Love Came Just in Time

  Miles could hardly believe the events of the past several hours. He’d come to Speningethorpe a se’nnight before, determined to wither away to an intolerable, bitter old man. Without warning, Abigail had come splashing down into his moat and changed his life completely. Perhaps there was more to Sir Sweetums than met the eye.

  Whatever the case, Miles knew he had made the right choice. Perhaps the sailing would be a bit rough at first, what with them both coming from different worlds. Already her cat had done damage to his nose. The saints only knew what wreckage Abigail would leave of his heart. But surely it would be worth the effort.

  The smell of something burning finally caught his attention. And that warmth on his backside he had thought to be Abigail’s hand had suddenly turned into something else entirely.

  “Merde!” he shouted.

  “Drop and roll!” Abigail said, shoving him. “Drop and roll, you idiot!”

  He dropped and she rolled him. He soon found himself face down on the floor. There was a fine draft blowing over his backside.

  “The fire got your tights, too, I’m afraid,” Abigail said. “What a shame. Your bum is looking kind of red—”

  Miles whipped over so he was sitting, bare-arsed, on the floor. He felt furious color suffuse his cheeks. Abigail laughed.

  “Oh, Miles,” she said, shaking her head.

  He grunted and scowled to save his pride. Abigail leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  “You’re very cute.”

  Well, he knew that was a compliment. A pity he’d had to scorch his arse to wring one from her! To soothe his burned backside and assuage his bruised ego, he hauled her into his lap and looked at her purposefully.

  “I will need to be appeased,” he announced.

  She put her arms around his neck. “And just how is that done in 1238?”

  “I will show you.”

  “I had the feeling you would.”

  Miles kissed her. In time he forgot the pain of his toasted backside. He forgot that, by the saints, he was some seven hundred years older than the woman in his arms. He was almost distracted enough to bypass giving thought to what he would tell his father about her when he took her to Artane.

  “Hey,” Abigail said, looking at him with a frown, “keep your mind on the task at hand. Really, Miles. It can’t be that taxing.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. Perhaps this was truly the gift he’d needed most for Christmas—a woman who had no reason to tread lightly near him. He looked at Abigail and smiled.

  “My lady, you amaze me.”

  “Of course I do. What other twentieth-century girls have you met lately?”

  He smiled and kissed her again. She was certainly the only one, the saints be praised. He doubted he would survive the wooing of another.

  His nose began to twitch, but he stuck his finger under it and kept his mouth pressed tightly against Abigail’s. With any luck that blasted cat would keep his distance until Abigail was properly wooed.

  And if Miles ever caught up with Sir Sweetums, he would offer him a cup of the finest meade in gratitude.

  Chapter Five

  ABBY SAT CROSS-LEGGED on the table in the kitchen and watched Miles cut up vegetables for a stew.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked, doubtfully.

  He looked up from under his eyebrows. “I cooked many a meal for myself in my travels. We will not starve.”

  “But how well will we eat?”

  Miles very carefully set the knife down, crossed the two steps that separated her resting place from his working area of the table, and stopped in front of her.

  “Oh, no you don’t—”

  She wasn’t fast enough. She didn’t even get a chance to give him her kissing-won’t-solve-all-our-problems speech before a very warm, very firm mouth came down on hers. She shivered. It was a mouth minus its previous surrounding accompaniment of whiskers. Miles had shaved once he’d learned modern guys did it every day. Abby had vowed solemnly to herself not to overuse that keep-up-with-the-twentieth-century-Joneses strategy too often. But it was worth it for this. Kissing a bewhiskered Miles was great, but this was earth-shattering.

  And he’d dispensed early on with that closed-mouthed kissing business. He was going straight for the jugular and didn’t seem to care which way he got there, inside her mouth or out. Abby thought he might be wishing he could just crawl inside her and this was the best he could get for the moment. She hadn’t given him her Garretts-don’t-do-it-before-marriage speech, but they hadn’t gotten that far yet. She sincerely hoped they got that far eventually.

  Abby blinked when Miles lifted his head.

  “Finished?” she croaked.

  “Do you doubt my skill in the kitchens?”

  She shook her head, wide-eyed.

  He smiled in the most self-satisfied of ways and returned to his chopping. Abby rubbed her finger thoughtfully over her bottom lip. Maybe kissing would solve quite a few things.

  Abby looked at Miles chopping diligently. Just how had she gotten so lucky? She had been rescued by a fantastic-looking man who got so distracted by kissing her that he set his own clothes on fire. He was stacking up oh-so-nicely against her Ideal Man list. It was almost enough to make her forget about going home.

  Home. She turned the thought over in her mind. Modern conveniences waltzed before her mind’s eye and she examined each in turn. Somehow they just didn’t seem that appealing. Phones were noisy, fast food was unhealthy, and life in the corporate world spent basking under fluorescent lights gave her headaches. She’d always liked camping, which was a good thing, since Miles’s castle was about on that same level of civilization.

  And there probably wasn’t any use in thinking about it. She had no guarantee that diving into Miles’s moat would leave her resurfacing in Murphy’s Pond.

  On the other hand, what future did she have in the past? Miles certainly hadn’t mentioned marriage. He was definitely shaping up to be someone she could share her life with, but was he free to choose his wife? Her knowledge of the marital practices of medieval nobility was scant, unfortunately. Even if could choose, who was to say he’d want her?

  “Where go you?”

  Abby hadn’t realized she had gotten off the table until Miles spoke.

  “Just out,” she said, moving toward the kitchen door. Maybe a little distance would soothe her smarting feelings. She was losing it. Why in the world did she think—

  “You sound as if you need to be convinced to stay,” he stated, snagging her hand. “Come you back here, my lady, and let me see to it.”

  Abby let him pull her back, turn her around, and gather her into his arms.

  “Abigail,” he said softly, “what ails you?”

  She put her arms around him and shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Do you miss your home?”

  “No.”

  He lifted her face up. Abby met his dark gray eyes and almost wanted to cry. Why be dumped here if she couldn’t have him?

  “Saints, but you Garretts are a stubborn lot,” he said, smiling down at her. “You are resisting my wooing. You leave me with no choice but to pour more energies into it. Perhaps without the distractions of supper to prepare.”

  Well, wooing sounded good. Maybe it was best to just give things a few more days. After all, she might find out she really didn’t like him very much.

  He released her, dumped the rest of his vegetables into the pot, hung it over the fire, then turned back to her with a purposeful gleam in his eye.

  “Is that all that needs to go in there?” she asked.

  He shrugged and advanced.

  “What if it tastes lousy?”

  “You’ll never notice.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll be too distracted by my surliness if you do not give me your complete attention.”

  “One of these days, Miles de Piaget, kissing me into submission isn’t going to wor—”

  But, oh, it w
as working at present. With her last coherent thought, Abby knew the day she decided she didn’t like him would be the day they’d need snow tires in hell.

  AN HOUR LATER, Abby held up a dollar bill to the firelight. “This is George Washington. He was the first president of the United States.”

  “No king?”

  “Nope. That’s why we said ‘no thank you’ to England in the 1700s. We’re all for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness without a monarchy to tell us how to go about it.”

  Miles looked with interest at her wallet that sat between them on the blanket near the fire. Abby had appropriated his sleeping blanket as a carpet. The chair was too uncomfortable for sitting, and the floor too disgusting for intimate contact.

  “What else have you in that small purse?” he asked.

  “Not as many things as I would like,” Abby said with a sigh.

  She had her little wallet on a string, her gloves, and her keys. Her sunglasses had been stuffed inside her coat. The only other things she’d had in her pocket were a plastic bag of gourmet jelly beans and some soggy lint. But he’d been fascinated by it all. She’d been fairly certain he’d believed her when he’d hit the floor in the kitchen, but there was nothing like a bit of substantial evidence to slam the door on doubt.

  He’d examined her jeans closely, seemingly very impressed by the pockets and copper rivets. Her down coat was still dripping wet, but she had the feeling they’d be fighting over that once it was dry. Her underwear and bra she’d finally had to rip out of his hands. It was then she’d given him her Garretts-don’t-do-it-before-marriage speech. She’d expected protests. Instead, she’d gotten a puzzled look.

  “Of course you don’t,” had been his only comment.

  So, now they were sitting in front of his bonfire, examining the contents of her wallet and munching on Jelly Bellies.

  “Aaack,” Miles said, chewing gingerly. “What sort is this one?”

  She learned forward and smelled. “Buttered popcorn, I think.”

  “Nasty.” He swallowed with a gulp. “Is there this chocolate you spoke of?” he asked, poking around in the bag hopefully.

  “I wish,” she said with feeling. She’d had one lemon jelly bean and given the rest to Miles. Unless sugar found itself mixed in with a generous amount of cocoa, she wasn’t all that interested. Now, if it had been a bag of M&M’s she’d been packing, Miles would have been limited to a small taste and lots of sniffs. “Chocolate doesn’t even get to England until the seventeenth century. Trust me. This is history I know about.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “They grow it in Africa.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding almost as regretful as she felt. “A bit of a journey.”

  “You didn’t see any on your travels?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I remember.”

  Abby leaned back against the chair legs. “What made you decide to go to Jerusalem?”

  “I wanted to see the places my father had been in his youth, I suppose. My father had gone on the Lionheart’s crusade, first as page, then squire to a Norman lord. My brothers followed in his footsteps to the Holy Land, even though there was no glorious war for them to wage.” He smiled faintly. “I think I simply had a young man’s desire to see the world and discover its mysteries. Instead, I saw cities ravaged by war, women without husbands, children without fathers.” He shrugged. “I don’t think fighting over relics was the message the Christ left behind Him. Perhaps I found it even more ironic because I overlooked the city of Jerusalem on Christmas day.”

  “I take it that count you insulted didn’t feel the same about it?”

  Miles smiled. “Indeed, he did not. And I am not shy about expressing my opinions, whether I am in my cups or not.”

  “Was your grandfather upset with you?”

  “Nay. You see, of all his grandsons, he says I remind him overmuch of himself.” He smiled modestly, then continued. “My eldest brother, Robin, would rather grumble and curse under his breath. Nicholas is a peacemaker and rarely says aught to offend. My younger brothers are giddy maids, talking of nothing but whatever ladyloves they are currently wooing.” He smiled again. “I, on the other hand, am surly and moody and generally make certain others know that.”

  “Oh, boy, surly and moody,” she said, with delight. “And to think I could have landed in the moat of someone who was merely agreeable and deferring.”

  “And how dull you would have found him to be,” he said with a grin. “My grandsire shares my temperament. I am his favorite, of course.”

  “Of course,” she agreed, dryly. “You were just lucky he happened by when he did.”

  “It is perhaps more than luck. I learned later one of his servants had been passing by and heard me telling the count rather loudly that he was a mindless twit.”

  “Oh, Miles,” she laughed. “You’d make a terrible diplomat.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “’Tis fortunate I’ll never pursue that calling.”

  “Then what is it you intend to pursue?” She knew it was a loaded question, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking it.

  His smile deepened. “I intend to pursue you, of course.”

  “Really?” she squeaked. She cleared her throat and tried again in a more dignified tone. “Really,” she said, hoping it sounded casual.

  He nodded. “Aye. But how is a twentieth-century girl wooed? Gifts?”

  “Well, it is almost Christmas.”

  He frowned. “And you plan on making me participate in the festivities?”

  “If I can do it, so can you.” She had her own reasons for finding Christmas difficult, but she managed each year. Miles could, too. “We could spruce up the place a little.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, sounding reluctant.

  “Come on, grumpy. It’ll be fun.”

  “Fun?” he echoed doubtfully.

  “As in enjoyable, entertaining. We’ll do some cleaning and sprucing and you’ll feel much better about the season. Trust me. And while we’re cleaning, I’ll tell you the story of Ebeneezer Scrooge.” She laughed. “Talk about the Ghost of Christmas Past! Boy, this puts a whole new spin on that one.”

  Miles only blinked at her.

  “We may have to forgo the gifts,” she continued. “I would have put those Jelly Bellies in your stocking, but you ate them all.”

  Miles burped discreetly. “And they were delicious. Is that how ’tis done in your day? Sprucing and giving?”

  “Pretty much.”

  He reached over, put his hand behind her head and pulled her toward him. “You are the best gift I could have asked for,” he murmured against her lips. “I need nothing else.”

  Abby closed her eyes as he kissed her. Was it possible to fall in love with someone so soon?

  It was much later that she managed to catch her breath enough to ask if he thought the stew was finished.

  “Do you care?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye. “My appetite is running more toward more of your mouth. I can guarantee it is more tasty than what boils in yon pot.”

  “Who needs food?” Abby managed.

  And that was the last thing she said for a very long time.

  Chapter Six

  MILES STRUGGLED TO fashion the soft straw into a bow. “Will this do?” he asked, holding it up.

  “Well, it isn’t raffia, but we’ll survive.”

  Miles handed her the bow, then leaned his elbows on the table and watched her rummaging through his stores for other appropriately Christmassy items, as she called them.

  He’d slept poorly the night before. He’d been tempted to blame it on his stew. It had been, in a word, inedible. More than likely it had been sleeping so close to Abigail and not touching her. Garretts didn’t do that sort of thing before marriage—not that he’d expected anything else. He wouldn’t take her until he’d wed her. The thought of it sent a thrill of something through him; he wasn’t sure if it was excitement or terror. He’d always known he would ta
ke a wife sooner or later. It had certainly suited his brothers well enough, though the wooing of their ladies had been tumultuous.

  Miles stole a look at Abigail and wondered if the courting of her would take such a toll on him. He didn’t think so. She looked fairly serene as she sifted through his things. Perhaps she would accept him well enough as time went on.

  He watched her and couldn’t help but smile. It seemed a better thing to do than shake his head, which was what he had been doing since she’d started telling him future things the eve before. Airplanes, cars, trains, microwaves; the list was endless. It would take him a lifetime to draw from her all the things she took for granted, things he hadn’t even imagined, well-traveled though he might have been.

  “Abigail, what sort of work did you do in your day?” he asked.

  “I was a secretary for an insurance salesman,” she said, frowning at a bow. She flashed him a brief smile. “People paid this man a certain amount of money each month just in case they died or their house went up in flames. If that happened, then he would replace the house or pay the family money to compensate for the deceased. I wrote out all his correspondence and things on a machine called a computer. And I watered his plants. I hated it.”

  “What would you rather have been doing?”

  “Anything but that.” She fingered a fig. “I always wanted to be a gardener. I love to watch things grow. A family would have been nice, too.”

  “I see,” he said. No wonder she had found Brett so lacking. The man obviously didn’t share her sentiments about marriage. But why was she so concerned with sprucing and giving? Was that all part of it?

  “Why is this Christmassy fuss so important to you?” he asked.

  He might not have noticed her hesitation if he hadn’t been watching her so closely. But he noticed it, and he certainly noticed the false smile she put on for his benefit.

  “’Tis the season, ho, ho, ho, and all that,” she said, brightly.

  “Hmmm,” Miles said, thoughtfully. She was lying, obviously. He looked at her sad little pile of straw bows, then back up at her.