Three

O liver was beginning to suspect the place between too much sleep and not nearly enough might be the only spot where a man didn't need to consign what he thought he might be seeing out of the corner of his eye to either a hallucination or an overly rested imagination.

Day Two of the Horrible Highland Holiday was off to a brilliant start.

He squinted against the rays of post-dawn sunlight that filtered through the trees, catching motes of whatever it was trees deposited in the air—it was for damned certain that those same flickers of light weren't revealing a woman dressed in a rustic Highland gown, wearing a shawl, and no doubt looking for a hair band to catch up absurdly long waves of hair. He would have hazarded a guess at the color, but he was obviously hallucinating so perhaps the color could be up to him.

He considered, then shook his head. He had been too long out of the company of women, which left him obviously needing to hallucinate one. Maybe he needed to date more. Unfortunately, he seemed to be limited to an excruciating and ever-lengthening series of terrible first dates. He wasn't certain why he seemed to frighten off all sensible dating partners so quickly, though that might have been his inability to make inane small talk, which left him discussing things that interested him.

Perhaps 12th-century art, Renaissance swordmaking, and the inner workings of not only Regency pistols but how quickly a man might down half a bottle of port yet still accept the invitation to pick the lock to his equally Regency-era mis- tress's bedchamber weren't interesting to anyone else.

All the other things he could have discussed—several things that flirted quite heavily with the line between good taste and illegality—were likely best left alone, along with attempting to unravel what he might or might not have just seen out of the corner of his eye.

He liked to be thorough, though, so he took another look around himself to see if there were any lost Scottish maidens to rescue. He found none, so he turned himself back to the matter at hand which was to get himself to what the MacLeods referred to fondly as the witch's house up the way . He'd also heard it referred to as Moraig's house, a woman he knew had been the last clan witch to live there. He hadn't quite managed to investigate the illustrious Miss MacLeod past her name for the simple reason that, the surrounding environs being what they were, he wasn't entirely certain he wouldn't run afoul of her birthdate finding itself firmly entrenched in some century that would make him uncomfortable. He shivered in spite of himself, then carried on to the cottage twenty feet away.

That cottage had been offered to him as a spa-like retreat from the cares and worries of the world, though the pithy warning he'd had from Jamie that morning on his way out the door had been limited to mind the threshold.

He stopped on the edge of that threshold, looked up to make certain nothing was going to drop on his head and kill him, then looked at the lock there. Completely inadequate given that a small running start and a firm shoulder against the door would easily accomplish entry, something he imagined Jamie also knew. He pulled a pair of well-loved tools from their usual resting place on the underside of his watch, made quick work of the deadbolt in front of him, then let himself inside. He flicked on the lights and caught his breath a little at the sight that greeted him.

He felt as if he'd stepped back in time half a century.

He looked over his shoulder to make sure that wasn't the case, but the outside looked as he'd just left it. He'd heard the story, of course, about how Robert and Sunshine Cameron had tried to cross that threshold together and wound up in two entirely different places. He had no reason to disbelieve it—and several reasons to accept it as the absolute truth—but that had nothing to do with him.

He set his bag down on the floor near the kitchen, propped his sword up against the small counter that separated that same kitchen from the rest of what seemed to serve as a reception room. He made note of the sleeping nook that absolutely wasn't going to allow him to do anything but curl up in a ball and hope for the best. Maybe he would throw a blanket on the floor in front of the fireplace and call it good.

He heard the crunch of tires against gravel outside and was half tempted to go hide in the loo. A coward he was not, though, so he took a firm grip on his company manners and went to stand in the doorway. Sunshine Cameron was being given a hand out of the car by one of Patrick MacLeod's lads, Bobby, who fortunately for his ability to continue to breathe hadn't been a part of the recent madness. Oliver nodded at him, had an answering nod that obviously contained a fair amount of manly sympathy, then made his laird's wife a low bow as she approached.

"Lady Sunshine," he said politely.

She inclined her head regally. "Master Phillips."

"Perhaps you would care to take your ease by the fire I haven't built yet, my lady?"

She laughed a little. "That would be lovely, but you know me and doorways. Well, particularly this doorway."

"I understand," he said. He paused. "Not sure I believe it entirely, but I understand."

"After what you've been doing on bank holidays with Jamie recently?"

Oliver shuddered for effect. "Please don't remind me."

"Deny it while you can," Sunny advised with a smile. "And in the spirit of that, why don't we just chat out here? But let me run back to the car first and grab what I brought you—and I need the exercise, so stay right here."

He nodded, though it went against his grain not to exercise his gentlemanly prerogative and fetch. He only lasted until she was halfway back to the cottage before he walked out and took a large black shopping bag from her. The sunlight falling down through the trees was pleasant and she didn't seem to want to sit, so perhaps it was best to stay as far away from the threshold as possible.

He set the bag down, certain it would hold delights he could certainly save for later, then accepted a black book which sported a pair of serene-looking cats sitting back on their haunches and dangling from what were obviously intended to be bookmarks. The cats matched the ones plastered all over his ankle monitor so at least he would be fashionable whilst wallowing in misery. He considered, then looked at Sunny.

"Do I dare?"

"I think you should. Would you like me to periodically remind you not to kill them as we read along together?"

"That would be extremely helpful."

She laughed softly. "I'm sure it will be, so go ahead and dive in."

He steeled himself for the worst, then looked at the title emblazoned on the cover.

Self-Care for Eejits

He exchanged a glance with the wife of the laird he'd pledged his fealty to, the woman who also happened to be the one who anonymously covered him with a blanket or a coat whenever she found him catching a few winks on some flat spot in the Cameron empire's London offices. He'd known, of course, though he hadn't said anything because he tried never to say anything. Life was safer that way.

Sunny was, though, a very lovely woman who deserved every happiness possible, as well as a place to sit presently given her delicate condition.

"Are you sure I can't get you a chair?"

She was watching him with an affectionate, older-sister sort of smile. "I'm too excited about all the things you have to look forward to for any relaxing. What's inside your book?"

He opened the tidy little triple-ring notebook and winced. "There are sections."

"How exciting."

He could think of other words that would have been more apt, but he kept those to himself. He braced himself for absurdities galore and flipped through the tabs. They included but were not limited to: outdoor activities, yoga classes, restorative meditations, nurturing his inner child, and bettering his mind. He took a moment to study the final tab labeled Little Luxuries , then turned the page and noted that the first item on the list was a mani-pedi to be enjoyed whilst sipping a spirulina smoothie.

He looked at Sunny in alarm. "A what?"

"Manicure and pedicure," she clarified. "And a healthful drink."

"Absolutely not."

"You might get a paraffin bath to dip your toes into," she said. "I'd reconsider that. And you already know the benefits of green things."

He did, though he liked to follow up any suppertime forays into health foods with a generous glass of something very boozey, but he was a man of simple tastes. And perhaps he was being too hasty about the manly pedicure. He could, if it came to it, roll up the extra wax into tiny balls and blow them through a straw at his mates. They might at least sting if the right amount of force were applied.

He filed that away as a possibility, then turned to the very back of the book. There was a, Don't blame me, I just wrote what they told me to, luv ya!—Sam penned discreetly on the very last page surrounded by a selection of charming hearts drawn to fill up the rest of the area, no doubt to leave no room for any more torturous activities.

The women would be spared, to be sure, and he might even unbend enough to mourn with them at the terrible straits their men would find themselves in, but he was a forgiving sort.

"At least they're leaving you to the honor system," Sunny noted.

He pulled up the leg of his tracksuit trousers and pointed at the shocking pink ankle monitor that clashed painfully with his green trainers. Sunny looked at him in surprise.

"Is it bugged?"

"I haven't investigated that yet," he admitted, "but I'm certain it's at least sending a detailed record of my movements."

"What do you have to do to get it off?"

"Tick a few items off their list."

She smiled. "They love you, you know."

"A horrifying thought," he said promptly. "I don't suppose your husband is coming along later with the key for this?"

Sunny laughed. "Not a chance. He's in an undisclosed location, sharpening his blades. I was sent because they were certain you wouldn't do me in."

"Terrified of me, are they?"

"If you want the uncomfortable truth, they were worried."

"About me?" Oliver asked with a snort.

"Oliver, you demolished a nursery full of plants."

"It was six inches of a decrepit fuchsia hedge," he protested. "Besides, I was well repaid by a very tough bloke with a heavy metal pole."

"I heard it was a granny—"

"She was spry—"

"And every day of ninety," Sunny continued. "I also heard her weapon of choice was a rolled-up newspaper."

"It still hurt," Oliver muttered.

She looked at him seriously. "They said you fell asleep at the wheel."

He let his breath out slowly. "I did, but I was parked." He paused. "Mostly."

"They also said the hedge was of great historical significance."

"Only because it was in front of some granny's house, and again, she repaid me by beating me about the head with a heavy copy of the Sun on Sunday."

"Terrible."

"I also only bent half a foot of the hedge, which was hardly visible unless you were to look closely." He hesitated, then supposed there was no reason not to be completely honest. "There might have been a handful of blossoms that suffered bruising as well."

She smiled. "They're still worried about you."

He sighed deeply. "I don't make mistakes."

"I know," she said quietly. "They know, too."

"I don't want to give up what I do," he said unwillingly.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't want you to, and the lads don't either. They're teasing you a little with all this, but I really do think it's with the best of intentions."

"That still won't save them."

She smiled. "I imagine they would be disappointed if it did." She nodded at the shopping bag next to him. "Those are things you can wear to yoga class in the village. Nothing in leopard print, which should come as a relief, though you can thank Emily for that."

"I am relieved." He hesitated. "Are you certain I can't at least fetch you a glass of water?"

She shook her head. "Now that my dastardly duty is done, I'm headed back to Maddy's to pick up Breac. We'll come along for your mani-pedi if you like, but I think we'll have to go to Inverness for it."

"I wouldn't bolt if I went on my own."

"It might just be that we enjoy your company," she said. "You are, after all, a Phillips and we don't have a little brother to watch over."

And with that little morsel dropped on his poor heart, she gave him a quick hug, smiled, and walked away.

Oliver exchanged a slight nod with Bobby after Sunny had been carefully tucked back into the car, then picked up the shopping bag and made his way back into the house. He wasn't going to credit that doorway with any sort of magical properties and he absolutely refused to pay any attention to the fact that there was obviously something inside the house that was ferociously setting off his allergies. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes, indulged in a few foul words to bring balance back to his world, and wondered if there was a section in that damned book that would require him to distract himself from too many uncomfortable emotions by eating a hearty breakfast every day.

He shut the door behind himself, locked it out of habit, then indulged in a more thorough investigation of Moraig's magical little cottage. The great room and sleeping nook he'd already looked over, so he opened the lone door to be found inside and discovered an absurdly luxurious loo with a walk-in closet attached. He realized there were things there with his name on them: modern clothes, thankfully, mostly in black and in what he could only assume were styles for the well-dressed lad off on a discreet holiday. Also Emily's doing, no doubt.

He walked back out into the great room and decided there was no time like the present to see if they were planning on starving him to simplify his dietary tasks.

The modest fridge was stocked with green things he would have wagered a week of yoga classes had been provided by Sunny, along with heartier fare he suspected perhaps Jamie had insisted he be allowed to eat.

He had hardly managed to liberate a handful of cold chips from someone's leftovers cunningly hidden behind a cluster of carrots and shove them into his mouth before there came a banging on his front door. Well, Moraig MacLeod's front door. At the moment, he wondered why Jamie hadn't turned the place into a holiday let, but perhaps that was something he could suggest later. He opened the door, fully expecting to find Bobby having returned to drop off leopard-print yoga gear after all.

Instead, he found Patrick MacLeod, medieval clansman, dressed to impress.

Oliver considered the man's gear—saffron shirt, plaid belted tidily around his waist, dirks down the sides of his boots and sword strapped to his back—and decided a distraction might be his only hope.

"Breakfast?" Oliver offered.

"Already had it," Patrick said. "'Tis the most important meal of the day."

Oliver agreed, though he couldn't deny his eating schedule was sometimes as erratic as his sleeping one.

"I thought a hunt might suit," Patrick said with a yawn, as if he could scarce muster up the enthusiasm for the idea.

"Brilliant," Oliver said. If it got him out of the house, he was all for it. "Is this on my list?"

"Nay, ‘tis an extra-curricular activity out of the goodness of my heart."

Hard to argue with that. "Do I get any points for surviving the exercise?"

Patrick only smiled briefly—and a little evilly, it had to be said, so perhaps the current offering wasn't anything to be put in that damned book he wished he could pitch. Unfortunately, he suspected one of those kitty bookmarks might actually be a bell which was no doubt designed to alert any watchers in the woods if he accidentally hurled it as far away from himself as possible.

Possibly.

He turned back to the disaster at hand. "What are we hunting?"

"Whom."

Even better. " Whom are we hunting?"

"I," Patrick said pleasantly.

"You?"

He nodded. " I am hunting."

Oliver felt the first frission of unease slide down his spine. "And whom, if I'm allowed to ask, are you hunting?"

Patrick smiled. "You."

Oliver swallowed past the hunk of fried potato that had inconveniently lodged itself in his throat, something that took more effort than he enjoyed. "And what," he managed, "will you do if you find me?"

Patrick shrugged. "Let's just say if I find you, no one else ever will."

"You're having me on—"

"I'll give you to the count of one hundred."

Oliver could count that far in a handful of languages thanks to very boring thugs over the years who had left him with plenty of time to listen to courses on tape. He could ask for the loo in thirty countries plus find fish and chips almost anywhere, but all he had time for at present was to swear in his favorite language which was his own and wonder if Patrick MacLeod had a sense of humor.

He suspected not.

And he was still wearing that damned tracking anklet that he hadn't dared remove. He couldn't credit Patrick with stooping so low as to use that in his morning's sport, but it also chaffed abominably which might leave him fleeing at a less-than-optimal velocity. All in all, being hunted was not what he wanted to see on the schedule for the morning.

He rubbed his hands together in his best imitation of someone who'd looked over a deal and found it just not quite the thing. "So sorry, old bean," he said, listening to the last two words come out of his mouth and wondering if he'd just lost the rest of his sleep-deprived mind, "but I haven't a thing to wear."

Patrick pursed his lips. "An extra twenty, then," he conceded. "Go find something suitable."

"You can't be serious," Oliver managed.

"Do I look like I'm not serious?"

He looked capable of all sorts of mayhem, but who was to say? Those damned medieval clansmen were just so bloody unpredictable. A bloke never knew if they were joking or if they genuinely intended to use their swords for more deadly business.

"And then you'll give me to a hundred?" Oliver asked, just to make certain he understood the rules of what he sincerely hoped was a game.

"Unless I grow bored." Patrick shrugged. "I don't have much of an attention span, if you want the truth."

There were several things Oliver wanted, but the truth about Patrick MacLeod's attention span was not one of them. He didn't bother wasting time shutting the door. He jumped back into the cottage, pulling off clothes and flinging on vintage gear at the same time—

"Sword, lad," Patrick called.

Oliver hadn't intended to engage in any lollygagging, actually, and a sword would only slow him down. There was wisdom in the old When in Rome trope, but he was in Scotland and he would have a medieval clansman on his tail. Speed was of the essence.

Besides, he wasn't planning on pitching through any time gates, which precluded the need for steel. Well, except the knives down his boots, but that was one of those slightly illegal things he'd been more than flirting with for years. He took a very brief moment to curse himself for not having worked out a utility belt to go under his kilt for use in precarious vintage situations, but in his defense he'd been designing one on the evening he'd been so callously wrapped up and delivered to Scotland.

He wished he'd had time for a decent breakfast instead of someone's takeaway leftovers, but obviously that wasn't on the schedule for the day, either.

He stepped out into the fresh air and left the closing of the door to his new friend. With any luck, Patrick would forget to lock it and someone would steal not only all his clothes but that damned book he was certain was only going to add to the unpleasantness he could sense coming his way—and tracking him from behind—for the rest of the morning.

"Oh," Patrick said, frowning thoughtfully, "I've been going by tens. You'd best run away very quickly."

Oliver tossed a sufficiently vile curse in the direction of his current tormentor, then bolted, still cursing Patrick for being far more awful than he'd anticipated. He wasn't unaccustomed to outrunning all sorts of people—he'd been doing it since boarding school, as it happened—but skipping off into the wild in rustic boots and a skirt whilst not having done any prior reconnaissance of the area was a bit trying.

Also, the truth of the current situation was he just wasn't entirely sure about that younger MacLeod brother. Patrick was delightful to his wife and spawn, but any man who'd been through one of his training courses tended to grow a bit pale and refuse to comment on the particulars when asked.

Holiday? Not, apparently, in the current lifetime.

He wasn't incapable of turning himself into a ghost on the fly, however, so he ruthlessly slammed any further useless thoughts behind the usual door in his mind he reserved for that kind of thing, took stock of his surroundings whilst he was sprinting past them, and made a plan. Obviously being out in the open was going to be best avoided. Doubling back and hiding in Patrick's kitchen where he might manage a decent breakfast was likely out of the question for the moment as well. Obviously he would need to simply make the best use possible of his usual methods of disappearing.

The morning wore on.

Unfortunately, Patrick didn't wear out, which likely contributed to the eternal nature of the hours. Oliver finally stopped in the shadows of the forest slightly to the north of Moraig's to catch his breath and decided that the best he could do was hope that Patrick's middle-aged—plus a few hundred years—knees would give out. His own knees that were sliding toward thirty-two trips around the sun would obviously have the advantage.

He heard a twig snap behind him, shot Patrick a smile over his shoulder, then bolted.

He didn't feel any blades going into his back, didn't find himself tackled to the ground and smothered, and he most certainly didn't hear the plaintive calls of a medieval Scotsman begging him in lilting tones to slow down so he could be vanquished.

He did, however, run directly through a time gate.

The fact that he could feel himself blundering through the centuries was appalling enough. That he continued to run until he'd run into a situation he wasn't sure was going to go all that well was just…

Well, he wondered how he might manage to count it as self-care because it was for damned certain no one else would be coming to rescue him.

Then again, the woman standing there surrounded by a clutch of Highlanders he didn't recognize, trying to pull herself away from one of them, perhaps didn't have anyone to rescue her , and that he couldn't allow.

He took a quick reading of his position, wondering how any time traveling might affect his precise longitudinal location, made himself a mental note to make an addition to Jamie's master map, then continued on into a situation he definitely hadn't asked for but perhaps might be able to put to rights. At least he was wearing sleeves that covered his watch and a plaid in colors Jamie had claimed were authentic covering the rest of him. He could have been in jeans and a Led Zeppelin sweatshirt.

On the less-helpful side of things, he wasn't their kin and he was also minus his sword, which might be the last time he would leave home without it.

He downshifted mentally into baffled nobleman and prepared to do whatever it took to keep himself alive.