Twenty-eight

M airead MacLeod Phillips walked down the steps of a very exclusive hall on the outskirts of London, holding onto the hand of an extremely braw and handsome man, and maintained a pleasant mien. They were, after all, at work and decorum needed to be maintained.

"What did you think?" Oliver murmured

She tried not to snort, but ‘twas difficult. She suspected they were being monitored, though, so she put on one of her most tasteful smiles and looked at him.

"Those were fake," she said, looking at him lovingly.

"You think so?"

"If that was 16th-century bobbin lace, my love, then I am a purple-winged faery," she said pleasantly, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "Sam would have gotten up and walked out, I daresay."

"And you didn't?"

"Well," she said with another polite smile, "I had you to look at, didn't I? No reason to spoil the view by not lingering where I could watch it."

He smiled pleasantly. "And the spoons?"

"That's your purview, my lord, not mine."

"Silver plate," he said, as blandly as if they'd been discussing whether to have supper at six or seven. "Nice art, though."

"We might help them improve their taste," she offered. "They were willing to pay quite a robust sum for more items of interest."

"Should we help them?"

"I'm not sure how we could possibly refuse."

"Bettering the world wherever we go," he agreed.

She nodded with another polite smile and allowed him to help her into the back of a sleek Mercedes. She smiled politely at Rufus and kept her best side toward the window on the off chance she was being photographed. She felt for Oliver's hand once he was safely seated next to her, but continued to wear her company face until they were well off the grounds and she could relax.

"Interesting afternoon, loves?" Rufus asked.

"Lots of dosh but absolutely no taste," Oliver said with a sigh. "We'll see what can be done about the state of their collectables, but they certainly won't be selling any of them any time soon."

Mairead listened to them launch into a discussion about what sorts of new things might suit the family, then closed her eyes and allowed herself the pleasure of her own thoughts whilst she was being ferried about by someone who took great care to keep them safe.

During her original fortnight in London with Oliver, she hadn't believed such a thing was possible. The city had seemed so full of people that she'd feared she would never be comfortable.

But then she'd realized that Sunny was also there, and Samantha, and Emily, and even the granny who guarded Cameron's offices and sent messengers scurrying with just a look. She'd been grateful for that small circle of companions, especially since a great deal of Oliver's labors took place in London. They had also made many trips to several different places in England and Scotland during the fall, which had been very interesting.

And then one evening, he'd handed her what he'd called plane tickets and showed her a photograph of an island in what he called the Caribbean.

She had discovered that she was exceptionally fond of flying.

She was also hopelessly fond of the man sitting next to her, rubbing his thumb over hers and looking as if he might soon fall asleep. He opened one eye and looked at her.

"I'm awake."

She smiled and shifted a little to look at him. "I had an email from Jamie yesterday."

Oliver looked slightly uneasy. "Is he rescinding his blessing?"

"'Tis a bit late for that," she said dryly, "but nay, he likes you well enough, which you know. He actually had a few details he thought I might like to know about."

"Concerning bad actors in the past?"

She nodded.

"Well," he said, "you do like to know how things end. So, what happened?"

"Where shall I begin?"

"In the middle?"

She laughed a little. "That, I believe, is your favorite place to start anything, so I shall. I don't think you'll be surprised to learn that Ambrose took over the clan at ten-and-three."

He winced. "I'm not surprised, but I can't imagine the transition was an easy one for him. What happened?"

"After we last saw her, Deirdre returned to the hall, but not quietly. She brewed a very warm quarrel with Master James who convinced Tasgall to put her to the fire."

Oliver closed his eyes briefly, then looked at her. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "She was crazy, but she didn't deserve that. What happened to your brother?"

"I'm afraid he didn't fare much better," she admitted. "Apparently he got into an argument with Angus Fergusson and found his life coming to an end on the man's sword."

Oliver rubbed his free hand over his face, then smiled at her. "I'm so glad you're here."

"So am I," she said with feeling.

"So what of your uncle?" Oliver smiled. "I half expect him to show up for dinner so he can tell us of his adventures himself, but maybe not."

She smiled. "I daresay neither of us would be surprised. But in his own time, he was a great comfort to Ambrose." She paused. "I'm not certain how Jamie would know that, but I'm also not going to ask how many times he travelled to another supper table to gather those sorts of tidings."

"I'm guessing it was more than once," Oliver offered.

"They did seem to know each other well," she agreed.

He looked at her hand in his for a moment or two, then looked at her seriously. "What of Master James?"

"He survived his encounter with Jamie, unfortunately, and put five more people to the fire before he had the misfortune of wandering north and attempting to ply his trade on the Camerons. Jamie claimed that young Alistair had no patience for superstitions, which led to Master James moving on to seek his victims elsewhere."

"If you tell me he now fell into a bog and drowned, I won't believe you."

She looked at him archly. "He fell off a cliff and dashed himself against the rocks below." She paused. "I think he had help with that, but that soul was never identified. It could have been just a sudden gust of wind."

He smiled. "It's probably best to leave it at that. What about Kenneth?"

"Jamie didn't have much to say about him past he kept to himself and was very kind to my father to the very end."

Oliver squeezed her hand gently. "How much longer did your father live?"

"Five years," she said. She knew it was in the past, centuries in the past, but she still couldn't help a twinge of sorrow over the tidings. "He passed peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by clansmen who loudly proclaimed how blessed and fortunate they'd been to have such a man as head of their clan. Songs were sung and tales told of his prowess in battle and his care of his people. Ambrose styled himself as such a man in every particular."

Oliver studied her for a moment or two. "That's pretty specific."

"I'm guessing Jamie was there to witness it."

Oliver smiled. "I would imagine so. He's very protective of his clan members."

"He is," she agreed. "And in case you were curious, Fiona turned out to be a lass determined to take charge of her fate."

"That sounds familiar."

She smiled. "Doesn't it, though? Jamie told me to do some digging into clan history if I wanted the details."

"She's just following in the footsteps of her terribly courageous aunt who didn't let anything stop her from having what she wanted."

"Except maybe long hair," she muttered. She looked over at him to find he was watching her with an affectionate smile. "What?" she asked, reaching up self-consciously to tug on her hair.

He caught her hand, kissed it, then smiled again. "I think it's adorable."

"You just think I'm adorable," she said. "And there's my third time of repeating that today for your satisfaction. Where's the box ticked in my notebook?"

He looked at her briefly, then pulled a slim volume out of his inner jacket pocket and made a production of flipping through the pages. "Let me see," he said, tapping his chin with a pen he pulled from a different pocket. He shot her a look. "We'd best be thorough here."

She rolled her eyes, but not very hard. He was, as she reminded him regularly, a wee fiend, but she loved him beyond reason. She thought she was terribly plain, but he seemed to find her beautiful and she wasn't going to argue.

"Meditation," he said, turning the sheaves. "Mastering all the languages your husband doesn't know so we don't starve in foreign countries, allowing your husband to shamelessly pamper you at all hours, reminding your husband how gorgeous you are if he's too dazzled by your gorgeous self to think straight." He looked at her. "Have I missed anything?"

"I think there is something inside about spotted yoga trews."

"As long as you're wearing them," he said with feeling. "And you're right. Yoga, continuing your self-defense classes, plotting ways to kill off Ewan Cameron and make it look like an accident." He glanced at her. " Now have I missed anything?"

She smiled. "Nay, nothing but what I will have once my book is complete."

He tucked the book back into his jacket and took her hand. "What would you like?"

"Besides you?"

"You already have me," he reminded her. "Every day for the rest of your life." He smiled. "What other thing would you like?"

"A holiday in Scotland?"

He burst out laughing. Mairead shared a look with Rufus that needed no words. They had discussed several times the joy they both took in Oliver's cheerful laugh, something Rufus said he'd heard far too seldom in the past.

Oliver laced his fingers with hers. "If you like," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Or we could go to Italy again and gawk at some more Renaissance art."

"That is tempting," she conceded. "It is my era, after all."

"They lost out on a fabulous model," he conceded, "but Michelangelo's loss is my gain. Let's add another trip to Florence to our list, shall we?"

She nodded happily and watched him jot that down before he pocketed the goods and reached for her hand again to hold it between his own. She'd tried to have a view of his new little notebook that was covered just in black with no foul names stamped into the front of it, but he'd claimed there were lists in there of wooing ideas. Not being one to want to spoil surprises, she'd left him to his secrets and counted herself fortunate that she was the delighted recipient of so many of them.

At the moment, though, he was obviously not a delighted recipient of his phone alerting him that a text had been received. Several, by the sound of things. He pulled his phone from his pocket, flipped it open and looked at a handful of things, then put it back in his pocket with a sigh.

"The lads?"

He sighed and handed her his phone. "Siblings."

"Your sister?"

"And a younger brother," he muttered. He shot her a quick look. "What am I going to do with one of those ?"

She smiled. "Love them, I imagine. And at least with your sister, there is merit to her desire to be free of your parents. I think you might become her knight in shining armor."

He pursed his lips and shot her a look. "I've hung up my spurs."

She smiled. "Have you?"

He blew his hair out of his eyes, but said nothing.

She smiled and leaned her head back against the seat and simply watched him as Rufus wove his way through London traffic.

He sighed finally. "I'm thinking about it."

"She needs a rescue."

"I know."

"You're very good at that sort of thing."

"And what will I have if I trot out my chivalry?"

"Me," she said with a smile, "for the rest of your life until we're a pair of wizened old apples, grinning foolishly at each other over our porritch."

"For you, then."

"You're a good man, Oliver Phillips."

"After we get back from Scotland," he said firmly. "Maybe."

"Are you going to tell her that before we go?"

He looked at her and scowled, but that didn't last long. He smiled briefly, leaned forward and kissed her not quite as briefly, then sat back and sighed.

"You're persuasive."

"I understand what it's like to be rescued from my terrible life by the Duke of Birmingham."

He laughed briefly. "I suppose she'll have to settle for the older brother she doesn't know."

"Then it will be a happy new beginning for her," she said.

He smiled. "I suppose so. And I think we do have a few cousins scattered around the isle. She might prefer refuge with them until she finds her feet, though I'm not sure what sort of life skills she has."

"Sam and I will take her to John Bagley's when we're in Scotland."

"The saints preserve me," he muttered in Gaelic.

She laughed at him, kissed him sweetly for his trouble, then rested her head on his shoulder and happily watched him as he held her hand between his, stroking her thumb with his as was his habit. She'd originally thought it was to either soothe himself or remind her he was there, but she had come to suspect over the months that it was that he wanted to remind himself that she was there.

Because he loved her.

She closed her eyes and permitted herself a bit more thinking about the state of things.

It had taken time, but she'd eventually read her book of memories that her Victorian scribe had so faithfully recorded. It had taken less time than she'd feared to become used to the letters, and she'd endlessly ignored the feeling she'd had that whispered that she'd learned those letters in a different time and place. which had led quite naturally to an investigation—gingerly, of course—of Master Sinclair McKinnon's other offerings. She'd happily tucked her tale into the safe in Oliver's flat, then gone with him to negotiate the proper curation of Sinclair's best works.

She hadn't been entirely surprised by how a small card with the Cameron name printed so boldly upon it could have earned them such respect, but she had put on a dress and Oliver had looked perfectly scrummy in his black suit and tie over his crisp white shirt. If she'd been buying any of his goods, she would have immediately handed over all her money and thanked him for the pleasure of it.

Her life, quite obviously, had not turned out in any way to be what she'd thought it would. She'd spent so many years wondering how she might escape her straits when all it had taken was an insertion into her life of a certain man at the right moment in time. Not even Mistress Constance Buchanan could have imaged up anything that would have suited her more perfectly or given her such endless joy.

She was very blessed, indeed.