Twenty-five

O liver leaned back against a ridiculously comfortable overstuffed chair, propped his feet up on a stool where he could toast his toes against the fire, and watched his newly made wife prowling through the kitchen, investigating things that intrigued her.

He fully intended to offer himself as an item to put very next on her list, but he was content at the moment to simply watch her in her spy outfit for which he absolutely owed Emily a very large bouquet of flowers.

Mairead MacLeod was, he would freely admit, absolutely scorching in black.

And he was going to be of absolutely no use to anyone for the foreseeable future. He was half tempted to send Derrick a text informing him that the holiday had been such a success that he thought he might want to extend it for several months. The village had a decent grocery and a fabulous chippy, the camping mattress they'd made good use of the night before and tucked away in Moraig's sleeping nook had been surprisingly comfortable, and he imagined with enough flattery, Emily might occasionally bring them more clothes so they didn't have to do any wash.

He could think of much worse ways to spend the fall than holed up in a charming little cottage with the woman he simply couldn't keep his hands off. Well, except for the moment, but she likely needed a chance to breathe now and again.

He came back to himself to find that she was leaning against the sink, watching him. She was smiling faintly, though, which he thought might be a good sign. He crooked his finger at her, had a laugh as his reward, but also had his handfasted wife soon sitting on his lap with her arm around his neck.

"I love you," he said with a smile.

"I love you back," she said, kissing him sweetly. "I found something in the wee refrigerator."

"Didn't we just have breakfast?"

"We did, but ‘tis important to keep up our strength."

"Well," he said with a slow smile, "I suppose that's very true."

He would have started something that might have required a bit of sustenance after the fact, but found himself facing instead a manila folder. He looked at his wife in alarm.

"What's that?"

"Something I found amongst the vegetables, though I'll tell you plain, Oliver, I don't know why you'd want to eat leaves."

He couldn't have agreed more, but he took the folder just the same. "I'm afraid to look inside."

"I'll hold you."

He started to pitch the container of doom over his shoulder, but Mairead caught it before he could.

"It might be important," she warned.

"If it's from the lads, that means they were here whilst we were not which is alarming and they're adding tasks to my book which might distract us from other things."

She considered. "Let's just have a look, then, and see how far it merits being flung out the front door."

Oliver opened the folder to find a single sheaf of paper there along with a little envelope of what turned out to be stickers in the shape of a particular feline. He handed those to his wife.

"They like you."

"I like these," she said a little breathlessly, then she smiled at him quickly. "Not as much as you, of course, but they are very wee and charming."

"If you pull off the backs, they stick on things. Please," he added, "do not stick them on me."

She laughed a little, kissed him sweetly, then nodded toward his note. "What madness are they combining now?"

He looked at the note and sighed.

Don't think this means you get out of your holiday. The book must be completed! Don't cheat any more, especially on the maths. An almost-running car awaits you… maybe.

Mairead cleared her throat carefully. "I could purchase you an automobile," she offered. "I have gold enough for something small, I imagine."

He was torn between wanting to pull up a bank statement for her and going down on his knees again and professing undying love for a woman who apparently liked him well enough to be concerned that he have wheels. He chose a smile instead and offered another in what he hoped would be an endless succession of sweet kisses between the two of them.

"I have a car," he said a few minutes later. "Two actually." Which he did, namely a non-descript Ford for skulking around behind less savory types and a ridiculously expensive Audi that put him firmly in the category of Britain's rudest drivers, but it had suited him at the time when he'd plunked down his hard-earned sterling for it.

Her eyes widened. "Are you so wealthy, then? I—"

"Can absolutely afford to purchase yourself as many things in black as you like with my funds," he finished for her. He smiled. "I won't let us starve, Mair."

She looked at her hand that was resting on his chest for a moment or two, then met his eyes. "I like being included in your life."

He had to clear his throat not because he'd suddenly become overwhelmed by emotion but because the fire was smoky. "I am thrilled you want to be."

"What will we do after your holiday is over?" she asked hesitantly. "I suppose I could stay with Jamie and Elizabeth."

Why was halfway out of his mouth before he caught himself and put his brain in neutral. He looked at the woman in his arms and considered her upbringing, a few of her relatives who still deserved a right proper beating, and her previous expectations for her future. His usual refuge was silence so he didn't make a complete ass of himself at any given moment, but he suspected that with that woman there, that would be a poor choice.

"Did you give yourself to me yesterday?" he asked.

"Several times, if memory serves."

He laughed briefly, because he was just so damned happy. "I think you're right. Did I give myself to you?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "Aye you did," she said. "You libertine."

He kissed her firmly, then sat back. "I believe, my love, that that giving and taking has left us with no choice but to carry on with that sort of thing until immediately before we begin moldering in our graves."

"If you like," she said, looking as if the thought wasn't displeasing. "Then what shall we do after your holiday is over?"

"Go back to London for a bit, I imagine," he said slowly. "My job is there, after all. As for anything else, as long as we're together, why don't we take the days as they come?"

She nodded, smiling.

He tossed the folder over his shoulder. "Now, about that giving and taking thing—"

A banging on the front door almost sent him pitching out of his chair. He looked at his wife who was looking at him with the same expression of alarm he suspected he was wearing.

"Let's go hide in the loo," he said with feeling.

"It could be food."

He considered. "Might be."

"You need your sword."

He realized that it had been so long since he'd worried about steel that he honestly had no idea where it was. He followed her finger that she was pointing back over her shoulder to find his sword leaning up against one side of the hearth. He considered, then shrugged.

"We'll slam the door shut if it's someone sketchy."

"And if it's your mates?"

"We'll slam the door, then push something in front of it to keep it shut."

She smiled and crawled off his lap. He started toward the door, then turned and pulled her into his arms. He held her until the banging on the door began to be more than annoying, then pulled away and looked at her.

"Later."

She smiled. "I have black pajamas."

"I'll love them."

"I could place these adorable kitty stickers on them."

He imagined she didn't expect a proper response to that, so he only glanced at her, had a smile as his reward, then took her hand to pull her with him across Moraig's very small great room and over to the door. He looked at his wife briefly, had a firm nod in response, then opened the door.

He was utterly unsurprised to find three grinning eejits standing there, baskets in hand.

He started to speak, then gave up. Words were beyond him.

Mairead peeked around the door he hadn't quite opened fully. "Och, it's the lads," she said brightly.

Oliver shot those same lads a look of promise, then stepped aside so his bride could have a decent look at them and perhaps rethink her enthusiasm.

Ewan stepped forward and made her a low bow before he held out his burden. "We brought you treats and treasures, my lady."

"Pox-spotted yoga trews?" she asked breathlessly, accepting the basket and peering inside. "Look, Oliver, there is a set for me!"

"I brought food," Peter said in garbled tones. "What I thought you might fancy, miss."

"Mrs.," Oliver corrected with a scowl.

Peter shot him a look, then made Mairead a bit of a bow. "Mrs. MacLeod-Phillips, of course."

She bestowed one of her perfect smiles on him. "How kind of you, Peter. What sort?"

"Chocolate, chips, and those biscuits of Mrs. Gies's that you fancied," Peter managed, coloring furiously.

Oliver watched his handfasted wife welcome in a pair of those demons and was only slightly mollified that Derrick remained behind with him by the doorway instead of bounding into that tiny croft as if he'd actually been invited. Oliver looked at him coolly.

"You're interrupting my honeymoon," he said pointedly, "which, as you'll remember, I didn't do to yours."

Derrick clapped him on the shoulder. "Just taking the—"

"I know what you're taking out of me," Oliver muttered.

Derrick smiled. "We actually came to invite you two to lunch at Patrick's."

"Lunch?"

"A dual clan affair that will no doubt send shockwaves through Cameron and MacLeod family tree branches back centuries. Jamie's coming as well. Actually, he and Ian are right behind us, bearing gifts."

Oliver looked over Derrick's shoulder to find that was indeed the case. He made Jamie a bow, then straightened.

"My lord James," he said politely. "Come to check on your granddaughter?"

Jamie smiled briefly. "No, Ollie lad, I'm sure she's managing you well enough. Young Ian, lad, hand him your burden."

"We brought you luxuries from Tavish Fergusson's shop," Young Ian said, holding out a bag, "but Father intimidated him right proper so you can be certain the goods are untainted."

Oliver suspected, having gone with Robert Cameron a time or two to Tavish's shop to keep him properly cowed, that worrying about the quality was justified. He welcomed Jamie and Ian inside Moraig's house and sighed at the sight of his mates and his wife gathered in front of the hearth, welcoming Jamie in and making sure he was comfortably seated.

There wasn't a thinking lad amongst that group, to be sure.

He realized with a start that he had company in the person of Jamie's eldest son. He suspected by the look on the lad's face that he had something to confess, but that likely came from having a few of those sorts of moments himself during his youth.

"What is it?" he murmured.

"I lost the book."

Oliver looked at him in surprise. "What book?"

" The book," Young Ian said miserably. "The Constance Buchanan book." He paused and looked up at Oliver. "I'm approaching an age, you ken, when I might want to consort with the fairer sex."

Oliver put his hand on the lad's shoulder. "A very wise choice, then."

"I didn't mean to lose it. I'd been keeping it in a tree."

"Out in front here?"

Young Ian nodded.

"Very reasonable."

Young Ian paused, then looked at him. "Should I tell my Da, do you think?"

"I imagine he already knows."

"He knows everything."

"And what he doesn't, your mother does."

Young Ian looked out over the inside of the croft with a thoughtful frown. Oliver joined him. It had been that sort of holiday so far.

Young Ian looked up at him, his expression troubled. "Will it harm Mair, do you suppose?"

"We won't allow it to," Oliver assured him.

"I should go speak to my father."

"It might make you feel better."

Young Ian nodded briskly, put his shoulders back, and strode away, no doubt to conquer. Oliver didn't blame the lad at all if he changed his mind two steps into his journey and instead went to prop himself up next to Oliver's sword. He sent Oliver a look of pleading that was unmistakable, so Oliver only shook his head and smiled. He wasn't going to tell the lad's tale for him, though it did answer at least the question of how the book had found itself liberated from the lady Elizabeth's bookshelf.

He supposed the next question to be answered was where both halves of it found themselves at present.

He leaned back against the door for a bit, picking up the thread of the thoughts he'd been thinking at Cameron Hall whilst he'd been about the happy labor of keeping Mairead warm and comfortable on the sofa. The manuscript Sinclair McKinnon had fashioned had been remarkably preserved, though he was still committed to the idea that it was because the little stone box had been above the flood line. Perhaps the chapel had also benefitted from a lack of patronage which had left the air inside not quite as moist as it might have been otherwise.

A book out in the open, though, was an entirely different story. He hadn't questioned Mairead as to the particulars, but he couldn't imagine the same hollowed out spot she'd used had been the same one Young Ian had discovered. The tree would have grown, for one thing. Even if the manuscript had remained in Mairead's hiding place and survived the four hundred subsequent years of tree growth and Scottish weather, it just wasn't possible that it would still be intact. He wasn't above hazarding a bit of a climb to make certain at some point, but definitely not for the next few days.

"You thought Oliver was the Duke of Birmingham?"

Oliver snapped back to himself and had the words Derrick had just choked out register. He listened to the rest of the lads have a jolly old laugh about it, treated his boss to the rude gesture he was obviously expecting, then rolled his eyes and walked over to see if he couldn't commandeer a spot next to his bride.

"The man on the cover was fair-haired," Mairead offered, "though Oliver is far more handsome. His noble qualities, though, and obvious chivalry seemed a perfect match to me."

And with that, they were off, though Oliver credited those lads there with knowing how close they were to death by his hands because the sport at his expense was mercifully brief. He imagined that had to do with Jamie rubbing his hands together as if he had something important to say.

But before he could, Young Ian stepped forward and looked at his father. "I apologize, Father," he said, making his sire a low, formal bow. "I am the one who lost the book after having pinched it from Mum's library."

Oliver suspected Jamie was trying very hard not to smile, but he did manage a very serious look at least initially.

"Stealing is wrong, son."

"I was borrowing, Father."

Oliver looked around to find the entire company conceding that with nods of agreement. He took a moment to smile at his wife who had slipped her hand into his and given him a smile of her own, then turned back to the conversation at hand.

"You see," Young Ian said, looking as if he hoped very much that his father would, "I was looking for wooing ideas."

Jamie looked as if he might have wanted to stroke his chin, but perhaps that moment hadn't quite arrived. "Do you have a lass you fancy, then, son?"

"I'm interested more in a general sense," Young Ian said frankly. "If I find a gel I like, I had planned to ask you for the particulars."

Oliver shook his head in silent admiration of the lad's technique. The clan MacLeod was in good hands with Young Ian in line for the chieftainship. He listened to without really hearing the rest of the conversation which seemed to revolve around books lost and manuscripts found and concerns over things being in the past that shouldn't be.

"But all's well that ends well," Jamie said, rubbing his hands together. "Is there dessert?"

"Da, we haven't had lunch yet," Young Ian said, sounding slightly appalled.

"Son, if there is dessert in front of you, ‘tis best to avail yourself of it whilst your mother isn't watching."

Oliver watched Young Ian absorb that advice with the appropriate solemnity. And he didn't particularly want to eavesdrop, but the cottage was so damned small that he couldn't help but overhear Young Ian coming to kneel down by his father and apologize again.

Jamie smiled and reached out to ruffle his hair. "You could have chosen much worse tomes to study."

"I'm sorry, Da."

Jamie only shook his head. "Not to worry, son. I think it did your aunt Mairead a goodly service in the past and I'm certain we'll find it here in the future at some point."

"Oliver," Ewan called, "come be a love and find us a pan we can put the lava cake into. Madame Gies made it especially for you, for some unfathomable reason."

"He does her washing up," Peter said wisely.

Oliver had to admit that was generally true, but it always allowed him the chance to drag out his French which should have been better considering it was hardwired into his genes courtesy of his mother. Plus, he wasn't too proud to admit he liked having someone in his life who felt like a grandmother. Perhaps she would be the same sort of thing for Mairead in time.

He looked over to find his lady wife currently in earnest conversation with Young Ian and left her to it. He imagined, by the look of relief on the lad's face, that she was absolving him of some unnecessary guilt. He wasn't about to interrupt that.

He took a deep breath and threw himself into the fray that was too many men in one very small kitchen. If there were a few friendly elbows thrown and a bit of happy cursing trotted out for inspection, he supposed it was nothing more than standard fare. He was fairly certain at some point in Jamie and Young Ian decided to forgo dessert and head for Patrick's, which he supposed left more for the rest of them.

The smell was, he had to admit, heavenly. He didn't imagine anyone would ever manage to lure Madame Gies away from her happy place at Cameron Hall, but if he could have found a way, he most certainly would have. It might be worth even a discreet inquiry about her willingness to perhaps provide cookery lessons. Mairead at least might appreciate his efforts.

"Oliver, where's your wife?"

He looked around Moraig's wee croft and realized she wasn't there. He tamped down a ridiculous feeling of panic and went to check the door of the loo. Finding it unlocked, he knocked. Perhaps she had simply wanted to change into those terrifying spotted yoga trews. When he heard no response, he decided that he could just poke his head inside and see if she'd hidden herself away with Constance Buchanan's Highland laird offering.

The loo was empty and so was the wee dressing room attached to it.

He strode back out into the great room and walked over to the door, then came to a teetering halt. The door was ajar, but he distinctly remembered Mairead having closed it firmly behind Jamie. They always closed the door firmly. They had damned good reason to close the door very firmly.

"Oliver?"

Oliver looked at Ewan and felt a repeat of the horror he'd felt that first night—

He slammed the door shut on those thoughts and wrenched the door open, intending to fling himself outside and rush off to find her. Unfortunately, he found himself held by the arms until his head cleared enough that he could stop swearing at his mates.

"She's likely just outside," he said hoarsely.

Derrick nodded. "Likely so, but let's gear up anyway." He paused. "Just in case."

Oliver supposed Derrick had good reason for that given that he'd once lost Samantha in Renaissance London and had to go after her. Derrick had also spent his share of time before he'd met Sam as Jamie's traveling companion of choice.

"I don't think…" Oliver could scarce finish the sentence.

"I don't either," Derrick said calmly, "but let's do what we do best, shall we? For all we know, your lady has decided to lead us on a merry chase so we don't go to fat. Peter, go pull out that cake so it doesn't burn. We'll be back in fifteen to reheat it."

Oliver found an earbud and mic slapped into his hand by Ewan who had already gone into spy mode and was checking his own gear. Oliver managed to get his shoes on because he found he had no choice but to do as he always did when faced with things that were not useful to think about at the moment.

He took his fear and slammed it behind the door in his mind he reserved for that sort of thing, slipped out the front door with his mates, and paused to let Derrick set their plan of attack with his usual collection of gestures and nods. Peter and Ewan went west and he slipped around the east side of Moraig's house with his boss, keeping to the side of the house and wishing the shadows were much deeper.

He supposed, ten minutes north and much deeper into the forest, that the shadows weren't going to make any difference. He stopped beside Derrick and looked at the madness in progress twenty paces away.

"Don't let me kill him," he murmured.

"We'll see," Derrick said grimly in a low voice. "What now?"

"Surround him. I'll see if it's me they want."

Derrick signaled to Ewan and Peter, then melted into the darkness.

Oliver had a final look at the glade there in the woods, a place he'd never thought anything of during his previous explores, but now he wondered why not. It was a lovely place, actually, and would have made a fine spot for a holiday let. He would have to bring that up to Jamie the next time he saw him. But later. He had business at the moment that would not wait.

He took a deep breath, stilled his mind, and stepped out into the glade.