Twenty

M airead wondered if Guy Fawkes had decided to make a quick visit to Scotland before setting off on his foul adventure in London.

She coughed at the blue smoke that obscured even her hand in front of her face, then felt that hand be taken by another hand she suspected she would recognize anywhere. She didn't bother to question Oliver over why he'd just gone sprawling into the witch's croft whilst at the same time was pulling her through the forest at a dead run. Perhaps he was rescuing her yet again.

She didn't dare ask why.

She tripped, which wasn't surprising given the condition of the forest floor, but found herself caught by someone behind her. She looked behind her and opened her mouth to shout out a warning, but the man quickly pulled his head covering off and smiled.

"Ewan Cameron," he said pleasantly. "Oliver's second."

She would have smiled if she'd had it in her, but as it was all she could do was nod, then look at Oliver who reached for her hand again.

"We need to run," he said urgently.

"Let's fly instead."

He smiled. "We'll do that, too."

She suspected he might be referring to a Future marvel she fully intended to be alive to see for herself, so she bolted with him through the forest, his friend hard on her heels. She wasn't sure how many times she tripped, but one of those lads caught her every time, something she suspected her hands and knees would appreciate.

What she didn't appreciate was the pair of lads waiting for them just under the eaves of the forest near the Cameron's border.

"Got it," Ewan Cameron said firmly.

She hardly dared ask what he meant by that, but Oliver seemed to trust him and she trusted Oliver. They continued to run directly at those lads and then suddenly a cloud of pale red smoke billowed out, obscuring everything in sight. She watched, open-mouthed, as Ewan rendered unfit for any sort of battle both those men with several sharp movements of his hands and feet.

She continued on with Oliver and Ewan toward the proper spot, trying not to lose what breath she had left at the sight of the doorway simply standing there, ajar. She felt Oliver tighten his hand around hers.

"Ewan," he said sharply, "take my hand, damn you."

"Are you daft—"

She found herself pushed forward, which left her releasing Oliver's hand. She stumbled out of the faery ring, then turned to make certain he'd come with her only to find him standing a few feet away from her looking at Ewan who had gone sprawling behind her. Oliver stopped short when Ewan sat up and swore.

"Stop moving," Oliver said quickly. "You have a knife sticking out of your back."

Ewan crawled to his feet, then turned around. "Pull it out. I'm wearing Kevlar, dolt."

Oliver laughed a little and smoothly pulled the knife free of his mate's back. Mairead would have commented on that, but he pulled her suddenly behind him. She could see fairly well in the gloom and realized that the pair of men she found standing there were ones she recognized.

From the Future.

Oliver handed the knife to Ewan, then sighed deeply and rubbed his hands over his face. She supposed she might be allowed the same relief, so she took a deep breath and let it out, though with perhaps a bit less confidence than Oliver had used. She had another look at the gate that was still shimmering in the last of the day's light. It seemed to think its work was done because it closed with a soft click .

She stared at the place where it had been for a handful of moments, permitting herself time to fix the sight in her memory so she might recall the exact instant when her life had changed forever.

Well, perhaps that had been several days ago when she'd looked up from the madness of her unruly cousins and first laid her poor gaze on Oliver Phillips, but perhaps she could argue the point with herself later when she had the time.

She turned and looked at that collection of souls gathered there, the last bit of twilight surrounding them like a soft shawl. Her uncle Patrick was there along with the man who had come to fetch Oliver in the past. She suspected, given how much he resembled Patrick, that she was looking at James, his elder brother and, if she looked at it the right way, her grandfather. She smiled briefly at both of them, then looked to her left.

There standing closest to her, watching her with an expression on his face she couldn't quite identify, was Oliver Phillips, the man who had just rescued her yet again from death at the stake.

He closed his eyes briefly, then reached out and pulled her into his arms. If he did it with a fair bit of enthusiasm and she threw her arms around his neck and held on with just as much fervor, well, perhaps their kith and kin wouldn't make note of it overmuch.

She wanted to tell him a score of things beginning and ending with thank you , but all she could do was stand in his embrace and pray that if the world were to end in truth, it would end at that very moment so she might forever remain where she was. Oliver seemed no more willing to let her go, which she found very much to her liking.

"Are you shaking," she managed finally, "or am I?"

"I don't know," he said hoarsely. "I don't know anything except I'm never letting you out of my arms ever again."

"Thank you," she whispered. "For it all."

He shook his head, but said nothing. She suspected there was a great deal more to the tale than she knew, for no other reason than she'd seen Oliver fall into the witch's croft and disappear, yet there he was, dressed in other gear and bringing along one of his mates to be his support.

She shuddered to think what might have happened to her had he not been willing to make an attempt to rescue her.

A throat cleared itself suddenly from behind her.

"That's all well and good," it said in reassuringly crisp Gaelic, "but night is falling and we should be away."

Mairead pulled out of Oliver's arms and turned to look at that intimidating Highlander behind her. She felt Oliver arrange her so she was standing next to him with his arm around her shoulders, which she had to admit she appreciated. She caught the gaze of Patrick MacLeod and had a brief smile as her reward, then a nod toward whom she had to assume was the current laird James.

"My brother Jamie," he said with a shrug. "Good luck with him."

Mairead had endless amounts of experience dealing with capricious leaders, though she suspected she wouldn't need to call on any of those skills at present. Jamie had already shot her a quick smile before he turned a very lairdly look on the man standing next to her.

"Turn her loose, young Oliver."

"With respect, my laird," Oliver replied politely. "I think I'm capable of caring for her."

"Whilst I'm certain you could," Jamie conceded, "'tis growing dark and she needs to be home."

"I'm not letting her out of my sight."

"And I'm not allowing a granddaughter—" Jamie waved his hand in a vague sort of encompassing motion. "A granddaughter of mine, however many generations removed she might be, to be alone in a cottage with a man who is not her husband."

"I am perfectly—"

"Honorable," Jamie finished for him, "which I know very well, lad. ‘Tis why you'll agree that she should come home and sleep in my hall until she's wed."

Mairead found her hand taken by her—well, she supposed he was her grandfather, never mind the twistings of her lineage. What she did know was that she'd just been pulled away from the man who had just risked his life to rescue her. She started to speak, then decided perhaps ‘twas best to remain silent and see which way the wind blew for a bit. Oliver had rescued her, true, but he was braw and charming and perhaps he would reconsider the things he'd said whilst they'd been running away from her clan. The Future was no doubt a very large place with many beautiful women who would fight each other to have him look at them twice.

"Come along, Mairead lass," Jamie said, patting her hand, "and let's see you settled. Your lad there can visit you occasionally if you can tolerate it."

"But—" Oliver protested.

"Over the course of several months, at least," Patrick added, "before he attempts anything more serious."

Oliver took her hand back and laced his fingers with hers. "I'll do whatever is required," he said, making Jamie a small bow. "To your satisfaction, of course, my laird."

Jamie removed her hand smoothly from Oliver's. "Then, again, you'll agree that she should come to the keep."

Mairead found her hand taken again by Oliver and tucked under his elbow. "If I'm allowed to come along? Absolutely."

"Do I have a say?" Mairead asked, pulling her hands away from them both.

"You do, of course," Jamie said, reaching for her hand and tucking it under his elbow. "And as your nearest kin and laird, permit me to escort you to the family hall, just as I would do for a favored daughter. I'll make the concession that your lad might come along if it pleases you."

Mairead looked at Oliver who sighed and stepped back, as if he conceded the battle.

"Well, you needn't go that far," she said.

He looked at Jamie, then made him a low bow. "Might I hold her other hand as we deliver her to your luxurious hall, my lord?"

Mairead looked at Jamie to find him watching her with a very faint smile.

"He has decent manners, at least," he said with a wink. "Now, shall we set off and find supper? My lady will see you properly settled for the night. Your lad there is perfectly capable of caring for you, I'll admit, but propriety demands a discreet distance between the two of you until you've decided if you'll have him or not. He might hold your hand if you'll allow it."

Mairead looked at Oliver to find him watching her carefully. She supposed that if the time were ever to come to find out what the lay of the land looked like, it was the present one.

"Do you want to?"

He looked pleasingly surprised. "Of course I do."

"And you'll come for supper?"

"If you'll have me."

"I'm going to need a chair for this," Patrick muttered.

Mairead couldn't help but agree with him. He shot her a brief smile, then gathered up Ewan Cameron and invited him to go home with him for supper. She watched them walk off toward the witch's forest, then found herself being escorted down the meadow to her home. She supposed she should have been a little more concerned that the landscape might have changed, leaving her stepping into a hole and twisting her ankle, but the truth was nothing had changed all that much.

Well, aside from the obvious.

And the fact that one of her hands was tucked into the crook of Jamie's elbow and the other was being held by a man who rubbed his thumb over hers continually, as if he either sought to soothe her or remind her that he was there. She looked at him and wished for nothing more than time to sit with him and find out why he was still wearing his demon gear, but he'd lost his wee rucksack, which she hoped someone would think belonged to Master James and push him into the fire for possessing.

She considered. She might need a very long walk in the daylight to wrest her thoughts away from a very sour place and put them in more pleasant pastures.

She focused again on Oliver and found him watching her as if he feared she would dash off into the night if the wrong thing were said.

"I am well," she said. If she sounded very hoarse and a little unnerved, she suspected he understood.

"We'll talk later," he promised.

Jamie leaned in front of her and looked at him pointedly. "Not," he said distinctly, "in any sort of private chamber."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "I am a gentleman."

"And I am this lass's nearest kin."

Oliver bowed his head deferentially. "Of course, my laird. It will be as you wish."

Mairead looked at Jamie, had a pleasant smile as her reward, and suspected this might have been how her sisters felt whenever some lad came to the hall with wooing on his mind. She glanced at Oliver to see what his opinion might be only to find him watching her still with that look of… well, awe was the only word she could bring to mind.

"Thank you," she managed.

"You are very, very welcome."

And that, she found, was the extent of the conversation she was going to have with him at the moment.

It was very odd to be walking toward her own home, yet realizing she was hundreds of years out of her time. The stables were still where they'd been, the keep itself looked as it always had, and the courtyard was happily free of men with her death on their minds.

Instead, she found strange conveyances with wheels, flowers planted in spots where none had been before, and what she could have sworn was a door that was slightly newer than the one her brother had slammed shut every time he'd come and gone through it.

The inside of the hall had definitely seen some improvements, which she heartily agreed with. There were no rushes on the floor and the entire place smelled as fresh and clean as the outdoors. There was also hanging in the air a scent that she hoped might signal some sort of decent supper. She wasn't quite sure when she'd eaten last.

Hundreds of years ago, most likely.

"Are you thinking subversive thoughts?" Oliver asked.

"Thoughts about supper, rather, and how many years it's been since I had it last."

He smiled. "I'm sure Jamie can remedy that. I'll let him introduce you to his family, but I think you'll find they're very lovely."

What she did know was that she didn't particularly care for his releasing her hand, though she supposed he would need to eventually so she might eat. She met Jamie's wife Elizabeth and had to bite her tongue not to assure her grandmother, who could scarce have been old enough to be her mother, that her fame had lived on in the past, if only in the mind of Lachlan MacLeod.

Their children were staring at her with wide eyes, but she supposed that had less to do with her face and more to do with her dress.

"Mairead has traveled a long way today," Elizabeth said in comfortingly perfect Gaelic, "so we'll save all our questions for her until tomorrow and just see that she's comfortable tonight. Who wants to sit next to her at the table? All right, Patricia you take one side and Robert the other. Ian, you and Oliver can watch over them and make certain they don't keep her from eating her dinner."

Mairead found herself taken in hand by a young girl who reminded her quite a bit of Fiona and a young lad who actually looked a great deal like Ambrose. She took comfort in that familiarity and allowed them to shepherd her across the hall to the kitchens.

She stepped inside that same chamber where she'd passed so many of her hours in the past and felt herself freeze in place. So much was the same, but how many things had changed. There were additions in the form of worktables with boxes under them and shiny things where there had been nothing but walls and kitchen lads and maids before—

Though she supposed she wasn't as surprised as she might have been if she hadn't seen similar things inside Moraig MacLeod's wee croft. She glanced at Oliver who smiled encouragingly at her, then turned back to face her doom. She had faced down the witch's house in two different centuries; she could survive supper in her ancestral home.

She had to admit she was pleased to find that Oliver had very politely bargained away something to Robert for the privilege of sitting next to her and hoped it had been worth it to him. She supposed he ate when given the chance, but every time she looked at him, he seemed to be watching her.

"Am I doing this poorly?" she whispered. "My manners—"

"Are perfect," he said. He smiled briefly. "I just have to keep looking to make sure I haven't dreamed you."

She realized Jamie's children were watching her with undisguised curiosity—and no doubt wondering why she was blushing so furiously.

"Is it a good dream?" she asked frankly.

"Mairead," he said, sounding genuinely appalled. He reached for her hand under the table and held it securely. "It is a beautiful dream. I'll tell you just how lovely when I have a chance to talk to you without your grandfather glaring daggers at me."

She glanced at the lord of the keep, then back at her rescuer. "I think he's doing that for my benefit."

"I know he's doing it for your benefit, which you completely deserve." He smiled, then squeezed her hand again, his smile fading. "You'll be all right?"

She took a deep breath. "I will. And you?"

Oliver shot Jamie a dark look. "I will if I manage a scrap of floor in front of the fire, actually, but I may have to do more negotiating to make that happen."

"Would you?"

He looked back at her and smiled again. "I would."

She knew his sleeping habits were as erratic as hers, so she wasn't surprised by where he was willing to lay his head—or not, for that matter. She would have thanked him for being willing to take up a scrap of floor for her, but she realized the rest of the family had finished their suppers and were simply staring at her as if they couldn't believe what they were seeing. She was very grateful when Elizabeth invited her upstairs to find clean clothing.

She was desperate to ask the lady of the hall several questions about her own adventures in Scotland, but perhaps later when she thought she had the words equal to those questions.

At the moment, the second thing she wanted most was to simply find somewhere private to sit for a moment and weep in gratitude that she was alive.

And then she would work on the first, which was finding Oliver and seeing if he wouldn't hold her until she thought she could take a decent breath again.

She suspected that might take quite a while.

It was well past nightfall when she made her way silently down the passageway and paused at the top of the steps. She remembered as vividly as if she were reliving the moment how she'd encountered someone at that same spot several days earlier. She wasn't sure how long it had been, to be honest. It felt like years.

She wondered if it might have been the echo of Oliver walking in that same spot only centuries in the Future.

The thought was thoroughly ridiculous, but she supposed she was living out things that someone else would have considered just as daft. Perhaps she wasn't the one to judge.

She could judge her current straits, though, and at least the recent pair of their hours had been passed happily enough. She'd been offered a chance to brave a bath in a tub that wasn't made of wood and provided endless amounts of hot water from a spout, a marvel she thought she might want to become very familiar with. Having a brief but heartfelt talk with Elizabeth about the challenges of arriving in a different time and adjusting to unexpected things had been comforting. Being given a chamber where she'd been able to stand in the midst of it and bawl her poor eyes out for a quarter hour had perhaps been the most useful thing of all.

Time traveling, as Jamie had remarked as he'd passed her in the passageway but a moment ago, was not for the faint of heart.

Which was all the more reason to descend to the great hall and ground herself in the current year, which was what she had replied to her laird lest he think she was off to raid his larder. If she happened to keep her eyes open for a certain lad of her acquaintance who might be amenable to sitting up all night whilst she endured whatever trembles she hadn't managed to weep out, well, who was to know?

She walked down the stairs, running her fingers along the stone of the stairwell wall and wondering just how many generations of MacLeods had done the same thing. Too many to count, perhaps.

She stepped out into the hall and saw Oliver sitting on the floor and leaning back against the wall near the hearth. He immediately pushed himself to his feet, then swayed.

"You should sit," she said, running quickly over to him and catching him by the arms. "When did you sleep last?"

"I'm not sure. Let me go find chairs and we'll do the maths."

"How closely together can we sit?"

He closed his eyes briefly, then held his arms open. She walked into his embrace as though she'd been doing it her whole life.

"Are you cold?" she asked in surprise.

"Trying not to weep, rather."

She pulled back and looked at him to find his eyes were very red. She smiled in sympathy.

"I shed my share upstairs."

"It's been a long day," he admitted.

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

He studied her for a moment or two, then reached up and smoothed the hair back from her face. "I wonder," he said carefully, "if it might be better to simply take a few days and see what you remember naturally?"

"Have I forgotten things?" she asked, feeling slightly alarmed. "Have you forgotten things?"

He smiled slightly. "I'll have to give it some thought. I did spend a pair of hours writing things down before I came to fetch you, though, which might help."

"Hours?" she said with a snort. "I stood over that damned Victorian scribbler for two entire… months…"

She felt her words trail off into the emptiness of the great hall, hang there for a moment or two, then fall softly to the ground. She looked at Oliver in astonishment.

"Did I?"

He only returned her look steadily, but said nothing.

"What did I tell you?" she asked. "Or, more to the point, when?"

He smiled slightly. "Why don't you come sit and be warm with me? And where's your knife?"

She pursed her lips. "I won't stab you in surprise if you say something unexpected."

"You are fierce and saucy," he said solemnly, "and I like to have all possibilities accounted for."

She pulled her sheathed knife out of the pocket of what Elizabeth had called a dressing gown. "I wasn't sure where else to keep it." She pointed at her feet for inspection. "These pleasing shoes in this rosy color of sunset are not up to the task of hiding anything at all."

He took her face in his hands, kissed the end of her nose, then smiled. "You are a wonder."

She felt herself beginning to blush. "I'll match my very fine shoes if you don't stop with that."

He smiled, took her hand, and pulled her over to the hearth.

"Who sits closer?"

"You do," she said without hesitation, putting her knife back in her pocket. "I'll be warm enough."

"Chair or the floor?"

She looked down, then gestured toward the stone of the floor next to the hearth that was cleaner than she'd ever seen it before. Oliver nodded, sat with her, then took one of her hands in both his own. He glanced at her.

"I'm just keeping your hand warm and making certain you don't catch a chill."

"In truth?" she asked in surprise.

He laughed a little. "Actually, I just wanted to hold your hand, but, again, saucy lass with a sharp knife. A bloke can't be too careful."

She scowled at him. "You're safe enough for the moment."

"And so are you, and for more than just the moment."

She considered the truth of that. She supposed it was also perhaps one of the more noteworthy events of her life to be sitting with an extremely braw man who held her hand because he was apparently daft enough to want to and there wasn't a relative in sight demanding that she hie herself off to the kitchens and prepare a meal for them.

Her life had become very strange, indeed.

"Mairead?"

She looked at him and smiled reflexively. "Aye?"

He took her hand, laced his fingers with hers, then kissed the back of her hand. "I'm just happy you're here."

"I am, too."

He sighed. "Unfortunately, you should probably go up to bed."

"Don't make me go."

"Well, I don't want you to go," he said, then he shot her a quick smile. "Jamie might take me outside and cut me to ribbons for keeping you downstairs, though, so keep that in mind."

"I'll protect you with my saucy blade."

He laughed a little, then tilted his head toward his shoulder. "Then I won't argue with you tonight. Lay your head and be at peace."

"You don't want me to go?" she murmured.

"Nay, lass," he said very quietly. "I don't."

Well, he had risked life and limb to come and fetch her away from her murderous kin, so she supposed he meant it.

She considered, then brought his hand close and kissed it.

She was the first to admit it was awkwardly done, but his breath caught just the same. He squeezed her hand, shifted a bit closer to her, then rested his cheek against her head.

"Sleep, Mairead," he said quietly. "You're safe."

The saints preserve her, she thought she just might be.