Twenty-two

M airead sat in the front of the automobile Jamie had loaned them for their journey to the shore and divided her time between watching the scenery go by at speeds she never could have imagined in her lifetime and watching Oliver, fresh-scrubbed, braw lad that he was, driving that same contraption apparently without thinking anything of it.

She smoothed her hands over her skirts and considered her own condition. She'd presented herself very early at Elizabeth's door, taking the lady of the hall up on the invitation to be turned into a proper Future miss. She'd subjected herself quite willingly to all the bathing and grooming duties Elizabeth had guaranteed would leave her looking like the gels she'd seen in the village, though they'd both agreed she didn't need to copy the very short skirts and too-tall shoes.

She'd been pleased to see that her eyes were a lovely green much like Patrick and Jamie's and that the rest of her features were not as unattractive as Kenneth's. Then again, that one had brawled endlessly where she had definitely not, so there was that. She was nervous about the crookedness of her lower teeth, especially when compared to Elizabeth's, but there was nothing to be done about that save hope Oliver wouldn't notice.

He had called for her at a respectable hour, accepted an invitation to break his fast with the family, then listened with absolutely no expression on his face as Jamie had informed her that he'd set aside a bit of gold for her to have for her very own. She'd looked at Oliver then, had a very serious smile as her reward, then hoped Jamie would mistake her rubbing her eyes to stop the burning for something spicy she'd encountered in his kitchens.

Truly the Future was a wondrous place.

Jamie had then suggested that perhaps the children might like to come along to the shore as chaperons, which she'd found both charming and a bit embarrassing. Oliver had taken it with his usual good grace and a polite bow made to her current laird, piled everyone in Jamie's marvelous conveyance, then made certain she was comfortable before he'd set them off on their journey to the sea.

A journey which had apparently reached its conclusion whilst she'd been preoccupied with fretting over things that didn't matter and missing several things that did. She looked at the beautiful greenish-blue water in front of her, then looked at Oliver. He was watching her with a grave smile.

"Like it?" he asked.

She could only nod. Words were beyond her. He smiled again, then looked at the children freeing themselves from their restraints behind them.

"Let's bring a blanket and the hamper," he suggested, "then you sprogs go play. Stay out of the water and don't get lost."

"I'm not a baby," Patricia protested.

Oliver only smiled. "Lads, look after your sister. There's a wee shop on the hill for snacks later if you get hungry. I'll buy."

That seemed to satisfy the bairns well enough. They abandoned the automobile without delay and ran toward the pale-hued shore. Mairead started to unclasp her safety belt only to have Oliver put his hand on her arm. He did it for her, then looked at her.

"Wait for me?"

She nodded, then watched him get out and walk around the car to fetch her. She accepted a hand out, then waited a bit longer whilst he fetched things out of the back of the beast. She eyed the blanket he had tucked under one arm, then frowned at him.

"You aren't going to put that on the ground, are you?"

"What do you think?" he asked with a smile.

She wrapped her arms around herself, not because she was cold but because she was too old to be thinking the thoughts that were rattling around in her empty head. Oliver set his burdens down, then looked at her with a wince.

"What can I do?"

She had to take a deep breath. "This will sound mad, but I find that all I want to do is be in your arms." She met his gaze. "Foolish, isn't it?"

"Well," he said slowly, "I might not be the right one to ask about that."

She almost smiled. "You wouldn't?"

He shook his head, then held open his arms and lifted an eyebrow. She did smile then and walked into his embrace. She closed her eyes and felt a sigh come from someplace inside herself that she hadn't known existed. Foolish or not, she felt as if she'd somehow come home.

She wondered if Oliver might grow bored by standing there and doing nothing but holding her, but he didn't move and she couldn't bring herself to ask him if he wanted to. The feel of his hand occasionally skimming over her hair was soothing, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear was reassuring, and knowing she was actually safe was more comforting than she would have suspected it might be.

"I suppose we must discuss things," she said finally.

"We likely should," he agreed, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. "In a minute."

She smiled in spite of herself and remained exactly where she was, wishing she might remain there forever. It was difficult to believe that not a pair of days earlier she had been in a far different time, alone save for her brother's young children and an uncle of questionable sanity. Well, and Giles Cameron for a brother in affection if nothing else.

But now she had relatives who were kind, apparently a bit of gold to her name, and a man dressed in his favorite color who seemingly thought nothing of giving her comfort when she could scarce bring herself to ask for it.

She patted him on the back, because she knew there were things she needed to face sooner rather than later, then pulled away and looked at him with a smile.

"Do you own clothing in any other color?"

He shook his head. "Emily says black makes my hair look very pretty, so I stick with it."

"Well, she would know," Mairead agreed. "She's very fashionable herself—"

She stopped speaking abruptly as she found herself assaulted by memories she hadn't anticipated. She felt for Oliver's hands and found them there in front of her, warm and secure and attached to a man who didn't complain about how hard she was clutching him. She took a deep breath and looked up at him.

He was only watching her with pity in his eyes.

"What happened that I have these memories?" she whispered. "They aren't there all the time. Just now and again."

He nodded toward the water. "Let's go walk. Tell me if the tidings become too much and we'll do something else like look for shells or stick our feet in the water."

She nodded. "Very well."

He gathered up a basket and that blanket that reminded her a bit of the other one he'd defiled by casting onto the ground and inviting her to sit on it with him, then offered her his free hand. She held onto his hand with both her own and walked with him over a little rise and down onto what she could only assume was sand, never having seen it before. She stopped next to Oliver as he set his burdens down, then looked to make certain the children were accounted for.

"Perhaps we shouldn't leave them," she ventured.

"My mates are watching over us," Oliver said.

She looked at him in surprise. "I don't see them."

"That's how they like it." He hesitated. "You could take off your shoes, if you like. The sand is likely cold, but soft."

"I suppose the cuts are healed well enough," she agreed.

"I forgot," he said, wincing. "Let's just walk as we are today then. We'll come back a different day and go barefoot if it's warm enough."

She nodded, waved to Jamie's children, then took Oliver's hand and walked with him down to the water. He turned them so they walked along the edge of the water, then looked at her seriously.

"What do you want to know first?"

There was no reason not to head straight into battle when her other choice was to linger on the side of it as only a coward would. Supposing her sire might approve, she looked up at Oliver and marched directly into the fray.

"I keep remembering things that make no sense," she said bluntly. "These words come out of my mouth when I don't expect them to and remind me of things that I'm certain I don't know. I can't call them memories, but they seem to be just that. I'm terrified that I'm losing my wits, but I have to believe there's a reason for it all."

"There is," he said carefully. "Where would you like me to start?"

"You stopped the tale at Moraig's doorway," she said, then she stopped and looked at him. "That was her name, wasn't it?"

He nodded.

She walked on with him and promised herself to keep walking because if she didn't, they would both look as if they were losing their wits, what with all her stopping and starting.

"You fell at the threshold of Moraig's croft—" She took a deep breath. "The witch's croft. What happened then?"

"You remember our journey from your hall to Moraig's, don't you?"

"Aye. We were going to try the faery ring, but there were too many lads there."

"There were," he agreed. "We kept going to Moraig's, but we weren't alone there either. We made it to the croft itself, but I clunked my head on the threshold as we tried to run inside." He paused. "I fell into the Future, but I left you behind. Not that I wanted to, but because I had no choice."

She felt a chill run down her spine. "What happened to me?"

He stopped and looked at her. "Walk or let me hold you?"

"Both," she managed. "But walking first."

He nodded. "I'll be brief. You were carried away and—"

She looked him full in the face. "Did I go to the stake?"

He didn't reply, but there was misery written on his face.

"But," she said in surprise, "I have no memory of that."

"That's a mercy."

"Then why do I remember these other odd things?"

He tightened his hand around hers briefly, then continued to walk with her. "Let me tell you the tale as it happened in its entirety, then we'll sort what memories we both have, aye?"

She nodded, though she suspected the telling of that tale was going to be as difficult for him as listening to it was for her.

"When I regained my senses in Moraig's cottage, you were there," he said slowly, "but… you were a ghost."

She stopped so suddenly, she suspected she'd come close to wrenching his arm from his socket. She looked at him in shock, but she could see he wasn't making a poor jest. If nothing else, ‘twas obvious he believed it.

"And you saw me," she managed. "As a spirit."

He nodded.

She looked at him briefly, then walked on because it was the only thing that left her feeling as if she were still in the world and not wandering in a dream. He walked on with her, and he didn't make sport of her disbelief, which she found comforting somehow.

"A ghost," she said, sliding him a look.

He nodded again.

"And I knew you?"

He smiled, a small, wistful sort of smile. "You had, if you can fathom it, watched over me my whole life."

She did stop then, because the thought was so astonishing. "Was that useful?" she managed, because that was the only thing she could think of to say.

"Incalculable."

"Did you know this when you came to my time?" she asked.

"No," he said slowly, "but that's the thing, isn't it? You weren't a ghost until after I'd gone back to your time, then failed to rescue you on Moraig's threshold."

She shook her head, but that did nothing to either provide her with any answers or shake any good sense loose. She looked at him, but he didn't look as if he'd lost his good sense.

"Were you surprised I was a ghost?" she managed.

"It was," he said quietly, "quite possibly the worst moment of my life."

"Was it?" she whispered, hardly daring to believe that such a thing would matter to him.

He closed his eyes briefly, then turned and pulled her into his arms. She stood in his embrace for several minutes in silence, listening to the waves against the shore, the laughter of the children in the distance, the cry of the gulls overhead. But mostly she listened to the steady heartbeat of the man who held her as if he never wanted to let her go.

She suspected that it would take her quite a few hours in the dead of night to contemplate what he'd said, accept it as truth, then think about what that had meant to them both.

She pulled away reluctantly, did her polite best to ignore the fact that his eyes were as red as hers no doubt were, then slipped her hand into his that he offered her. She walked with him for quite a while in silence, trying to pit her poor wits against the idea that she had actually lived for scores of years after her death, albeit in a different form.

"Is that why I have these things coming into my mind that I never saw in my lifetime?" she asked suddenly.

He nodded. "I think they're memories of your time as a, well, you know."

"I might need to sit down soon."

"Do you?" he asked quickly.

"Nay," she managed. "I do better when I'm walking. But tell me why I am no longer a ghost but a woman who is capable of sitting down in surprise."

"The things you say," he said, shaking his head and smiling.

She supposed the present moment wasn't the right moment to feel a bit pleased that he found her at least amusing, but she was hearing things that were beyond ridiculous yet somehow reasonable in light of the things she found herself remembering.

Things from her future as something slightly less corporeal but undeniably still her own self.

"Tell me, if you would," she said hoarsely, then she cleared her throat and attempted a smile. "I'm braced."

He squeezed her hand, then continued on with her. "It all goes back to Moraig's doorway, unfortunately."

"The same place that separated Sunshine and the Cameron," she noted.

He nodded. "And as for what happened to us, here's the absolute truth. After I woke in Moraig's house the first time and realized that I'd failed you, I went back to a different point in time and tried again."

"As you did when they were pushing me to the stake by the hall, before the heavens exploded in fire?"

"Exactly that." He stopped and turned her hand over, then shot her a quick, uneasy sort of smile. "This is how it was explained to me. If you think of time as a straight line—" he drew the same on her palm, "and here is where you and I were separated. I went back through the gate a bit before that point."

"And it worked?" she asked, then she held up her free hand. "Obviously it did or I wouldn't be here."

"It doesn't always work," he conceded, "so we're actually very fortunate it worked for us. I went back and waited for us to come through the forest where my plan was to rescue you after I'd fallen into Moraig's house but before your cousins carried you off. Unfortunately, I failed twice for various reasons, then Ewan came with me this final time and was a pair of hands when I needed them."

"And were those other two yous wandering around at the same time?"

He nodded.

"Did I see any of these other yous?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. I don't think so." He looked at her closely. "Want to walk some more?"

She nodded, because she had to move or find herself caught up in thoughts that were so mad that not even Lachlan MacLeod could have invented them after his most robust night of cozying up to the largest ale keg in the cellar.

She looked down at her hand in Oliver's as they walked, at the imaginary straight line he'd drawn across her palm, and a thought occurred to her that was so odd, she hardly knew how to put it in words. She stopped, then turned Oliver's palm over and traced that line on his hand. If what he was saying were true and she had lived as a ghost—

She looked up at him. "How many years was I a ghost?"

"Over four hundred, if we're counting," he said carefully.

How was it, then, that she could have lived for centuries as a ghost yet still have it be in her memories whilst living an entirely different lifetime? It was as if her lives were threads, looping over each other, stacking on top of each other so they covered the same things again and again. Or perhaps ‘twas more like yarn wrapping around a spindle, beginning at the same place on the wood with each round, winding each round separately but covering the same circle and in the end making up one entire whole.

It sounded completely daft, but there was no denying that she remembered things she absolutely hadn't lived through—as a mortal woman, that was.

She traced a loop over that imaginary line on Oliver's hand, going over the same pattern a time or two, feeling a little as if she were walking over her own grave, then she looked up at him.

"What if time isn't linear?"

He looked at her, open-mouthed. She realized she was looking at him the same way.

"Where did that come from?" he asked weakly. "And you realize that was a modern English word, don't you?"

She laughed a little because it was either that or howl. "I have no idea." She took a deep breath. "I'm tempted to run, but the bairns might think we've abandoned them."

He took her hand and tugged. "We'll just walk a bit more, then."

She thought that might have been one of the better ideas either of them had had so far that day. She walked with him along that glorious stretch of sand, finding it in her to pay attention for a change to the lapping of the water against the shore and the wind in her hair and the smell of the breeze. She found herself sighing several times and with each time, she felt the frustration and unease dissipate a bit more until she was simply walking with a man who was handsome and kind and had braved the wilds of her era to rescue her from a fate she had been willing to accept but had to admit was glad she'd escaped.

"Please tell me Master James met a terrible end," she said as they neared the end of the stretch of shore before them, "and that I watched it to the bitter end." She looked at him quickly. "Sorry. I'm not a fan."

He smiled. "You've been talking to Patricia."

"Robert, actually. He's a large fan of very fast automobiles."

"I'll just bet he is," Oliver agreed, then his smile faded. "Apparently you and a few others watched Master James meet his appropriate end atop a pile of wood."

She nodded, finding that to be a bit more satisfactory than it likely should have been.

"Let's turn around," he said quietly. "But we can walk up and down the beach as many times as you like."

She nodded and continued to walk with him, his hand warm and secure around hers, the smell of the sea lovelier than she would have expected it to be. She considered what she truly wanted to know until she thought she could ask it casually.

"And you weren't content to live with me as a ghost?"

His look of surprise was somehow very satisfying. "Of course not," he said, then he smiled quickly. "Well, I would have if that had been our only choice. We did try living as we were, human and spirit, but I pestered you until you agreed that I should try one more time."

"Did you pester me?" she asked seriously.

"Endlessly," he said, his expression suddenly serious. "Mairead, I wanted you here in this time as a woman, and I was willing to—"

"Wait," she said, stopping suddenly and looking at him in surprise. "But if you rescued me from the stake, I wouldn't have been there to watch over you as a spirit."

He nodded slowly. "That was what we discussed several times."

"But Oliver," she said faintly, "I can't believe I agreed to it. How could I have left you alone at St. Margaret's after your parents—"

She stopped speaking because she realized she couldn't finish. The memory wasn't a memory but something more like a wisp of mist that lay against the mountains in the morning only to simply disappear with the turning of the day. She looked at the man standing in front of her, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand, and watching her with his pale, solemn eyes, and realized what he'd given up for her.

"You were alone."

He smiled gravely. "You were worth the trade."

She suspected they had had some variation of their current conversation before because she could feel the echo of it. She was equally sure she'd wept and not entirely sure he hadn't as well. She could only breathe carefully and look into his eyes that were full of memories and grief and something that looked quite a bit like hope.

"You, Mairead MacLeod, were worth it to me," he repeated very quietly.

She cleared her throat roughly. "Get on with ye, ye wee fiend," she said, hoping beyond hope that that would ease the ferocious burning in her eyes. She started walking again, pulling him with her.

He stopped her, turned her to him, and pulled her into his arms. She suspected it might be becoming a bad habit for her, that clinging to him as if he were all in the world that held her together, but he seemed to be clutching her to him with equal fervor.

And if she felt her tears hot against her cheeks where they fell, and if she wasn't entirely sure she didn't feel a tear or two of his fall onto her hair, well, who was to know? She realized he was breathing just as carefully as she was and she suspected it was for the same reason.

She felt him ease his embrace a bit finally, pull away just a bit, then smile and kiss her on the forehead. His eyes were very red, but she imagined hers were too.

"Let's speak of something less tender," she said, then she had to clear her throat. "Did I frighten anyone during my years as a specter? My brother? A collection of annoying Fergusson lairds?"

He laughed a little, though she could hear the roughness in his voice as well. "You didn't tell me any of that, but you did write your memories down."

"That damned Victorian fop," she grumbled. "He was here writing a series of travel notes, you know, to publish… in… London." She took a deep breath and looked at him. "I definitely think I might need to sit today."

"Now?"

She shook her head. "Not yet." She glanced at him. "I want to make light of this and claim ‘twas something foul I ate, but I find I cannot."

"I have the feeling we might both have that experience more often than not."

She supposed there was no reason not to have things, as she was certain she'd heard someone say at some point in her existence that apparently spanned more years than she was comfortable with, out on the table. She considered their hands linked together there, then looked in his eyes.

"Are we going to be having those experiences?" she asked, then she had to take another deep breath and gather her courage to blurt out what she realized might be bothering her the most. "Together?"

He smiled very faintly. "Haven't we discussed this before?"

"My memory fails me. Either that, or we discussed it when I was under duress."

He considered. "Ewan Cameron told me that pressing one's suit prematurely can lead to flight by the object of one's affections."

She pursed her lips. "Those lads, Oliver, as I continue to warn you, are not your friends."

He smiled. "I was offered a new addition to my book yesterday which outlined useful ideas on pursuing one's desired object."

"And what were those ideas?"

He reached out and captured a pair of stray strands of hair blowing over her face and tucked them behind her ear, then smiled at her. "Well, the first was to take one's beloved on a date to the seaside. Which I'm doing."

She felt herself beginning color, but that could have been blamed on the chill in the air. "Is that going well?"

"She hasn't bloodied my nose yet, though she's been particularly reluctant to acknowledge that she might like me."

"I like you just fine," she said primly.

"And I like you more than that," he said seriously. "Unfortunately, your grandfather seems to have a schedule for these sorts of things that might override what's in my book."

"It was generous of him," she said. "What he did for me this morning, that is."

"Well, you are his granddaughter," Oliver said, "which I think leaves him simultaneously pleased and unnerved. I also think he wants you to feel that you have options in case you decide you'd rather date a man who wears more browns than black."

She shrugged lightly. "Black does make your hair look very lovely. I might like a few pieces of clothing in that same color."

He smiled and it felt as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud. "You would look marvelous in them. So, let's say you buy a few things in black and have your life in front of you. What else do you want to do?"

She took a deep breath. "Everything."

He laughed a little. "That might be the least surprising thing I've heard from you today." He glanced at her. "Want company on your adventures?"

"Are you suggesting something?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm terrible at this."

"Go read your book."

He smiled. "I will and I'll do better tomorrow. And speaking of tomorrow, what would you say to coming to Cameron Hall with me and meeting my family?"

"Sunshine and the Cameron?" she asked. Those two, at least, she had met before.

He nodded. "And the lads will want to meet you." He paused. "You did tell me—you know when—that your scribe had hidden his manuscript in a crypt."

"In the abandoned kirk up the road just inside McKinnon lands," she said, then she looked at him surprise. "When will this stop?"

"I don't know if it will," he said honestly. "Will you survive it?"

She would have answered him, but they were suddenly overrun by children needing to be fed. Oliver handed them pieces of paper that apparently served for funds in the current day, then held out his hand to her.

"Lunch?"

She nodded and walked with him back toward where he'd left their belongings. She looked at him to find he was watching her with a faint smile. It seemed like an affectionate smile, though, which she appreciated.

"Is this our third date?" he asked.

She considered. "Second, I believe. Why do you ask?"

"The new part of my book that was delivered this morning suggested that a brief, innocent kiss might be appropriate on a third date," he said solemnly. He considered. "Wasn't our first date whilst we sat atop that rock on Cameron soil?"

She conceded the point with a nod.

"Then this is number three?"

"It could be."

He leaned forward, then stopped. "Where's your knife?"

She rolled her eyes, had a brief smile in return, then closed her eyes again at the feel of his lips against hers—

"Ewww, kissing!"

The chorus was deafening. She opened her eyes and looked at Oliver. He glared at the bairns, but she could tell it was merely for their benefit as they responded with laughter and noises of disgust. Oliver looked at her.

"Let's leave them at home tomorrow."

She smiled in spite of herself, kissed him on the cheek before she thought better of it, then walked with him to set up camp on that piece of weaving too fine for the ground.

She supposed there would still be things that were difficult to believe, but somehow having that man there next to her whilst she faced them made everything seem a bit easier.

She was starting to understand why the kitchen maid she'd admired for so long smiled so often.