unless he escaped certain death.

  Ian was certainly facing death now.

  Ach, but if that wasn’t enough to make Ian ache for the chance to walk in the MacLeod forest, he didn’t know what was. Ian dreamed of how it might have been had he managed to gain the Future. He would have been dressed in his finest plaid, with his freshly sharpened sword at his side and a cap tilted jauntily atop his head. Future women would have swooned at the very sight of him and Future men would have envied him his fine form and ability to ingest vast quantities of ale yet still outsmart his shrewdest enemies—and all this, mind you, before even breaking his fast in the morn.

  He would have searched for his kin soon after his arrival. Jamie would have been pleased to see him, and Ian would have been pleased to see Jamie. First he would have hugged Jamie fiercely, then planted his fist in Jamie’s nose—repeatedly.

  Jamie being, of course, the reason Ian found himself wallowing in the slime.

  Ian found the energy to scowl. If he and Jamie just hadn’t been in that one tiny skirmish together, Ian might have avoided having a rat fashioning a home upon his head. Jamie had caught William Fergusson’s son scampering off to safety, boxed the lad’s ears in annoyance, then filled them full of a message for the boy to take to his father. Of course, Jamie had informed the lad in the most impressive of details just how thoroughly Ian had bedded Roberta, then wished the family good fortune in finding a mate for her.

  Ian’s fate had been sealed.

  Ian tried to shake the rat off the top of his head, but found that all he could do was sit in the muck and give a grim thought or two as to whether or not he should be repenting while he still could. Perhaps Saint Peter would have pity on him and let him squeak through the gates. Ian spared a thought as to whether those heavenly gates swung inward or outward, and the means of defending them if it were the latter, then he found that even that was too taxing a thought to ponder.

  Death was very near.

  Ian mustered up the energy to give one last fleeting thought to the Future. Perhaps if he vowed to leave off his wenching ways and settle down with one woman. Aye, that he could surely do to earn himself a place in heaven....

  Suddenly a piercing light descended and blinded him. He closed his eyes against it, fearing the worst. Apparently not even his last-minute bargain was enough to save him. From behind his eyelids he could see that the light flickered wildly.

  Damn. Hellfire, obviously.

  Ian sighed in resignation and took one last deep breath.

  And then he knew no more.

  “DID YE GET him?”

  “Aye.”

  “Sword too?” the first asked.

  “Aye,” the second said, hefting his burden over his shoulder with one hand and holding onto the blade with the other. “Ye can see I’ve both.”

  “Is he dead, do ye think?”

  “Dunno.” The second would have taken a closer look, but his burden was heavier than he should have been after all that time in the pit. “Looks dead to me.”

  “Well, then,” the first said, apparently satisfied, “take him and heave him onto MacLeod soil. Sword too. The laird wants it so.”

  The second didn’t need to hear that more than once. Best to do what the laird asked. He had no desire to see the bottom of the Fergusson’s pit up close. The riding would take all night, but ’twas best seen to quickly. He would return home just as quickly, for he had no desire to be nearby when the clan MacLeod discovered their dead kinsman.

  “Was that a moan?” the first asked suspiciously.

  “Didn’t hear it,” the second said, walking away. Dead, alive, he couldn’t have cared less in what condition his burden found himself. He’d do the heaving of the man, then be on his way. If the MacLeod fool wasn’t dead now, he would be in a matter of hours.

  “Leave the sword near the body!” the first called.

  “Aye,” the second grumbled, tempted to filch it. But it was a MacLeod blade and he was a superstitious soul, so he turned away from
thoughts of robbery and concentrated on the task before him. He’d return for his payment, then find a dry place to lay his head, hopefully with his belly full of decent fare and his arms wrapped around a fine wench. He’d do it in honor of the almost-dead man he prepared to strap to the back of his horse. The man might have been a MacLeod, but he was a Highlander after all, and deserved some kind of proper farewell.

  The second man set off, his mind already on his supper.

  Chapter One

  New York, 1999

  JANE FERGUSSON SAT with her chin on her fists, stared at the surroundings of her minuscule cubby at Miss Petronia Witherspoon’s Elegant Eighteenth Century Wedding Fashions, and contemplated the ironies of life. There were a lot of them and her contemplating was taking up a lot of time. But that wasn’t much of a problem, mainly because she had a long weekend stretching out in front of her and no beach house to retreat to. No, what she had was herself trapped in Miss Witherspoon’s shop with only her imagination to keep her company.

  What a waste that was. There she was in New York, city of designers, and she had the talent and ambition to design ultra funky clothes in a rainbow of colors. She had her health. She had panty hose in her drawer without any nail polish stemming the tide of runaway runs. She even had an apartment she could afford. Surely with all those things in her favor, she should have been working at a fashionable house designing incredible things for only the long-legged and impossibly thin to wear.

  But where did she find herself?

  Trying to keep her head above the water line while drowning in vats of faux pearls and more lace than a Brussels seamstress could shake a seam ripper at—all for use in the design and construction of wedding gowns.

  The problem was, Jane didn’t particularly like bridal gowns.

  In fact, Jane wasn’t even sure she liked brides.

  She sighed, closed her eyes, and let her mind drift back to how it had been in the beginning. She had come to New York with her head full of bold, energetic designs and her suitcase full of funky, short things in black. She’d heard that the truly chic of New York dressed all in black and she had cheerfully pitched every colored item she owned on the off chance that the rumor was true.