Eleven

O liver dragged his sleeve across his forehead, but that didn't do anything to change his view of a vintage Highlander standing across from him holding onto, as usual, a perilously sharp Claymore, no doubt contemplating all the perilously life-ending things he might do with it.

He wanted extra credit for his current activity in the form of not only the Bugatti he was definitely going to have earned, but a decently sized house on the ocean. Perhaps one perched on some Italian bit of coastline in the south where the food would be delicious, the vistas gorgeous, and the art and culture sublime.

He was fairly certain they had antiques there along with their gelato and superb wine. Perhaps he could be prevailed upon to take up the reins of the work title he'd been awarded the day before he'd been sent off to his Holiday in Hades and exercise it in a southern clime.

I'm making you Vice President of Snoopery and Skulduggery , Derrick Cameron had said to him without so much as a hint of a smirk. Take this ridiculous raise and go book a holiday.

He'd thanked Derrick for the tuppence, ignored the man's banging on about the beauties of time away in nature, and escaped to go hide in Cameron's enormous office and have a nap on a rarely used sofa in the corner.

Ah, how cavalierly he'd later bid everyone a fond adieu before heading back to his flat to call it an early night, not having a damned clue about the perils that lay in store for him.

And that had been just the contents of that bloody self-care manual. He was positive not even Derrick and the rest of those heartless sods could possibly have foreseen his lingering in 16th-century Scotland, shielding a Renaissance miss from her brother and a cousin or two who needed to have a few good manners beaten into them, and spending his morning sparring with none other than the future laird of the clan Cameron. The 16th-century clan Cameron.

He could hardly wait to drop that little nugget onto Robert Cameron's lap when next they overindulged in scones with clotted cream to counter a late-afternoon energy slump.

At least Giles seemed to think he deserved to breathe a bit longer. That future Cameron laird rested his sword against his shoulder and nodded at Oliver's sword which was, he would have pointed out to anyone who would listen, still in his hand and not lying six meters away from him.

"Nice steel," Giles said. "A gift from your father?"

Oliver couldn't even start down that road. If his father had seen him with a Claymore in his hand, he would have immediately gotten a case of the vapors and likely begun frantically quoting Oscar Wilde in an effort to restore balance to his witty, marginally titled world.

"Ah, nay," Oliver said, scrambling for something close to the truth. "My adopted sister's husband had it made for me."

Which was true. Cameron had a blacksmith thanks to Zachary Smith's having encountered that generationally maintained smithy in various ages and thereafter singing the praises of the modern smith. Oliver had the sword—still, it needed to be said—in his hands thanks to that man having made it for him and Cameron having left it propped up against the wall behind a Christmas tree at Cameron Hall a pair of years before. It wasn't the first time Lord Robert had insisted they all come to Scotland and have a proper lad's week away over the holiday, but that year had been different. Sunny had been there, for one thing, and there had been the added layers of suspicions confirmed and fealty pledged and Madame Gies outdoing herself with her menus. He hadn't uttered so much as a peep in protest when she'd gang-pressed him into helping her with her baking.

He shook away the memory before it brought back others which might leave him overly maudlin, then looked at Giles.

"In Edinburgh," he said.

"A fine city," Giles said casually. "I've been a time or two."

"A good place to be familiar with when you're head of your clan," Oliver noted.

Giles smiled briefly. "I'd rather be home, if you want the truth."

That was definitely a tidbit to file away for future sharing. Oliver nodded with a smile.

"Scotland is a beautiful place."

"Have you traveled much?"

"A bit," Oliver admitted. "Not as many places as I would have liked." And that was perfectly true. He'd followed along as one of Cameron's ducklings for a handful of years and the man hadn't been shy about hopping off their damp, foggy isle to tramp about the Continent whenever it suited him. But he personally hadn't quite found the right traveling partner for venturing further afield.

He wondered what a woman who had been willing to travel four hundred years into the future might think of a few very long plane rides to places where they couldn't speak the language and wouldn't easily fit into a crowd.

And since that was something he absolutely shouldn't have been wondering, he dragged his attention back to the matter at hand which was distracting Giles Cameron long enough to catch his own breath.

"I'm unfamiliar with clan politics currently," he said with absolute honesty. "I thought the Camerons and MacLeods weren't necessarily friendly."

"It depends on the year and how our larders look," Giles said with a shrug, "though we don't lift nearly as much cattle as my grandsire did in his day. I am ingratiating myself with the future laird here for a particular reason."

Oliver nodded, then choked. "Wait," he said, holding up his hand. "You want to marry one of his sisters?"

"Grizel," Giles said with a nod.

And so the future laird of the clan Cameron would live to moon another day. Oliver immediately committed to adding whatever romantic aid he could to the current undertaking. "Does Grizel know this?"

"That's the thing, isn't it?" Giles said slowly. "I can scarce speak to her until Mairead is wed and the chances of that happening are very small indeed. Unless…"

Oliver would have made some noise of dismissal or disbelief or distress that someone would think him muddled enough in the head to look for a bride when he was scarce out of short trousers, never mind searching for one in a time so far out of his that he might wind up with no trousers at all, but he found that all he could do was look at his sparring partner and hope his heart hadn't been laid too bare.

Because he liked Mairead MacLeod. Very much.

"It looks like Mair is off to round up her sheep," Giles said. "I'll go help." He lifted an eyebrow. "Coming, or would you rather that I go venture where you obviously dare not?"

"I'm coming," Oliver said promptly, resheathing his sword and viciously suppressing the urge to take his elbow and nestle it oh-so-lovingly between a pair of Giles Cameron's ribs.

He was also tempted to strongly suggest to Giles that he continue to fix his affections on Mairead's younger sister whilst leaving Mairead comfortably in the friend zone, but perhaps that sage advice could be offered later.

He hung back as Giles saved himself a skewering by treating Mairead in a completely brotherly sort of way, then decided it might be useful to keep his eyes open for stray relatives who were truly itching for a proper belting. He found none of the latter, which boded well for a decent day, but did manage to find some species of purple flower that wasn't heather. He considered, then plucked and held it behind his back for use at the appropriate moment.

That moment arrived more quickly than he'd been planning on which left him a bit flat-footed, but he was accustomed to exuding an air of unsurprise. He inclined his head toward Mairead who had been standing in front of him for heaven only knew how long, then held out his bounty.

She looked at him blankly. "What's this?"

"A flower."

She frowned. "Do you want me to sniff it?"

"If you like."

She took it, sniffed it, then held it back out. "It smells good."

He took a deep breath.

"Are you preparing to sniff it as well?"

He was, he had to admit, enormously glad there wasn't a gaggle of his own family and family by association and other lads who would meet their ends immediately after he'd captured them for no doubt indulging in guffaws at his expense. He would settle for wiping that look of amusement off Giles Cameron's face later. He looked at Mairead and shook his head.

"I wasn't."

She looked slightly alarmed. "Am I to draw it then?"

"If you like."

She looked as if what she might like was to draw her knife and use it on him. Patrick MacLeod would have approved, no doubt.

"Why do you keep saying that?"

Damn it, he was just so terrible at dating. He couldn't make decent conversation when it revolved around something as quotidian as the local chippy possibly using too much vinegar. He had absolutely no idea what to do with a Renaissance clanswoman who continued to look at him as if he'd lost his mind.

It also didn't help that Giles Cameron was standing a few feet away, still watching the spectacle with an expression that was threatening to blossom into a full-blown grin. Oliver glared at him, had something just short of a laugh in return, then turned back to his present problem. He was, after all, a bloke with innumerable hours spent dealing with other humans to his credit. He could somehow manage to not make a complete arse of himself at the moment as well.

"It's for you," he said, making her the slightest of bows. "Because I thought it might please you."

She dropped it. He had very quick hands and managed to rescue it before it hit the ground, then he straightened and almost hesitated to look and see if she were nigh onto losing her breakfast over the thought.

She'd put her hands to her cheeks. He suspected that might have been to cover her blush. He was appalled to find he was in the same straits. He held out the flower again, feeling altogether ridiculous. Then again, if anyone deserved even the slightest gesture of kindness and something lovely to look at, it was Mairead MacLeod.

Giles plucked the flower out of his hand, put it in Mairead's, then slung his arm around her shoulders and tugged.

"Let's leave your poor swain to looking for more weeds to give you whilst we seek out something to drink."

"'Tisn't a weed," Mairead protested. "It is, you fool, a lovely flower."

Oliver nodded in agreement, though he imagined no one had seen him doing so. He trailed after the Cameron heir and a woman that he—and not Giles if the man knew what was good for him—found far too charming for his own peace of mind.

So in an effort to distract himself, he took a moment to study his surroundings and take a proper measure of the state of the current clan MacLeod.

It was odd, wasn't it, how useful a lifetime spent looking at a crowd of people and coming to immediate conclusions about how close that group of souls was to popping off into something untoward could be. He could say without hesitation that boarding school had been uniformly awful, but useful.

He also had to concede that he'd been blessed with a handful of tutors who had distracted him from utter yobbishness with lessons on music and art and fine literature, but that was as far as he could go with that. And though he'd loathed the rest of it, he had also learned early on how to read a room, identify the ones most likely to foment trouble, and keep himself far away from the ensuing chaos.

It was likely best to primly decline to hold up any mirrors so he might examine his own moments of raising hell, but he was discreet like that.

He cleared his throat with equal discretion when they were fifty feet from the front door where a crowd had gathered and was apparently discussing items of interest with raised voices. Perhaps Giles had had his own brushes with spotting trouble at a distance because he smoothly put Mairead behind him and waited for Oliver to come stand next to him.

"Don't much care for that lad over there," Giles murmured.

Oliver didn't need to ask which one. The man dressed in black robes and wearing an officious sneer was quite obviously enjoying the attention he was receiving, though it would be foolhardy to hope he would be satisfied with only that.

"Have you seen his like before this far north?" Oliver asked putting his hand over his mouth as if he stifled a yawn.

"Nay, but I've heard tales."

"So have I," Oliver said grimly, though his were limited to reading about them from the comfortable vantage point of several hundred years after the fact. At least in his day, he had the ability to walk through any city on either side of Hadrian's Wall and not worry about some stupid git pointing a finger and screaming himself hoarse over any imagined witchly deed.

What he knew at the moment was that whoever and whatever that man out there was, his wearing of clerical robes was hiding a serious amount of barely restrained crazy.

He glanced over the others gathered there and singled out a pair of men for further study. Mairead's uncle Lachlan was looking very skeptical, which was encouraging, but he was also not laird in any sense of the word and had his own reputation for fanciful imaginings. There would be likely be minimal help in calming the clan coming from that direction.

Tasgall, on the other hand, was a possibility for becoming caught up in mayhem. Mairead's older brother seemed to have no trouble lashing out physically at whomever was in front of him, which seemed most of the time to be Mairead. The delicate Deirdre always seemed to be upstairs with a headache or sour stomach, which could have indicated all sorts of things. But the acting laird having the temperament to cool things down before they burst into a bonfire? Not bloody likely.

No wonder both Jamie and Patrick had been concerned about the clan during the current time period. He deeply regretted not having been more prepared for his spontaneous trip to make certain Mairead got home safely. He was damned certain his own days of being unplugged and uninformed were going to come to an abrupt end when he got back home.

He considered, then looked at Giles. "I'll keep watch out here."

Giles nodded slightly, then turned and smiled pleasantly at Mairead. "Let's go inside and find something to eat in the kitchen. I'm famished."

Oliver watched them go, smiled briefly at Mairead when she looked back at him, his flower still in her hand, then moved to take up a place against the wall of the keep. He refused to waste any thought on the absolute improbability of leaning currently where he generally found himself collapsed in a different century, wheezing after a hearty workout with the lord of the manor. Time was a very strange thing.

He made himself comfortable and settled in for a decent bit of reconnaissance.

Supper was a torturous affair even by his very low standards for trying to eat whilst wondering if he might survive the meal. He would have been thrilled to stop making comparisons to his time at St. Margaret's, that exclusive-yet-austere boarding school for the children of the ridiculously wealthy and richly titled, but he felt as if he'd resumed his identity as savvy yob of fourteen. He flattered Tasgall until he thought he might be ill, kept his gaze only where he wanted others to look, and avoided until the last moment possible any conversation with Master James, witch hunter extraordinaire.

If his disgust over the insane drivel he'd politely listened to hadn't done him in, the fact that he owed his least favorite tutor at St. Margaret's for his extensive knowledge of Scottish history—which allowed him to carefully name drop in a way that set Master James back on his heels a bit—came close to it.

All in all, a terrible evening that he would have preferred to forget as quickly as possible.

He managed to slip into the kitchens whilst everyone sorted their spots for the night and sat down on a stool next to the hearth, across from a woman he could only look at silently. He was simply beyond words. She seemed to have just as few herself, which he understood. The thought of leaving her behind with that kind of madness swirling around was almost unthinkable. The only thing he supposed would save her would be that she was as adept at making herself scarce as he was.

"Where is your book?" he murmured.

"In its usual hiding spot," she said quietly.

That was definitely a piece of good fortune. He didn't want to speculate on what would happen to either of them if Master James found them lingering over the image of the Duke of Birmingham printed by a 1970s publishing house.

"Uncle," she said, looking up suddenly.

Oliver vacated his stool without hesitation and went to fetch Mairead's uncle a cup of ale. He would have protested Mairead offering him her seat, but he imagined the less attention he drew to her, the better off she would be. He unbuckled his sword and handed it to her, had a brief smile for his trouble, then settled himself on her stool and prepared to listen to nonsense about faeries and bogles which would be less terrifying than nonsense about witches.

"Don't like him," Lachlan said quietly.

Oliver tilted his head just slightly toward the great hall.

Lachlan nodded, then studied Oliver for a moment or two. "Know him from Edinburgh?"

"I don't associate with those types."

"Good lad," Lachlan said approvingly. He glanced toward Mairead, then sent Oliver a pointed look.

Oliver nodded, once. He understood exactly what Lord Lachlan was instructing him to do which he felt confident gave him permission to ignore James MacLeod's Don't Arse-up the Fabric of Time lecture. He would keep Mairead MacLeod safe until that ruddy nutter had gone off to make trouble somewhere else.

And then, if he had any sense at all, he would go back to his own time and get on with his life.

He watched Lachlan make himself more comfortable against the stone of the hearth and assumed the man wouldn't fall into the fire before he woke himself up, then turned to see how the rest of the kitchen inhabitants were faring.

Mairead had sat down against the wall with his sword on the floor next to her. He considered, then supposed no one would string him up for making himself a spot on the floor next to his sword. He surrendered his stool to a kitchen lad who turned out to be Tasgall's son Ambrose, had a quick smile as his reward, then realized his plans were about to be thrown into disarray. Fortunately for him, he had longer legs than a litter of children and managed to get himself to the spot on the floor next to Mairead before they beat him to it. He took back his sword from its temporary keeper, laid it on his right well within reach, and prepared himself for a reasonably comfortable evening in a warm place.

He found himself, somewhat surprisingly, being used as a resting place for small elbows and chilly feet. He took a quick count and came up with five children that likely belonged to Tasgall, plus Ambrose who came to sit on Mairead's other side. He looked down into a wee lassie's face and wondered if he'd misjudged where his peril might come from.

"I'm Fiona," she said, looking at him with a frown.

"I'm Oliver," he managed.

"I'm cold."

The best he could do was a bit of his plaid wrapped around her. He looked at Mairead to find that she had similarly wrapped up a pair of little lads who looked perfectly at home in her arms. He supposed that if the wee ones were comfortable, there was no reason not to make certain that the adults weren't suffering overmuch from chilly hands or feet. He didn't imagine he could do anything for Mairead's toes, but he rested his hand on the floor and very suavely inched his fingers over until he could tug on her skirt.

She looked at him in surprise, then she blushed.

He couldn't help himself. He smiled.

"Ye wee fiend," she whispered with a scowl.

"I'm being gallant by offering to warm your hand."

"Well, if that's the case," she said, shifting a small pair of legs and carefully putting her fingers onto his palm.

He took what he could get and wrapped his hand around hers, then leaned his head back against the wall.

"Tell me something about your book," he murmured in French.

"' The Duke and the Kitchen Maid? '"

He nodded.

"Well, she is a very saucy kitchen maid."

"I would only be surprised by anything else."

"Are you mocking me?"

"I wouldn't dare," he said honestly. "You have a very saucy-looking knife stuck into your belt."

She smiled, then sighed deeply. "I think the kitchen lass was far better at using the weapons at her disposal than I am." She paused. "We had a minstrel pass through a few years ago. He performed French songs for us, though I can't say I cared overmuch for the ridiculous amounts of romance in them."

He listened to her veer off into a different fictional direction and suspected she was coming to conclusions she might not like. Unfortunately, they were likely ones she needed to consider.

"I did remind myself, whilst I was listening to him, that there are those who write tales down for others to enjoy."

He nodded carefully. "Possibly."

"It led me to wonder if perhaps my book—the half I have, of course—might not be the duke's proper doings but instead perhaps that same sort of thing."

"I think that's possible," he agreed.

She looked at him closely. "Do you believe this scribe, this Constance Buchanan, invented her tales?"

He lifted one of his shoulders in as much of a shrug as he could manage whilst holding onto a sleeping five-year-old.

"I won't stab you," she grumbled.

He smiled. "I was worried."

"I don't think you're worried at all."

"You might be surprised," he said honestly. "But, aye, I daresay she did." He imagined he didn't need to tell her just how many other tales the illustrious Miss Buchanan had invented. "Was the story good?"

"Very," she said. "Many fierce battles and scorching looks—and that was just between the duke and his kitchen maid."

"She sounds impressive," Oliver said.

"Very courageous," Mairead agreed. "The duke was full of many noble virtues and skills in battle as well, though, along with being a deft hand at cards."

"Why did you want the rest of it? Do you like knowing how things end?"

She shook her head. "I thought if I knew how the kitchen maid's own life had finished, I could see how to escape mine."

Damn it, when would he stop being winded by every damned MacLeod he met?

"Though I dislike the thought of running."

He understood that. He wasn't one for running unless it was from thugs or to rescue someone from thugs. Well, and the occasional wee scarper from overzealous bobbies, but that was likely something he could safely leave in his yob years and have done. He preferred to take firm, measured steps away from people and situations that he no longer wanted to be a part of.

But he wasn't sure how Mairead MacLeod did that. It wasn't as though she had a modern-day list of jobs to apply for or friends in other cities. She was a woman with no escape and no prospects if she did escape.

He had no idea what it was he hoped to do for her, and he was beginning to wonder if he hadn't made an enormous mistake setting foot in that ring of plants that should have been nothing but dried weeds.

But he was where he was and perhaps it was for good reason. He laced his fingers with hers and would have winced at how hard she was holding his hand if he had been made of less stern stuff.

It wasn't possible to fall in like so quickly, was it?

He suspected it would take nothing but a slight push to have him falling face-first into something far more serious. That he should have found that thing in 1583 was beyond ridiculous.

He wondered if she might ever feel the same way about him.

"Sleep," he said hoarsely. "I'll keep watch."

"I shouldn't—"

He nodded toward his shoulder. "Use me," he said quietly. "If that isn't improper."

She shifted a sleeping child, moved closer to him, then rested her head on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Oliver."

"You're welcome, Mairead. Sleep well."

He could feel her nod. It was all he could do not to turn his head just a bit and kiss her hair, but he was, as he'd pointed out so virtuously before, a gentleman.

What he was doing in 16th-century Scotland, finding himself bewitched by a woman with beautiful eyes and an angelic smile who had been quite conveniently overlooked in favor of her truly spectacular sisters, was anyone's guess.

Fortunately for the fabric of time, he was well-practiced in simply lingering on the edges of any given situation, holding a useful cup of something in his hand and acting as if he belonged where he was. It worked like a charm with bobbies, bloviating academics, and insufferable gallery owners. Perhaps he would find a cup of mead in the morning and attempt the same sort of casual loitering in Renaissance Scotland.

Because apart from anything else, he didn't believe in luck or fate, but he absolutely trusted his gut and his gut was telling him at present that Master James who was not the king of Scotland was up to no good. Add to that mix a few superstitious souls in the current clan MacLeod along with a few more with chips on their shoulders and those storm clouds he could see on the horizon might bring in more trouble than just a nasty fall blow.

He would stay another day, just to make sure the storm blew itself out.

Not even Jamie could fault him for that.