Sixteen

M airead sat in Moraig MacLeod's house and contemplated a pair of things.

The first was that she was, perhaps a bit selfishly, happy that time had caught up to events to the point where she'd actually been able to reveal herself completely to Oliver instead of just remaining discreetly outside his view.

The second was that she loved Oliver Phillips so desperately it hurt.

She would have sighed if she'd been able to, but since she couldn't, she settled for yet another in an endless series of contemplations on the mysteries of life and death and all things in between.

She had decided, once she'd resigned herself to the fact that she was indeed no longer alive, that she would simply watch the events of the world unfold in front of her without interfering. She'd managed that for the most part, though she imagined Master James, wherever he was lingering in some slag-lined pit of Hell, was still enjoying the memories of how she and her sisters of the fire had made the remains of his mortal life equally hellish.

She took a mental breath and pushed that thought aside as not helpful.

What she could say was that she'd promised herself she would stay out of Oliver's life and leave him to finding his own way. Or she had until she'd watched his parents drop him off at a school and leave him there without a backward glance.

She was, after all, very fond of children.

Outside of a few ghostly melodies sung in the quiet of the night, she supposed she'd held to her vow well enough. She'd left him to his years of yobbery and refrained from clucking her tongue at him even once. She'd absolutely left him to fending for himself in situations where she likely could have altered his path. That had been a bit more difficult than she'd anticipated, but she'd done so simply because she'd been certain that his choices then had made the man he was at present.

That braw, stubborn, magnificent man who was off in the wilds of Renaissance Scotland, trying to save her life.

Perhaps he would manage it. Several of the women he'd squired about might appreciate that, at least, given that they wouldn't have found themselves troubled at any point in an outing by any sort of restless spirit. Of course she hadn't frightened all of them off. Not entirely. Not with anything more than a friendly boo or two to liven up any given evening.

She thought she might not want to admit to any of that.

A knock on the door startled her so badly that she jumped until she realized that it hadn't been the knock of a mortal hand. She looked over her shoulder to find none other than Ambrose MacLeod, laird of her clan during those rather tumultuous and glorious 1600s, poking his head through the door.

She smiled. "Come in, nephew."

He walked through the door and snorted, no doubt for her benefit. "Auntie, I continue to tell you that I've at least thirty mortal years more than you in my current state."

"You could have chosen a more youthful appearance," she reminded him.

He sat down and plucked a mug out of thin air. "Ah, but I look so distinguished at the age of my passing. A bit like that Scottish lad who wielded all those fancy gadgets in the spy movies."

She had to admit he had a point there and she couldn't help but agree. "He was a very handsome man no matter his age, as you are in yours. What brings you to Moraig's humble hearth tonight?"

"To give you company."

She took a deep breath, then looked at him. "He's off."

"So I saw as I watched him go through the gate in the meadow."

She looked at her nephew who had indeed turned out to be an incomparable leader of their clan during his time and attempted a smile. "He is a good man."

"I think he loves you, Mairead."

"I think I feel the same way about him."

Ambrose smiled. "You know this sort of thing is my current business, don't you?"

She pursed her lips. "Matchmaking? And with your brother-in-law Fulbert and that blasted Hugh McKinnon? I'm honestly amazed Hugh is still speaking to you."

"We've made our peace," Ambrose said with a shrug. "But since this is my goodly work at the moment, I'll tell you plainly that I would like to see young Oliver succeed—for both your sakes."

She wanted to toss off a light-hearted remark about maidens in distress and those brave enough to rescue them, but she couldn't.

"What will he do without me for all those years?" she asked quietly. "And I him?"

Ambrose considered. "I'm no expert in this."

"Save for your years of unbridled matchmaking."

"I'm a romantic at heart," Ambrose admitted with a smile. "As for your very reasonable concern, even though things will change, perhaps you'll still carry in your souls an echo of those memories."

"But how?" she asked, pained. "Our paths will have changed."

He shrugged very carefully. "All I can do is speculate, but I'll give you my thoughts if you'd like them."

She wasn't sure they would be any worse than the ones she was entertaining, so she waved him on to his musings.

"We think of time as a string that stretches from beginning to end," he said, "but what if it's more like the trail of, for example, young Allan, running hither and yon to elude his exhausted parents."

"Giles and Grizel would have been less exhausted if they'd been able to stop mooning over each other," Mairead said with a snort.

"Which left Allan with several younger siblings," Ambrose agreed, "which increased the weariness and chasing for all involved. But my thinking is that time might be like his path, if you could see his path trailing behind him as he ran it, crossing and recrossing, sometimes repeating the same steps at a different moment. And surely as a mortal woman you walked over the same spots on different days, perhaps even different years. Did not the memory of your previous steps in those places ever come to you?"

"Of course," she said with a frown, "but those are memories of things you've done in the past."

"True, but what if the first time you walked to a particular spot, you recalled the memory of yourself doing the same thing, say perhaps a year later."

"That," she managed, "is daft."

"Is it?"

"That would be remembering the future," she said frankly, "and that is completely mad."

"It might be," he agreed, "but consider this: I went to Edinburgh as a youth with Uncle Lachlan and visited the exact tavern where Fiona snuck off to some ten years later. I was also there in that same tavern at that time, watching her spill ale down Fulbert de Piaget's front." He shrugged again, looking slightly uneasy. "Those two memories are odd to me somehow, as if I might have remembered the later one during the first one if I'd attempted it properly. Or thought it possible at all," he added.

"Ambrose, you were too busy chasing after Hugh McKinnon and wondering where to stick your dirk in him to think thoughts nearly so profound."

Ambrose laughed a little. "You have that aright, but the point still stands. You might lose your memories of being a spirit, or you might have them simply disappear until you retrace those same steps as a mortal and they come back to you." He shrugged. "Perhaps they lie somewhere between your past as a spirit and a future you will have as a mortal if Oliver succeeds, somewhere that has everything to do with both." He smiled pleasantly. "I call these Tankard Thoughts . What do you think?"

"I don't think you've consumed nearly enough ale," she said with a snort, then she had to smile in spite of that. "I don't think they make any sense, but I'll take comfort in them just the same."

Ambrose's smile faded. "Is he worth it to you, Mairead?"

She would have taken a deep breath if she'd been able to. Since she wasn't, she simply looked at her nephew and nodded. "Without question."

He tossed his mug into oblivion, slapped his hands on his knees, and rose. "Well, now that we've solved that, I'll be on my way."

"'Solved that,'" she echoed. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"I was just curious where your heart was."

"You already knew," she said darkly.

"And so I did." He put his hand on her head and started toward the door. "A good e'en to you, Mairead."

"You won't wait for Oliver?"

He paused and looked over his shoulder. "I've business in the south with a pair of lads who are definitely my most challenging cases yet. You and your man will sort yourselves without my aid, though I'll happily attend your wedding if I'm invited."

She rose and followed him to the door. "You know you would be, along with Fiona and her irascible husband. Can Fulbert avoid fighting with Hugh McKinnon long enough for a wedding blessing, should that miraculous day ever occur?"

"I'll see that they both behave." He smiled again, but a graver one. "Don't give up hope, Auntie. One step farther than you think you can walk might hold what you're longing for."

"More thoughts from the bottom of your cup?" she asked grimly.

"Wisdom from, if you can fathom it, John Drummond."

She shuddered. "I'm unsurprised and terrified at the same moment."

"Along with most of the northern territories of the Colonies and quite a few of his descendants," Ambrose said pleasantly, "but a shade does what he can with the tools he has to hand. The advice still stands."

"Did you offer me advice?"

He smiled, that sunny smile she'd enjoyed from him for the whole of his life, then walked through the door, whistling a cheerful tune. Mairead rolled her eyes, then walked back across the great room and resumed her seat by the fire. It was beginning to die out, but she didn't add anything from her own imagination to it. Her discomfort was too great for that.

She imagined that if Oliver succeeded, she would know, though how she would know was a mystery. He would lose his memories of her as a ghost, but she would lose four hundred years of being a ghost and watching the world turn before her. She had seen things she never could have otherwise, come to know kin of her own who had also taken their turns as players in the drama of life, and spent endless years wandering over her homeland.

She quite fancied the shore, if she were to be honest.

But she would trade all of it in a single heartbeat for a lifetime with Oliver Phillips.

She rested her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes to wait.

He came inside an hour later, drenched, silent, and grim.

She stood up and moved away from the hearth. "Build a fire, my love," she said quietly.

He nodded, then knelt down by the hearth and restarted his fire. He fed it for quite a while in silence, which she understood. He was, she knew after having known him for so long in a manner she'd never expected, a man of many words when it suited him, but comfortable with silence when it didn't.

She watched him heave himself up onto a stool facing her, look at her, then go very still.

"Are you thinking of me in short pants?"

She laughed before she could stop herself. "I try not to, actually, though you were absolutely precious."

"Please, Mairead," he said with a shudder. "Concentrate on me as a man, if you would."

She made motions of putting something in a box and shutting the lid firmly, then smiled. "Done."

He smiled, then his smile faded. "Forgive me."

"For what?"

He took a deep breath. "I've obviously failed."

She shrugged lightly, though she hoped he didn't suspect her of belittling his effort. "I have no memory of it, if you'll have the truth. Will you tell me of it?"

He rubbed his hands over his face. "There isn't anything to tell. I arrived as we were fleeing into these woods, scarce managed to keep my current self from plowing into you and my former self as I did so, then I hid myself in a normal fashion and waited for events to unfold." He paused. "I didn't realize how many men there were."

"I'm surprised I was so interesting to them," she said lightly.

He lifted his eyebrows briefly. "I'm not, but that doesn't change the fact that I failed."

"Nay, my love, you retreated to rethink your plan," she corrected. "There is no shame in that."

"But you still went—"

"I know."

He bowed his head for several minutes in silence, then looked at her. "Can you forget it?" he asked, looking thoroughly devastated.

"Oliver, I did long ago. It was brief."

"I'm not sure I can bear to hear the details," he said very quietly.

"I wouldn't give them to you even if you asked," she said. "Not those, at least." She thought about that for a moment or two, then looked at him. "Is there anything else I could tell you about the night that might satisfy your curiosity, at least?"

He looked at her in surprise. "Do you remember anything about that evening?"

"I don't remember how many there were, or who was there save Tasgall and Kenneth, shrieking themselves hoarse as they dragged me away half senseless."

"Did you hear anything else? Anything unusual?"

"Besides the sound of you clunking your head against the threshold?"

He winced. "Please don't remind me. I'm still suffering from that particular headache."

She smiled. "I'll leave that then." She stretched her memory back to that particular evening that was so fresh for the man sitting across from her, then shook her head. "I was so shocked by watching you fall that I didn't think to listen. They also pulled me away from the doorway so quickly that I didn't see you lying inside the croft."

"Perhaps I wasn't."

She nodded. "I suspect that's true."

"I didn't mean to leave you behind," he said very quietly.

"It wasn't your fault." She dredged up a smile. "What else can I tell you?"

He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and looked at her seriously. "I don't want to be indelicate, but did you… you know."

"Pay attention to who had stabbed me?" she asked

He winced. "Yes."

"To be honest, Oliver, I don't remember much of what happened after I lost you. There was a great deal of pain, but I think most of it came from knowing I wouldn't have you." She paused. "Though the dying was—"

"Mairead, don't," he said quietly. "You don't have to talk about it."

"I'd rather not." She smiled. "I did shout a handful of those words you mutter under your breath at them as they lit the wood."

His eyes were suddenly very red. "You, Mairead MacLeod, are terribly fierce."

"Well," she said with a faint smile of her own, "perhaps not that, but I didn't beg."

"Of course you didn't."

"Master James went on to a very bad end on a pyre himself, if you're curious."

He smiled, a crooked thing that was utterly charming. "Did you watch?"

"Of course," she said pleasantly. "Accompanied by a fairly robust collection of women—and a few men—he had put to the test of witchcraft."

"Did the gaggle of you shout any of those salty words at him as he met his well-deserved end?"

She shook her head. "We simply watched him silently because silence, as you well know, is a much more terrifying option when you have the choice."

He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at her and smiled. "I do, as it happens, which leads me to wondering if that thought started out as someone else's."

"Nay, it was yours," she said confidently, "though I won't say I hadn't thought it myself before we met."

He nodded, then put on what she could tell was a deliberately cheerful smile. What she wanted to do was tell him to take himself off to bed, but she imagined he wasn't going to fit in that wee nook anyway. Perhaps she could eventually convince him to stretch out in front of the fire and rest his poor head.

"I had a visitor whilst you were gone," she said, looking for something to speak about that wasn't so terrible.

He looked at her in surprise. "Jamie?"

"Nay, Ambrose."

"Ambrose is a ghost?"

She smiled. "Of course. Don't you believe in ghosts?"

"Of course no—" He looked at her and shut his mouth. "Forgive me. I'm not thinking clearly."

She laughed a little, mostly because she'd had four hundred years to accustom herself to her situation. It was odd, though, wondering what her afterlife would have been like if not for Oliver Phillips and his insatiable curiosity four hundred years earlier.

And his chivalry, it had to be said.

She pulled herself back to the present moment. "He is," she said. "He's collected a little group of lads who go around with him, wreaking havoc and making matches."

"Making matches," he said, looking at her in disbelief. "As in, matches between humans?"

"The very same," she agreed. "Apparently, their success rate is very good."

"I hate to ask how they go about it."

"I would say they frighten their victims into marriage, but I'm sure there's more to it than that. I believe there is a bit of helpful nudging of various circumstances now and again."

"Ambrose MacLeod," he repeated. "Your nephew."

"He always did have a romantic streak," she said. "Who would have suspected that it would find such flowering in his afterlife? I daresay he and his companions should run some sort of service for those seeking happiness in love, but I'm not sure who would be brave enough to sign up."

He shut his mouth. "I can't believe we're having this conversation."

She laughed more easily that time. "I share the sentiment, truly. I would actually be surprised if you hadn't met at least one of his victims, though I don't think he had aught to do with your coming to Scotland."

"No, that was all the lads," Oliver agreed, then he frowned. "At least I think it was all the lads." He rubbed his hands over his face, then smiled. "I'm not sure I have the energy to think about it at the moment."

"I would prepare a meal for you, but I fear that is beyond—"

"I'll do it," he said, pushing himself to his feet. He made her a slight bow and almost landed on top of her as a result.

"I could try," she offered.

He shook his head, though rather gingerly. "I'll manage." He paused. "Wait for me?"

She looked up at him. "If you want me to."

"I can't even dance around the subject," he said seriously. "Please stay with me."

"I wouldn't think to do otherwise, actually."

He nodded, then turned away to walk into the croft's wee kitchen. He looked impossibly tired, which she understood. She hadn't wanted to grieve him any, but the truth was she could still bring to mind the events that he had recently relived. How Oliver was still on his feet when he was still carrying the weariness from their flight, she didn't know.

She realized he had turned to look at her and she smiled in spite of her sorry thoughts.

"Still here," she said, with her own attempt at cheerfulness.

He smiled gravely, then turned back to foraging in the refrigerator. She watched him pick out then put back half a dozen things before he found a baguette, broke it in half, and ate it, obviously without enjoyment. She suspected she might understand that more than she wanted to admit.

He finally came back over to stand with his back to the fire.

"What shall we do with our evening?" he asked with a weary smile.

"I'm powerfully fond of those murder mysteries on the BBC," she said promptly. "Very entertaining."

"We don't have a TV," he said.

She could have sworn she heard him add thankfully under his breath, but she might have been imagining that.

"A book, then?" she suggested. "I know that Mistress Moraig has several interesting titles on herbs and flowers—"

"I actually might have something better," he said, going to the kitchen to rummage about in a stack of things there. He walked back over and sat down in one of the plump chairs there. He turned on the little lamp on the table between his and a different chair covered in a lovely MacLeod plaid fabric, then reached over and patted that empty seat. "I'll read to you."

She would have blushed at the courtesy if she'd had a mortal frame, and she colored just the same as she sat down and rearranged her skirts. She looked at Oliver to find him watching her with a grave smile, though his smile faded quickly. She held up her hand.

"Please," she said quickly, wondering if she sounded as desperate as she felt. "Let us take the evening and pretend that nothing has changed."

He took a deep breath and nodded. "We'll just assume that you are your lovely self and I'm a gentleman who's decided to keep his hands off you for the moment."

"Such chivalry," she said lightly.

He inclined his head regally. "At your service, my lady." He held up the book. "What do you think?"

She read the title, then smiled. "So Mistress Buchanan has moved on to Highland lairds, is that it?"

"There is ample material here for her to use," he agreed.

She smiled at him, had a smile in return, then watched his smile fade just a bit.

"I'm very fond of you."

"And I'm very fond of you," she said. "The man you are and the boy you were."

"Thank you for leaving out the middle years."

She laughed a little in spite of herself. "Ach, weel, you were a terror."

"I've matured."

"You're perfect."

He blew out his breath and laughed uncomfortably. "That would be you, but so we don't spend our evening arguing over the truth of that, let me dive in here and see what delights await us."

She nodded and pretended that she was actually able to make herself comfortable in what she knew from past experience was a terribly comfortable chair. She would pass the evening listening to Oliver read, then see if she couldn't convince him to make himself a pallet on the floor and at least rest for a few hours. They could pretend that they had actually made it through Moraig's doorway together and they were merely taking a brief moment of quiet to rest from their journey.

The morrow would bring what it would.

She only hoped they would be able to bear those happenings when they arrived.