Ten

M airead looked at the water she held in her hand that wasn't contained in a cup but more of a tube that made a horrible noise if she clutched it too tightly. Not only that, the jug was as clear as water slipping slowly over a rock, clear enough that she could see the innards without effort, which left her wondering if she should have examined the innards of her head and done the sensible thing and remained safely tucked into her spot near the hearth in the kitchens.

She looked at Oliver to find him watching her as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. She cleared her throat, but that didn't accomplish anything at all.

"Future marvels?" she croaked.

He nodded carefully.

"'Tis foolish to be afraid."

"I was very afraid of all those swords your clan was carrying."

She could see his sword lying there on the other side of him, unsheathed, and looking fairly perilous, and suspected he wasn't afraid of much. "You weren't truly, were you?"

He studied the sky for a moment or two as if he considered the question seriously, then looked at her and smiled. "I have great faith in my ability to outrun people who might want me dead."

"Have many people wanted you dead?" she asked in surprise.

"I was sent away to foster when I was very young and one learns, doesn't one, to out-think those who are older and larger."

And out-run was what she would have said if she'd wanted to discuss it, which she most certainly didn't. She crinkled her water, shivered, then nodded toward what she supposed could be considered foodstuffs. "What have you there in that pile of Future torments?"

"Oatcakes, apples, other things you likely shouldn't be eating, but all safe."

"The Duke of Birmingham had a taster, you know."

"I'll be yours," he offered cheerfully. "Let's see what we have."

She watched him sort through what he'd brought, accepted whatever he deemed fit for her to consume, then looked at the final pile of what she hesitated to touch. He seemed to find nothing unusual about those flattened mounds of brown…

"You realize those are clumps of offal, don't you?"

He paused with one halfway to his mouth and looked at her with wide eyes. "What?"

She repeated it in French, just to make certain he'd understood her. He smiled then and shook his head.

"Chocolate and orange jelly on top of a little cake." He helped himself to an entire one, chewed, then smiled. "Very tasty."

She waved him on to his delights and settled for more water, though she couldn't help but study him a bit. Now that she understood where—ah, when —he was from, she supposed she might be allowed a few questions about why he found himself there.

"Did your friends truly abandon you here?" she asked. "And are you one of those dastardly Englishmen from beyond the lowlands?"

He brushed his hands off, then leaned back on those hands and crossed his feet over the ankle, looking perfectly at ease. She didn't miss how he'd glanced around himself as he'd done so, as if he'd simply been arranging himself more comfortably. She understood, because she did the same thing. Easier to see trouble coming that way.

"I'll watch behind you," she said casually.

"And I'll watch everywhere else."

She smiled in spite of herself. "Who are you, in truth?"

He started to speak, then hesitated. He did that more than once, which left her torn between wondering if his identity was more terrible than he wanted to admit or he feared she would find it too difficult to understand.

"I'm afraid," he began slowly, "that my Gaelic won't possibly be equal to the silliness of my current life. We might need to resort to more French than usual."

She nodded. "Given that your friends left you here with nothing more than a sword and pox-spotted trews, I think you have that aright."

He smiled and she found herself feeling ridiculously pleased that she'd drawn it from him.

She put her hand to her forehead but found no fever there. She also found a conspicuous lack of good sense, but what was she to do? She was in the Future, sitting on a piece of weaving she would have slain anyone in her family for putting on the ground, and she'd watched a man happily ravage a pile of tiny flattened droppings without so much as a wince of disgust.

"Mairead?"

She looked at him. "I think too many thoughts."

"I have the same problem. How do we save ourselves?"

She found a new piece of ridiculousness in the unaccustomed pleasure of being included in another's happy troubles. A braw, charming man's happy troubles.

"How did you come to be in the Highlands, then?" she asked, desperate to speak of something besides what was rattling around in her empty head. "In truth?"

"My friends in London captured me and brought me here against my will, leaving me with my book being the key to freedom."

She looked at the book sitting between them, the one with the black cover and the golden letters tooled on the front, and wondered at the wealth of his friends. She glanced at him.

"Why, do you think?"

"To save me from too many thoughts, no doubt."

She almost smiled at that. "And they thought a list of tasks to accomplish would aid you with that?"

"I think they thought it would distract me from thoughts of slaying them," he said with a snort. He picked the book up and handed it to her. "Have a look, but be prepared for ridiculous things."

She glanced at him to find he was watching her with an expression on his face she couldn't quite identify, but she was no coward, so she opened his book and braced herself for something very silly indeed.

What she hadn't expected was how fine such a small collection of folios would be. The sheaves of parchment were perfectly smooth and some were of a heavier stuff she'd never imagined could exist. She continued to turn pages until she came to the end, then she looked at him.

"I'm afraid I don't recognize these words."

"I wish I didn't," he said with a smile, "and I'm not sure they'll translate very well. Let's choose something to do, though, and leave the rest." He reached over and turned back pages until he stopped at a sheaf that was unadorned. He looked at it, sighed a little, then looked at her. "I am to sniff a variety of flowers, then draw them there."

"'Tis autumn, you realize."

He winced. "I know. What do you suggest?"

"A walk." She started to crawl to her feet, but found that he'd jumped to his and was holding down his hand for her. She looked up at him in surprise, but he seemed to find nothing unusual about offering aid. She let him help her up, then made a production of fussing with her shawl as he strapped his sword to his back.

Truly, she was a woman out of her depth.

Oliver seemed to think nothing of it, though, and merely walked with her along the edge of the forest. She realized after a bit that he was spending more time watching their surroundings than he was attending to his task, but perhaps he knew of dangers she did not.

"You're supposed to be looking for things to sniff."

"I don't know where to start." He smiled. "You wouldn't choose a few things for me whilst I keep watch over us, would you?"

If it would keep her from feeling so pleased at being included in his madness, she would have picked up things from the forest floor for the whole of the day.

By the time she'd filled part of her shawl with the best the season could offer—heather, leavings from trees at the edge of the forest, and a handful of rocks and sticks Oliver was certain would be sufficient for the task set him—she found herself sitting again atop that very fine blanket with their treasures in a tidy pile between them. Oliver broke open his book, took out two sheaves of parchment, then handed her one. He closed the book and set it aside, then opened a strange little box made of what she suspected was very fine silver indeed. Inside were wee sticks of wood, all the same size, with colors leaking out from one end in shades she'd never seen before.

"A species of charcoal," he said casually.

She would have reached out to touch one, but her hands were already shaking too badly.

"Mairead."

She looked at him. "Aye?"

"I'll keep you safe," he reminded her. "And I suspect you'll be very good at this, so you'll likely keep my friends safe from my wrath. These are called pencils."

"But the colors," she managed.

"I'm guessing that it's nothing more than charcoal that's been dyed, but it could also be wax. I have no idea, really. What color do you like best?"

"Purple," she said without hesitation. She looked at him then. "'Tis the color of heather, you know."

"I know," he said with a smile. He selected one of the marvels in that silver box fit for holy relics, then held it out. "Why don't you try it? We'll see who draws a better rendering of our heather here."

She hardly dared put anything on that parchment that was so precious, but Oliver seemed to think nothing of it. She considered, then decided perhaps she could at least offer him that much aid in satisfying his mates.

She drew little clusters of heather, then frowned as she realized if she were going to do it properly, she would need other colors.

Oliver held out his precious box. "Take what you need."

She chose brown and green, then imagined there wasn't any point in not putting a bit of mountain behind her plants as well as a hint of sky. She realized only as she'd filled the page with heather and a bit of forest and the sky visible in front of her that Oliver wasn't as busy. She looked at him to find him watching her with an expression of astonishment on his very braw visage.

"I'm turning over this task to you," he said promptly. "Don't tell the lads."

She would have attempted a snort, but couldn't dredge up enough enthusiasm for it. She also realized that Oliver had been busily cutting away the wood from the colored charcoal, which she suspected had been for her benefit only. She considered, then held out her sheaf.

"I can draw other things on yours, if you like."

He took her page, then handed her his. "Please."

She considered, then drew things from memory, finding that having so many colors to use was an unexpected pleasure.

"How do you know so much about plants?"

"How else would I know what to use for dyeing yarn and cloth?"

"Fair enough," he agreed. He waited until she'd finished, then handed her another sheaf. "Could you draw some things in black, then let me color them in?"

"Will that satisfy them?"

"If not, I have a sword."

She smiled in spite of herself, then drew for him several flowers she thought he might manage. She handed him the sheaf, then watched him as he drew colors inside her renderings. He looked a great deal like a monk, bent over his page with a frown marring his perfect brow. That seemed a better choice than a demon, to be sure.

And surely no creature from Hell could possibly have had such a beautiful visage. He was braw, true, but she realized sitting perhaps a bit closer to him than her father might have found acceptable, that he had a mark or two—perhaps a case of the pox in childhood—and a scar through one of his eyebrows. His eyes, however, were a beautiful shade of pale blue, full of a quiet merriment that increased slightly when he smiled.

"You're supposed to be drawing flowers," he said, not looking up.

"I drew flowers," she said, feeling her cheeks grow uncomfortably hot. "And more for you."

"Well, if you draw me now and give me a tail and horns, I'll howl."

She smiled. "Will you?"

"It depends on how ugly you make me."

"You're braw enough," she said, which was yet another unholy bit of understatement. She cast about for something else to discuss, but found herself coming back to simply sitting with a man who left her feeling an unaccustomed sense of being safe. "Will your friends find this enough?"

"Again," he said, glancing at her, "sword."

"Don't they have them, as well?"

He considered. "A few do, actually. And to be fair, I can't deny their motives in sending me here were not entirely unkind."

"Did they think a few fortnights in Scotland would balance your humors?"

He smiled. "Exactly that."

She snorted before she could stop herself, which earned her another brief laugh—

That was cut short and she was pulled up and behind him so quickly that she almost lost her breath. He released her wrist that he had hold of, then shifted to look at her.

"Sorry," he said, taking her by the arm instead and pulling her forward to stand next to him. He gestured toward the man standing there where there had been no man before.

Or perhaps she had simply not been paying attention to her surroundings, which was far more likely.

The man was obviously a Highlander, dressed properly and wearing an enormous sword on his back. He looked enough like her kin that she would have wagered he was a MacLeod, but perhaps not.

"Patrick," the man said, making her a bow. "Younger brother of the laird James."

She felt her ears perk up at that name and spared a wish that she might have the chance to meet the man who had inspired so many legends in her clan. She also rapidly considered her possible connection to the man in front of her.

"And that would make you my uncle?" she asked.

Patrick smiled and it reminded her of her father when he'd been whole and sound, a father who had been full of fine humors and affection for her.

"The very same," he agreed. "I didn't mean to startle you." He glanced at Oliver. "Did you know I was here?"

Oliver let out his breath carefully. "My apologies, my lord, but I did not."

"I was distracting him with mindless chatter," Mairead volunteered.

"I suspect that isn't all he was distracted by," Patrick said pleasantly, "which I'll repay him for later. For now, I will remain here with you and be not only guardsman but chaperon."

"Oh," she managed, "there's nothing to guard. You see, I have three younger sisters who are so beautiful that no one ever looks at me. I'm always perfectly safe."

She realized she was again babbling, but the thought of needing a chaperon was so ridiculous that she could scarce entertain it. She watched Patrick look at Oliver.

"Are they?" he asked mildly. "Her sisters, I mean."

Oliver shrugged. "Didn't notice."

"Interesting," Patrick said, nodding. "Mind if I join you?"

Mairead found Oliver was looking at her, but she suspected they wouldn't have any say in the matter given who the man was, though she wasn't opposed to another sword within reach. She smiled and nodded. "That would be lovely."

Patrick made himself at home on a corner of their blanket, then looked with interest at their renderings. He glanced at Oliver.

"Putting her to work earning your freedom?"

"She's a far superior artist," Oliver said easily.

Mairead watched him gather up their sheaves and hand them over for inspection. Patrick sifted through them, making approving noises, then handed them back to Oliver. He considered, then looked at her.

"Has he been a gentleman?"

"From the very beginning, uncle."

Patrick smiled, then looked at Oliver. "Then I suppose you'll live another day. Have you fed her suitable things? And how was it you two met? I missed that answer."

"You missed it," Oliver said pointedly, "because you didn't ask, not that I would have answered for fear I would frighten her by admitting that you had been chasing me all through the forest, threatening to slay me, and I'd run directly through that faery ring in the grass and into her time."

Mairead realized her mouth was hanging open, but she shut it when Patrick winked at her.

"I had nothing better to do that morning," he said with a shrug. "Hunting a wee fool like this one here seemed like a decent bit of sport."

"My nephews do that to each other," she managed. "Though I don't think they intend to slay each other." She paused. "Not all the time."

Patrick laughed, Oliver shook his head, and she wondered how it was she would ever go back to a life where the souls around her were so full of bile that they rarely smiled. Ambrose did, of course, because he was a sunny lad in spite of his sober nature. Her niece and other nephews smiled as well, true, but they were young and still full of life and curiosity. Her father, in his time before her mother had died and he'd been wounded, had been a cheerful man in spite of the burden of leading the clan.

Perhaps they needed to find another minstrel who played in tune with a bit more success. It might make evenings less torturous, at least.

And that, she realized an hour later, was the last gloomy thought she'd entertained. It came as a surprise to realize she'd passed a morning in pleasure. Patrick MacLeod was a delightful man with a dry sense of jest that left her laughing more than she had in years. He seemed to take an especial delight in poking at Oliver which earned him half-hearted glares and dire threats muttered under the breath. And if most of the conversation revolved around the worst things both she and her uncle had eaten—to Oliver's satisfyingly displayed horror—well, simple pleasures were a man's daily delight as her father always said.

What she did know was that for the first time in years, she felt safe.

And happy.

Patrick rubbed his hands together suddenly. "Best get her back home, lad," he said. "Before she's missed."

Mairead couldn't argue with that, though she wished she could have given that home was not where she wanted to go. She wasn't one to shy away from difficult things, though, so she helped Oliver pack up his gear, shook her head at him one last time over the blanket he made a valiant effort to brush off, then shook hands with her uncle before he made her a slight bow and walked off toward the forest.

She walked with Oliver up the meadow to the doorway, though she couldn't find anything to say and he seemed to have the same problem. He stopped a pace or two away from the faery ring, then looked at her, silent and grave.

"Thank you for coming," he said finally.

She nodded. She knew she had to go and she knew with equal certainty that she shouldn't come back. The thought of that was terrible, perhaps because it was so unexpected. Who would have thought that a book would have gotten her into so much trouble?

"Ta-rah, Oliver," she said with as much of a smile as she could muster.

"Safe home, Mairead," he said quietly.

She had one last look at him, beautiful not-a-duke lad that he was, then turned and walked through the gate.

She heard it close behind her, so she didn't bother to turn around to see if Oliver had been closed on the other side.

Well, she only took five steps before she glanced over her shoulder, but she thought that showed a remarkable amount of restraint. She found nothing there but meadow and a storm brewing, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.

A half hour's slow walk home, however, left her facing things that were definitely not ordinary. She had no idea where the disturbance had started, but her clan was in a complete uproar. ‘Twas a blessing she was accustomed to slipping along the edge of things to keep out of the sights of those with too little to occupy their time, for she gained the kitchens without trouble and put herself in a useful spot for remaining unmarked. If that allowed her to watch the doorway, so much the better.

She was somewhat surprised to find Cook standing next to her a few moments later, his brow creased as if either his stew had turned out poorly or he hadn't slept well the night before.

"Trouble afoot," he said in a low voice.

"What sort?" she murmured.

"Officious looking man from down south," he said with a frown. He glanced at her then. "Hunting witches, he is."

She felt something very unpleasant slide down her spine. "Why here?"

"Prides himself on being thorough."

No doubt. She shared a silent moment of disgust with him, then decided there was no reason not to see for herself what sort of madness was being combined. At least there was space enough at the back of the hall where she could have her look without being marked.

Cook hadn't erred with his judgment of the chaos that seemed to be multiplying with every voice adding itself to what could scarce be called a conversation. She found Ambrose and his wee siblings and sent them off to the kitchen with a look that her nephew received with a nod. They would be safe enough.

For the rest of the clan, she wasn't as confident. Her father was sitting in his usual place, staring at things only he could see. Her uncle Lachlan stood behind him with his hand on his elder brother's shoulder. She spared a brief wish for Patrick MacLeod to have been standing there as well, then turned to the rest of the madness on display.

And from that moment, things happened too quickly for her to stop them. She wanted to have a few moments to study the newcomer dressed in black clerical robes with a pair of men flanking him dressed also very importantly, but she was distracted by the fuss her cousins were causing her brother.

Tasgall had never been very good at facing more than one disaster at a time which she had always supposed might make leading the clan a difficult task for him. Her uncle generally stood at his elbow and attempted to keep the confusion to a minimum, but at the moment he was too busy attending to the clergymen. She stepped forward to see if at least an offer of something to drink might calm the tempers flaring there, then thoroughly regretted it when her brother spun around and pointed his finger at her.

"Where have you been?" he snarled.

"Off looking for herbs—"

"You should have been here!" he shouted, striding across the hall and shoving cousins out of the way as he did so. "Deirdre is ill and you should have taken her place!"

"Is she ill," Mairead shot back, "or hid—"

She realized he was going to hit her as she saw the back of his hand coming toward her face. She closed her eyes because there was no time to move and she simply couldn't watch any more fury coming her way.

She heard the blow, but felt nothing.

She opened her eyes, though perhaps that hadn't been necessary. She found herself with her face pressed against the scabbard of a sword strapped to a man's back. His hand was also keeping her pressed against that back, a hand she had no trouble recognizing.

Tasgall spluttered. "Why are you here again?"

"My lord Tasgall," Oliver said politely, inclining his head. "I heard tell of trouble in the area and thought I would offer you my sword."

"Well," Tasgall said, sounding very surprised. "I'm pleased you found it, but why would I need it when… well, these men are honorable officials from Edinburgh. Surely you know them."

Oliver made a dismissive noise. "We travel in far different circles, my lord, but I'll be polite to them for your sake, of course."

Mairead would have thanked him, but she found her hand taken by Ambrose.

"Auntie, come away," he said quickly. "The kitchen is warm."

She nodded and let him pull her out of the great hall. She wasn't one given to weakness, but she suspected that if she'd been that sort of lass, she might have sought out somewhere to sit. As it was, she didn't argue when Ambrose found her a stool, tucked her into a corner by the cooking fire, and found a pair of lads to do things that required them to stand in front of her.

And if a different lad came to lean against the wall next to her after supper had been served and the hall put to bed for the night, all she could do was look at up at him.

"Why are you here?" she whispered.

He squatted down next to her. "I thought I should be."

She closed her eyes briefly. "Thank you."

"I told your brother I would stay for a pair of days until my friends arrive as I'm certain they'll come for me. They've likely been held up by their business with the king."

"Queen," she murmured.

"I was speaking of James."

"And I was speaking of Elizabeth," she said. She shot him a look and held up two fingers.

He shot her a warning look, but then he smiled. "I'll go sit with your father for a moment and see how things are progressing in the hall," he said quietly, rising and looking down at her. "You'll be safe enough here?"

She nodded.

He put his hand briefly on top of her head, then walked away.

She had no idea why he'd truly come, but she very grateful he had. For all she knew, he brought tidings from the Future about the past that would change things for the better.

She sincerely hoped so.