One

Scotland

Fall, 2009

T he sword hung in the air, motionless, the blade glinting faintly in the morning gloom, with yet more steel peeking out from under the well-loved leather wrapped around the hilt, and all of it covered in a relentless mist that blanketed everything in sight.

Oliver Phillips lay sprawled on his back, staring up at that massive sword, and wondered if he might manage a final thought or two before the blade descended and sent him off to take up a place in his family's slightly ostentatious mausoleum. He had very definite opinions on not only his current location but the people who had in one way or another led him to that same place. The first was simpler, so he started there.

Scotland was a bloody awful place for a holiday.

Now, for the second, the list was relatively short, but simply bursting with men who were ripe for a bit of retribu—

He swore, then rolled quickly out of the way of that perilously sharp Claymore that suddenly descended toward his chest. He managed a second roll to his feet, snatching up his own sword on the way. His current sparring partner, the truly exhausting Ian MacLeod, seemingly couldn't be bothered to offer even a morsel of praise for that feat, something he surely could have considering he'd been the one to kick the damned thing so far out of the way that Oliver hadn't been able to reach it.

Oliver didn't hope for anything supportive from the two men watching silently from thirty paces away. James MacLeod was standing there with his arms folded over his chest, studying the carnage in progress with a thoughtful frown. Jamie's younger brother Patrick was yawning and looking as if he might soon need a nap.

Oliver knew, having had his share of encounters with the lord of the local castle, that he would have a thorough assessment of his efforts after the work was done. His experiences with that lord's brother were far fewer, but he knew that no matter how nonchalant Patrick MacLeod looked at present, he was the one to watch.

Then again, perhaps that was Ian instead who almost slit his throat before he managed to heave his sword up in time to spare himself the same.

"Best pay attention, lad," Ian suggested.

Very sensible advice, that. Oliver took a firmer grip on his sword, ignored the absolute improbability of holding the same, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

The morning wore on in a way that could only be equaled by the most tedious of stakeouts that dragged on for hours only to leave him scrambling at the last minute to catch the prize. Slowly, then all at once, to poorly paraphrase Hemingway, which was exactly how his own morning of torment ended as he watched his sword leave his hands. He stood there, drenched in sweat and covered in mud, and aching in places he hadn't known existed, and watched his sword spin lazily in the now-afternoon gloom.

Patrick simply held up his hand and caught Oliver's sword before the hilt clunked his brother on the head, then stabbed it into the ground in front of him.

Jamie stroked his chin thoughtfully, no doubt contemplating that lengthy list of ways Oliver needed to improve his swordplay.

Oliver would have listened to an all-day lecture on his failings if he could have had half an hour to first sit, then hopefully not drown himself in the enormous pitcher of water he fully intended to pour down his throat.

He looked at his current swordmaster and wasn't above enjoying a moment of relief that Ian had resheathed his sword and handed it off to his cousin. Patrick MacLeod with two swords wasn't any more terrifying than he was with no swords at all, so Oliver felt fairly safe ignoring him in favor of the man in front of him who looked as if his wretched tasks for the day weren't complete.

"Well?" he asked warily.

"Are you asking me if we're finished or what I think?"

Oliver couldn't bring himself to do either, so he simply stood there and waited.

"I personally think we've made a proper day of it," Ian conceded, "but I do have my instructions."

"I can hardly wait to hear them," Oliver said before he could stop himself.

"Well, let's see what they are," Ian said, patting himself for a moment or two and frowning. He smiled suddenly, then pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. He squinted at it, rotated it ninety degrees a couple of times, then nodded. "Here they are: Kill him if you can and show no mercy in the deed. Mercy makes him sad ."

Oliver was utterly unsurprised. "Is that all?"

Ian shook his head. "Several warnings about how becoming sad might leave you comforting yourself by sucking on your thumb, huddling in a corner singing off-key nursery rhymes, or, more direly, bawling like a gel whilst sucking your thumb and attempting to sing those off-key nursery rhymes."

Oliver took a careful breath. "I'm going to kill them all."

Ian nodded wisely. "They warn that you might say that, at which point I've been advised—how did they put it? Ah, here it is. When he begins to threaten bodily harm to those who love him so dearly, he's at his most dangerous. At this point, do not, under any circumstances, offer cuddles ."

" by one," Oliver said, because he thought it only fair to state his intentions. "Slowly. Painfully. Permanently."

Ian laughed. "I understand, believe me. I once took a glorious holiday in a Fergusson dungeon thanks to my cousin running his fat mouth, a holiday I didn't particularly enjoy. As for you, all I can offer is directions to Jamie's kitchens. You can't plot a proper revenge if you're hungry."

Oliver knew the way to the kitchen given that he'd been there before on his way to other places, but at the moment he suspected it might be best not to think about those other places.

He made Ian a bow, fetched the scabbard for his own sword, then walked over to where the laird of the local clan MacLeod was holding out his sword. Hilt first, which he appreciated. He took it and resheathed it, then waited for the verdict on his day's work.

"Not a bad showing," Jamie conceded.

Oliver made him a low bow. "Thank you, my lord." He took a deep breath and looked at Patrick MacLeod, fully prepared for anything from a brutal assessment to a knife in his gut.

Patrick only lifted his eyebrows briefly and said nothing.

And that was likely the best he was going to have from that quarter. He made Patrick an equally polite bow, then excused himself and did his damndest to walk in a straight line around to the front of the keep before the invitation to find a meal was rescinded in favor of more torture in the lists.

He stopped on the hall's front stoop and put his hand on the massive wooden door for a moment to catch his breath. He loathed admitting to any sort of weakness, but in his defense he'd had a long day. That day had begun in the middle of the night when he'd woken to find himself being roughly trussed up like a misbehaving Christmas goose. His subsequent journey, first by private plane, then by an equally private helicopter, had ended with his being heartlessly deposited onto the doorstep of a certain Highland laird. The note secured with gaffer tape to one of his bonds where he hadn't been able to chew it off had informed James MacLeod that he was there to have a holiday.

He suspected much darker things were afoot.

Then again, the retribution he would exact for those darker things was going to be exceptionally unpleasant, so balance would eventually be restored. With that happy thought to keep him from blurting out any off-key nursery rhymes—which was a filthy lie; he had perfect pitch—he knocked, then gingerly opened the door and peeked in to see if anyone friendly might be home.

Elizabeth MacLeod was coming out of the kitchen and waved him inside. He accepted the invitation, then shut the door behind himself, suppressing the urge to throw not only a bar over it but stack a few pieces of heavy furniture in front of it as well. He shuffled over to the lady of the hall where he made her a bow.

She laughed. "Oliver, you don't have to do that."

"I'm hoping to flatter you out of something to eat," he said honestly.

"I'm already putting dinner together, so no flattery needed. I'm just waiting for you to finish with the boys."

"I sincerely hope that I have," he said with feeling. "And I owe you for breakfast this morning. It was the only thing that saved me."

"You answer my endless research questions about modern spy stuff, so it's a fair trade."

"Is that useful?" he asked.

"It is when Patrick's answer to any of my questions on how to deal with bad guys is a blank look and a sword-poking motion."

Oliver suspected Patrick MacLeod's skills were exponentially more extensive than that, but again, he hadn't had the pleasure of a personal encounter, something he fully intended to keep on with for as long as possible.

"I'll go clean up, then," Oliver said, "and I'll try not to drip overly on your floors."

"I've seen worse," Elizabeth said with a shrug.

Oliver imagined she had, so he made her another bow, then tried not to squelch his way too aggressively across her floor and up the stairs to the guest room he'd been given. He'd been offered the same accommodations precisely seven times in the past, something he also decided was best not to think about at the moment. It would get in the way of less unsettling thoughts of vengeance perpetrated on those who absolutely should have known better.

He walked inside, locked the bedroom door behind himself, then propped his sword up against a chair bearing the duffle bag that had so thoughtfully been packed for him. He looked into the corner of the room and scowled at the collection of zip ties and steel-banded cables that were piled atop enormous chains that could have comfortably moored a small cruise ship. He likely should have been flattered that his kidnappers had considered him dangerous enough to merit all three, but that might have stirred up feelings of mercy which would have indeed made him sad, so he forbore.

There was no silencing duct tape joining the rubbish there, but that indicated how well those hapless lads knew him. He had considered commenting on what fates awaited them as they'd been about their foul business of transporting him to places he hadn't wanted to go, but he'd decided that silence had been a more terrifying option.

He imagined Patrick MacLeod would have agreed with that, at least.

He stripped off his medieval gear and ignored the fact that he was trying to keep a saffron shirt and what amounted to a plaid-patterned blanket in a tidy pile atop his muddy boots. It was a bit more difficult to ignore the bright pink ankle monitor that had been applied to his own poor self whilst he'd been wearing the aforementioned cables and chains, but he limited himself to a brief hope it wouldn't electrocute him whilst he was having a wash.

Half an hour later, he followed his nose into the kitchen. The lady of the hall was there, dividing her time between keeping watch over a stew that smelled very promising and keeping her children focused on their homework. The youngest of the spawn, a wisp of a thing named Patricia, jumped up from her stool and raced across the room.

"Oliver!"

He caught her as she flung herself at him and couldn't help but feel a bit flattered by her enthusiasm. She hugged him tightly, then pulled away.

"Which do I pick?" she asked. "Treat or a card?"

"Patricia, he doesn't always have to bring you something," Elizabeth said mildly.

"But if he doesn't bring me a treat, I get to pick a card."

"Us, too!" a pair of lads said in unison.

Oliver looked at the collection of MacLeod spawn and sorted them into ages and potential for mischief-making out of habit. He supposed Patricia was well into her seventh year and her next older brother, Robert, a trio of years older than she. The eldest, Ian by name and early teens by age, was leaning back against the range, warming his backside and smiling in understanding. Oliver had seen that one indulging in a little swordplay with his father, though, and suspected he might be worth keeping an eye on as well.

"I'm afraid I neglected to pack either," he said, pulling himself back to the matter at hand. He'd made a point of bringing a hostess gift for the lady of the house on each of his visits, but cards containing Useful Skills to Know had been a spur-of-the-moment idea for the brood that first weekend. "I could make up a handful now, if you like."

"Actually, we have something for you," Patricia said, pulling him over to the table. She held out an envelope toward him. "I found it on the front steps, but no one had knocked which told me it was a secret."

Oliver could only imagine.

"Are you going to open it?" Robert asked.

Oliver could bring to mind half a dozen unpleasant things he would rather have been doing besides opening what he was certain would be a continuation of the indignities he'd already suffered so far that day, but Patricia had pulled him down onto the stool next to her and patted his shoulder.

"If it's a quest, I'll help you."

It was hard to argue with a seven-year-old prepared to hoist a sword with him, so he nodded his thanks, then opened the envelope that indeed had his name scrawled on it and pulled out the single sheet of paper.

Dearest Oliver, welcome to your holiday! Because we love you so very much—hugs and kisses!—we've planned the whole fortnight for you. A tailor-made routine of self-care awaits you, perfectly designed to refresh and restore. Attached to each carefully curated task is a set of points which, as they are earned, entitle you to other new and exciting indulgences!

He was going to end them all. by one, slowly, cheerfully, and painfully. He set that thought aside as something to be enjoyed later, then continued on.

What delights can I expect? Clever you for asking, but let's not spoil any surprises! Today, content yourself with meditating for a quarter hour, supervised. If you accomplish that, you'll receive further instructions in the morning along with a book in which to record their accomplishment.

Do the tasks properly. Don't cheat on the maths. A prize for being good in school—perhaps a car that runs—will be yours when you've finished.

XOXO

He took a deep breath. In fact, he took several. It didn't help one bloody bit.

"What does it say?" Patricia asked.

"It's a list of things to do," Oliver said pleasantly. He said it pleasantly because he'd been asked by a child and growling might have frightened her.

"Fun things or chores?"

"Fun things," Oliver managed.

"Will you have anything for doing them," Ian asked, "or are they just exercises in strengthening character and stamina?"

Oliver exchanged a glance with Elizabeth that needed no words to accompany it. If both those lads—and likely Patricia as well—hadn't heard that same phrase from their father a dozen times a day, every day, from the moment they'd managed to make sense of the words being spewed at them, he would have been very surprised.

"I believe there might be a prize involved," Oliver conceded.

"Which kind?" Robert asked, getting up and walking around the table to peer over his arm. "Wait… a car of your choice?" Robert looked at him, his young mind seemingly reeling at the very thought. "What sort, do you suppose? A Jaguar? An Aston Martin? Nay, a Bugatti ?"

Very likely a used Fiat with a chipped Ferrari medallion glued to the arse-end of it, but perhaps that didn't need to be said.

"I don't think they've narrowed it down yet," Oliver offered.

"And what's that part at the end in those strange-looking letters?" Patricia asked.

Oliver squinted—he couldn't deny that he might need more sleep on occasion—and took a moment to untangle the words cut from various supermarket circulars. Unoriginal, but a bit alarming all the same.

"It says," he said, "that the process must begin again if at any point there is failure to adhere to the programme as outlined."

The two younger spawn nodded wisely. Oliver looked at Young Ian and had an eye roll and a smile in return, something with which he heartily agreed.

"I could make you a list of cars, if that would help," Robert volunteered.

"Make them very dear."

Patricia jumped up. "I'll choose the color!"

"I'll look for very expensive after-market accessories," Ian said, pushing away from the range. "Mum, we'll need your computer."

Elizabeth started to speak, but he put his arm around her shoulders and smiled.

"I'll supervise the young ones," he promised, "and be careful myself."

Oliver watched Elizabeth's eldest gather up his younger siblings and usher them out of the kitchen, then looked at the lady of the hall.

"Apparently I've been sent on an extended holiday."

"Hard to take them," she conceded.

"Do you?"

"Three kids and deadlines," she said dryly, "so, no, not often."

He hardly dared ask, but couldn't keep himself from it. "Does your husband?"

She seemed to be considering what to say.

"That was too personal," he added quickly.

She shook her head. "It isn't that at all."

"Then the Cameron/MacLeod feud…"

She laughed. "Well, you did pledge your fealty to the dastardly laird up the hill."

Oliver refused to shiver at the memory. He had indeed done so, which had eventually led—in an admittedly roundabout way—to finding himself in medieval Scotland with Jamie, just for a mug of ale and a sword fight he absolutely hadn't been prepared for.

"Then again, you are a Phillips," Elizabeth continued, "which means you're related back in the mists of time not only Sunny, but Madelyn as well who happens to be married to my brother-in-law. That makes you family, so I'll give you the family answers. Jamie is driven, as you know, in the same way Lord Robert is and for the same reasons."

"My lady, your husband is an entirely new level of driven."

She laughed uneasily. "I'll admit he is, but even he puts his feet up occasionally. And he does sleep."

"I sleep," Oliver muttered.

"In a bed?"

He blew his hair out of his eyes, smiled in spite of himself at her laugh, then pushed himself to his feet to offer help with getting supper on the table.

The afternoon had well and truly waned when he found himself standing in the middle of the great hall without quite knowing how he'd gotten there. He was certain he'd eaten and made polite conversation with Jamie and his family, but he had little memory of it. He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked around himself to see what he'd missed.

The lord of the hall was sitting in front of his fire, no doubt thinking deep thoughts about possible flaws in the fabric of time. Oliver realized Jamie was waving him over, so he took the invitation whilst it was still good, then accepted a heavy pewter mug of what he was certain would be a most excellent ale.

"I understand my wee Patricia gave you your letter earlier."

Oliver nodded. "She did, my lord."

Jamie smiled slightly. "And of course you didn't growl at her."

"I was far too busy marveling with your daughter and her brothers at the delights that await me."

Jamie looked to be struggling not to laugh. "And the retribution you'll enact upon those who devised the same?"

Oliver conceded the point with a nod.

"I think that might be why once they delivered you to my doorstep, your errand lads scampered off with all due haste."

"I would imagine so," Oliver agreed, "though it won't serve them. I believe I advised them before they fled that they shouldn't rest easily for too long."

Jamie did laugh then. "Och, Ollie lad, I don't think they will. Why do you think they're having women hand things to you?"

"It won't save them," Oliver assured him. "But as I prefer my revenge to be very well chilled, they'll have a few more days of breathing easily before they meet their timely and painful ends."

Jamie nodded and made himself more comfortable. "I would expect nothing less. Until that happy time arrives, let's enjoy our drink in silence and count it as meditation." He shot Oliver a look. "I've been charged with setting you off on the right path, if you're curious. Happy thoughts, though, my lad, not ones of mayhem."

Oliver raised his mug in as much of an assent as he could muster.

"I'll make a note that you've completed the task once we've finished."

"Good of you, my laird."

"Magnanimous," Jamie agreed, "but a bit self-serving. Don't want to lose a fine traveling companion."

Oliver supposed that was the second compliment he could consider his that day. He didn't care what others thought of him as a rule, but he also wasn't one to discount the good opinion of those whose opinion mattered to him.

And with that happy thought to keep him company, he stared into the fire and forced himself to simply watch it instead of imagining it wrapping itself around a pair of lads who deserved it, namely Peter Wright and Ewan Cameron, they of the maniacal cackling and ribald jokes at his expense as he'd been too fettered to hit them and too stubborn to point out how miserably they would die when he'd managed to free himself.

His boss, Derrick Cameron, and his über-boss, Robert Cameron, he would unfortunately need to allow to breathe a bit longer. They had wives and children to take care of. He wasn't above torturing them a bit, though, which he would get to as soon as he'd completed the promised record-book of misery and could use it to give them at least a score of vicious papercuts each. He was fairly certain lemon juice would then be the thing to pour into those wounds to cleanse them so they might heal properly.

Jamie drained his cup and looked over. "Pleasant thoughts?"

"Citrusy, actually."

Jamie grinned. "Interesting choice. I hope they run and hide well."

"It won't matter."

Jamie conceded the point with a nod. "You do have a gift for tracking things."

"Antiques live in fear," Oliver agreed modestly.

Jamie laughed a little. "Antiques and several of your comrades, no doubt. But what would you say to putting those skills with both antiques and nosing about to the test with a little adventure to break up your holiday?"

Oliver considered. "I think I might need to first earn the key to free myself from my ankle monitor."

"Can't you cut the bloody thing off yourself?"

"I could, but doing so will send me to the back of the queue."

"Diabolical."

"Unoriginal," Oliver corrected grimly, "and yet so unsurprising."

"And you're going to agree to this?"

Oliver shrugged. "I've been promised a car at the end of this if I'm good."

"Which I suspect you could easily buy yourself."

"I could," Oliver conceded, "but they didn't specify what sort. Your son Robert suggested a Bugatti."

Jamie did smile then. "If that's the case, I can see why you'd want someone else to pay for it. And if you don't mind me saying so, my lad, you look to have had a long day. I won't mention it if you go have a proper night's rest for a change. You never know what tomorrow will bring, so you might be grateful for the extra sleep."

Oliver suspected Jamie might know more about what lay in store for him than he would be comfortable with, so he rose, made the lord of the hall a low bow, then walked across the great hall and started up the stairs. He hesitated to ruin all that healthful meditation he'd just engaged in, but he was having thoughts that perhaps deserved some attention.

The truth was, he could have cut off that damned pink ankle bracelet, gotten himself home, then planned the demise of a handful of men who deserved it. Unfortunately, he also had to admit that there was a part of him—a very small part, of course—that very briefly and casually had to admit that if the world were ending and he had to be honest as his last act before a meteor fell on his head—

He tripped over the top circular step and almost went sprawling face-first into the hallway, but caught himself just in time. Obviously that was a sign that admitting anything at the moment—particularly anything having to do with whether or not he might or might not have needed a holiday to begin with—was the very last thing he would be doing.

He paused with one foot on the landing and one foot on the step below and considered. He could have sworn there was something there, but there was nothing.

Odd.

He took a deep breath, shook aside specters that were obviously leaping directly from the part of his brain that needed a great deal more sleep, then heaved himself up the final step and continued on down the hallway.

He would wait for that meteor and instead concentrate on keeping his ire burning brightly. During the daytime, of course. He would use the nights well by sleeping more than a handful of hours at a stretch.

It would at least help him avoid yawning through his retribution.