Thirteen

O liver cursed his way up the meadow, barely scratching the surface of all the languages in which he knew how to find the loo.

He knew he couldn't stay. He knew Mairead couldn't come to the future with him. The knowledge of both those things was so awful, he couldn't find words in any of those languages to describe the depth of the agony that knowledge dealt him.

The only thing that made it any better at all was the equally terrible knowledge that it was Deirdre headed toward the pyre, not Mairead. He absolutely hated the thought of that happening to her, but what was he going to do? For all he knew, it would be better for Ambrose and his siblings to have Mairead as their mother. His own governess had been a far better mother to him than his own mother had been during the first six years of his life until they'd dumped him at boarding school.

Now, if there just hadn't been something about the whole scene that had seemed… off. He hardly knew how to describe it and wasn't entirely sure he was in a fit state to analyze it. Had there been a look he couldn't quite remember, or a word he didn't quite understand, or a direction he hadn't been looking in that he suspected he should have been?

He made it all the way to the gate in the meadow before what he'd seen finally sank in.

Mairead had been standing in front of that crowd of nutters, looking at Deirdre with compassion in her expression.

She couldn't possibly have intended to take her sister-in-law's place…

Jamie's grip on his arm was like an iron manacle. "We must go now ."

Oliver would have fought him—indeed, he tried briefly—but Jamie's sword was sharp and he looked perfectly ready to use it for business Oliver decided immediately he didn't want to be a part of. He also thought he might be in shock, which he suspected was substantially less terrifying than what Mairead would be facing—or had already faced. He heard shouting coming from the keep in the distance, shouting mixed with curses and perhaps even a scream or two, but before he could decide, Jamie had pushed him into the future and the gate had closed behind them both.

Oliver stumbled away, then leaned over with his hands on his thighs until he'd caught his breath. He waited another moment or two until the urge to kill the current laird of the clan MacLeod had receded, then heaved himself upright.

"I have to go back."

"You cannot."

"Cannot," Oliver said, "or should not?"

Jamie resheathed his sword over his shoulder with an unthinkingness that Oliver had to admit was highly unsettling. He could scarce bring himself to imagine how many times the man had done just that very thing, unthinkingly.

"Should not," Jamie said. "I'm sure you know how Zachary and I tried to rescue that little Puritan girl across the Pond."

"At least you attempted it," Oliver said pointedly.

"And yet we failed."

"But you tried ."

"And failed ," Jamie stressed. "We never should have tried because events needed to proceed as they should have, which they should here as well."

"But what if Mairead took Deirdre's place?" Oliver said desperately. "I can't let her die. I know her!"

"And others will die just as tragically who you do not know. You cannot save everyone."

"But I could save her ."

Jamie studied him in silence for a moment or two. "I'm not sure I want to know how you've come to know her so well."

Oliver sensed a stab at a distraction coming his way, so he made Jamie a brisk bow. "Thank you, my laird, for the pleasant excursion. I'll be on my way now, if you don't mind."

He turned and walked away before he had to see the expression on Jamie's face. He was definitely doing Elizabeth's husband a favor by preventing the man from seeing the one on his own.

He didn't hear anyone following him, which he supposed boded well for his continuing to breathe. He permitted himself a single look over his shoulder once he reached the edge of Moraig's forest and caught sight of a lone figure walking down the meadow. There was a solemnity to the sight that Oliver simply refused to put his finger on because any emotion at all would get in the way of what he intended to do. He turned away and started to run.

He ran until he came to an ungainly halt directly in front of Patrick MacLeod's front door. He lifted his hand to knock, but the door opened before he could. He took a deep breath.

"I need a computer."

Patrick simply stepped back out of the way. Oliver nodded to him and strode into his great hall, then realized he wasn't quite sure where to go. He also found that Madelyn was standing in the middle of that same great room, watching him with concern.

"Something to eat?" she ventured.

He manufactured the smile that she deserved but he could scarce feel. "I'm fine, but thank you."

Patrick walked past him. "Follow me."

Oliver made Madelyn a slight bow, had a grave smile in return, then followed after the lord of the hall to what he assumed was the man's study. Patrick pulled out a chair, logged into his laptop, then stood back from that as well.

"Make yourself at home. I'll go get you water."

Oliver nodded absently and almost sat down before he realized he was still wearing his sword. He took it off, propped it up against Patrick's desk, then sat down with a sigh. He wasn't quite sure how long he'd been unplugged from the world, but it had been long enough that hopping onto the most convenient search engine that came to mind and typing instead of trying to draw vegetation with a mini-golf pencil left him feeling very strange.

He forged ahead, though, because he was accustomed to doing what needed to be done without fretting over the cosmic ramifications of his actions. He searched, he drank an entire glass of water before he thought to ascertain the potential for poison, then realized he wasn't going to get anywhere with the tools he had at present.

He rubbed his hands over his face, then sat back and sighed deeply. He looked at Patrick who was leaning back against a bookcase.

"Nothing online," he said flatly.

And then he realized that perhaps there was something to knowing a member of a clan who lived on his family's ancestral lands and perhaps had had enough time on his hands to do a little research on that clan. He knew Patrick had written a book on medieval warfare—he had read and been unnerved by it—but whatever else the man had in his library was a mystery.

Patrick reached behind him without looking, then held out a slim volume.

"You'll find the details here."

Oliver closed his eyes briefly because he couldn't help himself. He set aside all the things he likely had no business feeling and took the book. Opening it, though, was another thing entirely.

The only decent thing he could find to note about the little book— A History of Highland Witch Trials —was that it had chapters demarking the terrible contents, not tabs. He scanned the chapter headings so usefully provided on the initial pages of the book, noted the journey through history those chapters would offer him, then hoped he wasn't making a terrible mistake by skipping straight to the penultimate chapter that listed in chronological order those souls who had paid the ultimate price for what he could charitably call mass hysteria based on superstition. He wasn't at all comforted to find that men had been burned as well as women, especially when he came to a particular name.

Mairead MacLeod, 1583.

He stared at her name until he thought he could speak without howling, then looked at Patrick to find him now sitting in the chair next to the desk. Oliver appreciated the fact that silence seemed to be the man's go-to response to terrible things, though he wondered if that had always been the case.

"How did you survive it?" he asked before he managed to stop himself. "The time period, that is."

Patrick smiled without humor. "I came through the forest gate behind our hall at sixteen, so I was witness to far fewer horrors than my brother."

"I'm guessing you saw enough."

"Aye," Patrick said simply. "I did rescue my lady from a journey back in time that I will readily admit was my fault and—" He paused and took a deep breath. "She suffered and that was also my fault. I took lives to save hers and fought to save my own skin in the current century, so I've lived it, however, briefly, as a man."

"Your brother would tell me to walk away."

"He would," Patrick agreed, "and he has good reason for it. He had a close-up look at what was left of Zachary after his second try at rescuing that gel from the stake."

"Pardon my frankness, my lord, but I can't imagine he cared about either Zachary or the girl."

"Do you honestly believe that?"

"After this morning?" Oliver asked. "I think I just missed watching a woman be dragged off to be burned in a fire, so I would have to say yes."

Patrick pushed his lips out as though he feared they might say something without his permission. "Let's say this," he began carefully. "If Elizabeth or one of his children or any member of his little clan here wandered off where they shouldn't have, Jamie would never admit how far he would go to rescue them. He would instead bore you silly with endless lectures on not changing the past."

"I've heard one or two."

"There are more."

Oliver imagined that was the truth. "Yet he hops through those damned gates as if he's nipping down to the village for crisps. How does he know just showing his face in a different time doesn't change the past?"

"He tries to tread lightly," Patrick said. "And, to be honest, he grows bored easily. As modern and tame as he seems, he spent all of his life knowing he would lead the clan and a good deal of his life doing just that—with all its attendant excitement and not just a few dire deeds. I suspect half the books on psychology he has cluttering up his study are things he's read to try to unravel his own thinking."

"The saints preserve us."

Patrick smiled. "You've spent too much time with him, obviously."

Oliver closed the book and set it very carefully back on the desk. "I cannot let her die."

"I understand."

He looked at the book on the desk, then a thought occurred to him. "If I could rescue her at the right time, leaving them thinking she had died, then it wouldn't matter what happened in the end, would it?"

He hadn't meant it to be a question and Patrick seemingly didn't take it as one.

"That is the prevailing theory," Patrick agreed.

"Zachary brought Mary de Piaget forward because she was on the verge of death."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

"I don't need any convincing, my lord," Oliver said without hesitation.

Patrick looked to be coming to a conclusion about something. Oliver decided it was best to keep his bloody mouth shut on the off chance it would turn out to be something he didn't like.

He wasn't unused to waiting people out. He'd tended to simply walk away in his youth, which saved him endless brawls and arguments he had early on decided weren't worth his time, but that had changed as he'd matured. His ability to simply sit and watch as someone else came to conclusions about everything from writing checks to calling the bobbies was something he developed and honed endlessly after watching Robert Cameron do the same.

Patrick pulled a mobile out of his pocket and set it on the desk.

"Untraceable."

Oliver closed his eyes briefly, then picked it up. "I wouldn't expect anything else."

"I don't imagine I should bother reminding you to take your sword."

Oliver looked at him. "I won't need it."

Patrick sighed lightly and pushed himself to his feet. "I'll go find you a few other things that might be useful."

Oliver nodded his thanks, then looked at the phone in his hands. He was accustomed to finding things to help him in situ , but his options in Renaissance Scotland were very limited. He imagined he could make a fairly accurate guess about the number of clan members, and he could certainly speculate about who might have been susceptible to being swept up into group insanity, but that wasn't useful if they became a crowd that had completely lost its mind. He was tempted to go stand in front of them and attempt a few magic tricks of the sort he'd once dazzled Jamie's children with—

He froze. Perhaps that wasn't such a terrible thought after all.

He looked at the phone in his hands, considered a bit longer, then dialed. Derrick Cameron answered on the second ring, which he found somewhat flattering.

"I'm afraid to ask who this is."

"You should be," Oliver said curtly.

There was a hint of a brief laugh. "What's new, pussycat?"

Oliver had to unclench his jaw. "I would kill you, but your wife who is far too good for you just provided you with a daughter who might like to keep you for a few more years."

Derrick laughed more easily that time. "We're just taking the piss out of you, lad."

"I can honestly not bring to mind anything I've ever enjoyed more," Oliver said. "Oh, wait, yes I can. It will be in the future whilst I'm spending a fortnight plotting the demise of each of you. A fortnight for each, not a single fortnight for the whole mangy litter of you ruddy bastards."

Derrick whistled softly. "Sounds like someone hasn't been to his mani-pedi yet."

"No, but I've been on a little jaunt to Renaissance Scotland."

"Find anything interesting there?"

"Someone who needs to be rescued."

Derrick was silent for a single blessed moment. "What do you need?"

Oliver absolutely refused to become maudlin, but he couldn't help but admit that he was grateful for a collection of mates who offered aid without question. "I need a distraction."

"What sort?"

"The sort that will take a gaggle of puritanical nutters intent on burning a woman at the stake and keep them distracted long enough for me to grab her and do a runner. I would, for obvious reasons, prefer to leave nothing substantial behind for them to lose their bloody minds over."

Derrick didn't hesitate. "Fireworks?"

"I was thinking so."

"How soon do you need them?"

"Yesterday."

"Of course you do," Derrick said dryly. "I'm at the hall, actually, and you know what we have here in the basement. I'm guessing you don't want to walk here and pick anything up?"

Oliver couldn't bring himself to begin to breathe out the threats he wished he could dredge up to leave the man on the other end of the call rushing off to hide in a corner with his thumb and a selection of unfortunately on-key nursery rhymes.

Derrick was also blessedly silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was obvious he'd used his brain for something past inventing ridiculous tasks for a lad just trying to live his best life and help the girl he was fond of do the same.

"Who is she?"

"Daughter of the laird," Oliver said grimly. "In 1583."

"Well, I suppose you aren't looking too far above your—"

"Shut up."

"I'm trying to keep you from bawling."

"It might require more than that."

"Details?"

"I'll tell you if I can keep her from getting murdered long enough to see if she'd be interested in perhaps dating me more than once," he said. He paused. "Perhaps permanently."

Derrick dropped his phone. Oliver would have found that satisfying, but he was indeed far closer to a display of unmanly emotion than he cared to be.

"I'll go give the basement treasures a wee rummage," Derrick said briskly, "and be on the road in thirty. Where are you?"

"I'll be at Moraig's getting gear together."

Derrick was silent for a moment or two. "Want company on your trip?"

"I think I have to go alone."

"Understood. Don't go load up on carbs, lad. They slow you down."

Oliver suggested something Derrick could do with his dietary advice, had a laugh in return, then the line went dead. He looked at the phone that was surprisingly state of the art and wondered if Patrick would miss it. He supposed the only thing he could do was ask, so he collected his sword and left the study. He made his way to the great hall where he found the lord of the castle packing up a rucksack that not only would likely pass muster for time-period authenticity but was small and encouragingly sleek.

Patrick looked up at him. "Food, leather soles that can be laced to fit any foot, and sutures. I don't dare send you with anything more modern."

Oliver held up the phone and shot Patrick an enquiring look.

Patrick rolled his eyes. "I'll claim you stole it."

"They'll enjoy that."

Patrick nodded at the pack. "Charger's in there already. I imagine you can find an outlet somewhere in Moraig's that'll serve you to top up what's already in the battery. Don't take it through the gate."

Oliver nodded, then put the phone in his pocket only to realize he was still wearing his Highland uniform. He promised himself a good shudder later over how accustomed he'd become to running around in basically in his altogether covered only by a shirt and a handy bit of tartan. He took the pack Patrick handed him, put the phone inside, then made him a low bow.

"Thanks are inadequate."

Patrick nodded toward the door. "Go rescue your girlfriend. You two can thank me later by babysitting so my lady and I can have a night out."

Oliver nodded, had a quick hug and a be careful from Madelyn at the door, which he suspected might have more meaning coming from her than just an older-sister sort of thing, then made his way back to his luxurious retreat to look for carbs.

He showered, dressed himself in a black polo neck jumper and equally black cargo trousers, and had hardly begun to dig about in the fridge for any leftover chips before he heard the unmistakable sound of a helicopter. He straightened, shut the fridge door, then closed his eyes briefly.

He might have to babysit for Robert Cameron a time or two as well before his debt was even dented.

He decided loitering on the threshold wasn't a terrible idea, so he did so, waiting only a few moments before he saw Derrick walking swiftly through the forest in his direction carrying a black duffle bag. Oliver stood back and waved him inside.

"I claim sanctuary," Derrick said, straight-faced.

Oliver refrained from telling his boss what he could do with his claims because he'd already sworn too much that day. He did roll his eyes, though, because he imagined Derrick expected at least that much.

It took ten minutes to unpack the possibilities and lay them out a discreet distance from the hearth Oliver hadn't had the heart to start a fire in.

"Enough?" Derrick asked.

"More than, thank you." He considered, then looked at his partner in crime and other more noble business ventures. "What do you know?"

"What I read on the flight down," Derrick said bluntly. "When are you going to insert yourself?"

"Hopefully after the first incarnation of me has been dragged away by that bloody bastard down the way."

Derrick smiled. "Say that to his face."

"I damn well already did!"

"Jamie's heard worse, I'm certain. So you'll set off a distraction, do a little snatch and grab, then what? Does she know when you were born?"

Oliver nodded. "She's been here several times."

"And you like her?"

Oliver scowled at him. "Are we having this conversation now?"

"It is, without a doubt, the most fascinating conversation we've ever had."

"I'm not talking to you any more."

Derrick smiled. "As you say, of course. Pick your distraction in silence, then, and I'll help you pack it appropriately."

Oliver looked over what was there, exchanged a handful of looks with Derrick over choices to be made, then decided whatever would be left behind could perhaps become another legend that Uncle Lachlan would start by announcing that the faeries had been at it again. At minimum, a pair of mortars would be better than taking his chances with bottle rockets that might cost him fingers.

Derrick held up two fingers and lifted an eyebrow.

Oliver mouthed a friendly curse at him, then sighed. "Better safe than sorry, I imagine."

"Cut the fuses to the right lengths and run quickly enough between the two and you could send them scattering in different directions, though that might not serve you very well."

"I imagine the clan will think the world is ending whatever I manage to do," Oliver said grimly. "Perhaps that bastard going around examining innocent people for devil's marks will run off to hide in a cave for the duration of the apocalypse and die of starvation."

"I think you'd be doing the world a service," Derrick agreed.

Oliver looked at him seriously. "Don't tell Jamie."

"He'll know anyway," Derrick said wisely. "He'll blame you loudly, but don't think he won't agree silently."

"I should have been nosier about her details before now," Oliver said grimly.

"The worst thing about you, my lad, is that you have such a finely honed sense of propriety. There's privacy, of course, then there's privacy that could get you killed."

Oliver shot him a look. "Like you know the difference."

"I'm talking about you."

" I know the difference!"

"That's the problem."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Go away."

"Heading out now." Derrick rose, flicked him companionably on the ear on his way by, and opened the door.

"Thank Cameron for the haste," Oliver called before Derrick managed to shut the door behind him.

"Will do," came the answer that trailed off into silence.

Oliver might have worried about that silence, but he heard the helicopter soon take off to no doubt ferry Derrick safely back to Cameron Hall. The silence that then descended wasn't merely a lack of sound. It felt heavy somehow, as if the world waited for something terrible to happen.

He shook his head at his own ridiculous thoughts, pushed himself to his feet, and went to finish his search for leftovers.

Half an hour later, he was standing at the edge of the forest, looking at the meadow that wasn't nearly as free of interlopers as he would have hoped. He made the man standing in front of him a small bow, then straightened.

"With all due respect, my laird," Oliver said quietly, "please move."

"You cannot do this."

"I believe, my lord James, that I most certainly can."

"You might be mistaken about identities."

Oliver shrugged, though he felt anything but casual about the entire affair. He also knew exactly what had happened because he'd read the bloody facts in Patrick MacLeod's library. "There's one way to know," he hedged.

"Knowing the future isn't a good thing—"

"This is the past!"

Jamie rubbed his hands together as if they ached. Oliver didn't want to even begin to speculate on the things that man there had done over the course of his life to keep alive those he loved.

"You can," he said carefully, "bend a gate to your will."

Oliver didn't want to weep with gratitude, but he was damned close to it. "How?"

"I find ‘tis useful to fix my mind on either a particular event or the vision of a specific person at a specific time."

Oliver considered. "Mairead in the kitchen, perhaps."

"Too vague."

"That damned witch hunter holding court by the fire the night before he…"

Jamie hemmed and hawed a bit. "That would work," he conceded, "though you wouldn't want to make any sort of spiritual connection with him across the centuries. You might acquire a bit of his negative energy as a result."

Oliver could scarce believe his ears. "What absolute bollocks."

Jamie actually smiled. "I have many working theories, but I never said they were all reasonable."

"I'll take my chances with the crazy bloke because I can remember exactly what he was saying."

"'Tis likely enough then, that."

Oliver looked at him seriously. "Thank you," he said. "I know this goes against your code."

Jamie shrugged. "I'm a romantic, as my beloved wife will tell you. And if you must know the absolute truth, I've always felt there was something lingering in that time that shouldn't have been there. I've been keeping an eye peeled for stray time travelers, but perhaps that isn't the case."

"I won't stay."

"That might be wise." He held out a scrap of paper. "Have a wee peek at that."

Oliver studied the map, memorized a pair of Xs, then handed it back. "Thank you."

"Will she come with you?"

"She covets my leopard-print yoga trousers," Oliver said lightly. "I think I would be wise to humor her in this."

Jamie smiled and started to turn away, then turned back. "No sword?"

"Won't need one."

Jamie only lifted his eyebrows briefly. "Be careful then, Oliver."

Oliver found Jamie's using his full name instead of whatever nickname apparently came first to his tongue to be a bit more unsettling than it likely should have been. He nodded, watched the laird of the hall down the way walk off into the twilight, then pulled a black knitted hat out of his pocket. He shoved what of his hair it wouldn't cover up into it, re-adjusted the straps of his pack, then considered his plans one final time.

He had gear for flight after Mairead had been rescued. He had food enough—jerky, not crisps, damn Derrick to hell—for them to survive in the wild for a handful of days until things cooled down at the hall and they could escape to the faery ring at the top of the meadow. The other two gates Jamie had just shown him were north of Cameron Hall, no doubt farther than he would want to travel so late in the year, so he suspected he would be wise to simply use what he'd used before and assume it would work.

He also had two professional-grade fireworks guaranteed to make an impression. The fuses were long, he had more experience than was polite in lighting the same, and he was, he could admit with all modesty, a very fast runner. He would put them where their incendiary selves wouldn't burn down the whole forest, light them, then bolt like hell for Mairead. It might be wise to avoid himself in the bargain, but he was used to being a ghost.

In the end, his knives were sharp, he had lock picking tools, and his head for maps was as flawless as Derrick Cameron's photographic memory was with everything else. Anything beyond that would just have to be invented on the fly.

He looked at the faint ring of what was left of the year's plants. He closed his eyes, focused his mind on replaying as clearly as possible the scene from the night before. It wasn't difficult. Master James was definitely committed to the task of ridding Scotland of all purveyors of witchly arts. He suspected the man likely had Mummy issues and perhaps a few girlfriends who had recoiled at whatever Mr. Collins-like delicate compliments the man had been able to spew out.

Whatever the case, it made it very easy to muster up a good bit of enthusiasm for shutting the man up at least briefly, which he supposed might be all he needed.

He took a deep breath, tried not to flinch as that scarce-visible doorway simply opened in front of him, then stepped across its threshold.