Five

O liver walked through the woods near Moraig's house and hoped that if his unerring sense of direction were ever going to fail him, it wouldn't be presently. That didn't begin to address the fact that along with going in the right direction, he needed to get himself back to the right spot on the cosmic timeline because he didn't particularly want to find himself living out his life in 16th-century Scotland.

Day Three and his holiday was threatening to go completely sideways.

He squinted at the compass on his watch, though the truth was that the terrain hadn't changed all that much over the past four hundred years. He was probably fairly safe continuing to head to the gate he knew lay on the border between MacLeod and Cameron lands.

Knew was a very hopeful sort of word, but he was a hopeful sort of lad when he wasn't cynically assessing his surroundings for random thugs. He paused under the eaves of the forest and looked out over the landscape in front of him to retake his position and make certain he was still alone. It was barely dawn and he hadn't lingered over breakfast. He'd paid his respects to Laird Ranald, nodded seriously over warnings about odd happenings in the forests near the keep from Ranald's brother Lachlan, then promised the laird's son Tasgall that since he'd brought greetings from those in royal power in Edinburgh, he would be returning there to carry MacLeod felicitations as well.

He was fairly certain he had a five quid note stuffed into his boot which was as close to royalty as he—or any of his dinner companions from the night before—was ever going to get, so perhaps that would excuse him for his creative bit of fiction.

He'd made a production of heading east that morning, only doubling back through the forest surrounding Moraig's house when he was certain he'd lost the scouts following him. Perhaps he could have been less fastidious about that given that he had no desire to tempt fate again with another visit without a sword, a plan, and perhaps a good reason to be where he shouldn't have been, but as he'd noted before, he liked to be thorough. That, and James MacLeod liked to keep things in the past tidy, a principle he agreed with when it came to slightly sketchy doings.

He rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head sharply. He wasn't unaccustomed to all-nighters for various reasons, but he had to admit that engaging in one whilst lingering in a medieval keep inhabited by late 16th-century Highlanders was definitely not the norm. Coming to from an unwilling half hour of slumber to find himself still in the great hall with his English self unpierced by half a dozen Claymores and his plaid almost dry from where he'd had soup spilled on him the night before had been an additional relief.

At least he'd only seen the inside of the keep and not the inside of Jamie's dungeon, which was a stroke of good fortune. He would relay that happy news to Jamie when next they met over a mug of ale and some meditation.

He rubbed his arms briskly, but that didn't help him warm up any at all. The next time he traveled through time, he would be better kitted out. He was much more comfortable in a pair of jeans with sensible trainers on his feet than draped in a plaid with boots on his feet and his arse covered but bare to the wind. Perhaps there was good reason his ancestors had opted for the southern side of Hadrian's Wall. Puritanical about their knicker choices, no doubt.

Or perhaps it had been the weather. He would have to research it, but he was fairly certain he'd just spent the night in the middle of a Little Ice Age. Four hundred Scottish words for snow? He understood why. The damned country likely had just as many words for rain.

He took one more look to make certain he was still on his own, then carried on out to the spot where he knew the gate lay, admiring the scenery just a bit as he went. Admittedly, there was plenty of spectacular scenery to be gawked at in Scotland—fabulous stretches of glorious beaches, majestic mountains, and the occasional restaurant where they knew how to cook up cattle that hadn't been raided earlier in the week—but that didn't mitigate the horrors of midges, soggy feet, and yet more midges.

The next time he went on holiday, it would be to some sunny Caribbean island where he was just certain there couldn't possibly be any gates through t—

" MacLeod !"

Oliver jumped away from the shout, then whirled around to face a rather unfriendly looking clansman who didn't seem at all reluctant to use Oliver's collarbone as a resting place for the point of his perilously sharp blade.

"You shouldn't," the clansman began politely, "ever lose your sword."

Damn it, did none of these bastards ever sleep? Oliver would have glared at Patrick MacLeod, but he didn't know him well enough to anticipate how that might go for him. He set aside the relief he felt at being—or so he hoped—back in his own time and prepared to keep himself alive in a different century.

Holiday? The word didn't begin to apply.

"I didn't have one to begin with," he said briskly.

"Not my problem."

"I didn't sleep well last night."

Patrick snorted. "And I should care about that, why?"

"Because killing your quarry before you've stalked it to your satisfaction would be stupid—"

He missed losing his head only because he had decent reflexes. That was the only thing that he could say about the encounter that was positive, however, because he had no sword, Patrick's sword was very sharp and obviously well-used, and he—still—hadn't had enough sleep. He managed to keep himself from becoming a resting place for what he was certain was medieval steel, but he suspected that was nothing more than dumb luck. That made him angry—mostly at himself—and anger inspired him to reach for and use his hands and feet in ways he generally only resorted to when his need was very dire.

A pity Patrick MacLeod seemed to know the same techniques, which left him wondering just where in the hell the man had learned such an impressive array of martial arts.

He eventually found himself in the usual place he wound up whilst on his Scottish pleasure trip, namely flat on his back, looking up into a misty sky and not having to wonder why the Scots had so many bloody names for what that sky produced. He glanced to his left to find his companion resting comfortably a few feet away with his hands clasped over his belly, looking perfectly at ease. Oliver sat up, dragged his hands through his hair, then shifted to face his current torturer.

"My apologies," he said without hesitation.

Patrick looked at him. "For what?"

"Resorting to other things than steel."

"You didn't hurt me."

"Clearly not."

Patrick sat up without so much as a huff of exertion. "You might want to work on not losing your sword, lad."

"Again, I didn't have one to begin with."

"You would have lost it just the same."

Oliver took a deep breath. "You startled me."

"That's generally the idea," Patrick noted. "Something you likely also know is that you cannot do that sort of unapproved fighting business in the past. Well, perhaps you might post-1800s if you limited yourself to proper fisticuffs, but anything earlier and they'll think you're a demon."

Oliver suspected that might very well be the case.

"That, and you might find it failing to serve you whilst you're facing a man pointing a six-foot broadsword at you."

"What a thought," Oliver said, attempting a light tone.

Patrick leaned back on his hands and crossed his feet at his ankles. "I pushed you."

"Why?"

"I wanted to see what you were made of."

"And did you?"

"Only scratched the surface, I imagine, though time will tell the rest."

"I'm not a thug," Oliver said lightly.

"Never said you were, not that it matters what I think. Didn't Robert Cameron have you investigated before he hired you?"

Oliver didn't particularly care to remember that meeting with his potential employer when Cameron had gone over a private investigator's findings with Oliver sitting in front of him, but there were also things about his past he didn't particularly care to remember. He would credit Cameron with skipping over his family situation at least, which he had appreciated. He looked at Patrick and nodded.

"If you think he wasn't satisfied with that piece of nosiness, then you obviously don't understand why he continues to allow you near anything he loves."

"I'm loyal," Oliver managed. "And discreet."

"And you have a tolerable right hook." Patrick touched the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. "My wife won't appreciate this."

Oliver would have smiled if he'd been able to breathe a bit better. "I'll look for somewhere to hide."

"I might hide with you," Patrick said with a snort. "I was, if you can believe it, warned to be gentle with you."

"By whom?" Oliver asked in surprise.

"Madelyn, of course. Over a leisurely and delicious breakfast this morning, my beloved wife said, and I quote: ‘Sunny and I are related to Oliver somewhere back in time, so we've decided to claim him as a little brother. Don't hurt him.'"

Oliver did smile then. "She might be offended you didn't listen to her."

"She might well be." He stretched, then winced. "I think you may have given me a single bruise, damn ye."

"My apologies."

"Don't make me work so hard next time," Patrick grumbled.

"Of course, my lord."

He studied Oliver for a moment or two. "Want to talk about where you were last night?"

Oliver shivered in spite of himself. "I'm not sure where to begin."

"The date?"

"Late 16th century," Oliver said. "Or thereabouts."

"Jamie will want all the particulars, of course, but I'm only interested in how you kept yourself alive. What did you tell them?"

"That I'd been robbed and abandoned by my friends," Oliver said darkly, "but that I brought greetings from those in power in Edinburgh."

Patrick laughed a little. "Clever, but have you ever been to Edinburgh?"

Oliver looked at him unflinchingly. "Boarding school, but didn't you already know that?"

He shrugged. "Ferreting out those sorts of details is my brother-in-law Alex's purview, not mine. All I know is Cameron trusts you and my brother has the same level of confidence in you or he never would have taken you on any of his insane gallops through time."

"I appreciate that."

Patrick slid him a look. "I'm still taking your measure before I claim you as kin."

"I understand, my lord."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "A younger brother. What the hell am I going to do with one of those ?"

" Not slit the poor lad's throat might be something to consider."

Patrick laughed and heaved himself to his feet. He held down his hand and hauled Oliver to his. "So it might be, laddie, but where's the sport in that?"

"I might need a bit more experience with steel, my lord, before I can provide you with that sort of entertainment."

"I thought in addition to being scrutinized by Cameron, you'd been occasionally training with him—or do I have that awrong?"

Oliver hesitated to use the word training . Facing Robert Cameron over swords for any reason at all was something he was still trying to wrap his pitiful wits around. The truth was, that was a side of his employer he'd never been privy to during the first five years he'd worked for him as something more than security and something less than family. At the time, his place in that exclusive group hadn't bothered him in the slightest. He'd been happy for a way to make pots of money and put to good use all the fighting skills he'd paid a very steep price for.

And then Sunshine Phillips had walked into Cameron's life and turned it upside down.

Well, she'd upended the entire apple cart, actually, but that was something to think about at a different time. He supposed they were indeed related back in the mists of time, something she had first pointed out to him quite gingerly, as if she hadn't been quite sure if he would be pleased or not. He was beginning to think he might need to work on his company manners if he ever hoped to date, never mind anything more serious.

And somehow during that time when Sunny and Cameron had been sorting their lives and winding up marching down the aisle to wedded bliss, he'd begun to notice things about his employer's habits that he'd previously assumed were simply opinions accumulated by a man who had perhaps watched a few too many historical documentaries about Scotland and its glorious history. After all, that certainly could have explained Robert Cameron's uncanny feel for old things, or his ruthless defense of those he considered in his care, or his unassailable honor in his business dealings.

Then again, those things also could have been quite easily acquired in a previous century.

And then he'd found himself kneeling in Cameron Hall and placing his hands in Cameron's to pledge him fealty in a particularly medieval sort of ceremony, something that left him thinking about all sorts of impossible things over the subsequent few months.

He might have consigned it all to utter fiction if he hadn't been part of an elite little crew that had busted an innocent if not completely annoying man out of the Tower of London in 1602. The Tower, that was. And the man. Both loitering in 1602 as if they belonged there and thought nothing of the same.

He'd spent the ensuing year continuing on with the usual business of tracking down antiques and convincing people they really wanted to give them up so he could sell them to others who wanted to pay eye-watering sums to possess them. And somehow, because he'd become a full-fledged member of the clan Cameron, he'd had even deeper lines drawn in his code of honor, deeper than the places where his own had been drawn before. He didn't force anyone to do anything they didn't want to and he was scrupulously honest.

But the time-traveling bit…

He pulled himself back to the present, profoundly grateful to be in the present, and looked at the man who hadn't killed him quite yet. Patrick was studying him silently and in a way that left Oliver wondering if even the loo might fail to provide enough of a hiding place. He endured the study, though, because he had definitely experienced worse.

"We've crossed swords a time or two," he conceded finally, dragging himself back to the present conversation. "Cameron and I."

"It shows," Patrick said. "But now, you and I will work."

"Thank you, my lord," he said, wondering if that might be the only time he said that. "In a fortnight or two?"

"Tomorrow."

Of course. "First thing?"

Patrick shook his head. "Mid-afternoon."

"But won't you be needing a nap—erm… ah…"

The look Patrick sent him left him wondering if he might do well to have an early nap so he might manage to keep himself alive for more than five minutes.

"Mid-afternoon," Patrick repeated, "after you've had a long morning of pampering yourself. Wouldn't want you to be anything but perfectly rested."

Oliver suspected that would absolutely not be the case, which he couldn't argue with. The more exhausted he was when under the stress of trying to keep Patrick from killing him, the better. He made the man a bow and escaped falling on his face only because his yet-to-be-christened elder brother caught him by the shoulder and heaved him back upright.

"Bobby's doing you the favor of fetching something from the village," Patrick said.

"How did he know—never mind." Oliver scowled in spite of himself. "I've got to get rid of this damned tracker."

"You might want to," Patrick agreed. "And until then, if you need anything, you know where I am."

"Not as often as I'd like."

Patrick did laugh then. "If it flatters you any, I didn't have to recite obscure Latin declensions to keep myself awake whilst tracking you yesterday."

"I am flattered."

"You should be," Patrick agreed. "Did you meditate last night?"

"If methodically studying the position of every man inside the MacLeod keep so I might avoid their swords and remain alive long enough to bolt out their front door counts, then absolutely."

"Close enough," Patrick noted. "Where's your copy of my brother's map?"

"Tacked helpfully to my fridge at home."

"Then you'd best hie yourself down the meadow and get another one."

Oliver thought that might be a very good idea indeed.

"I'll meet you here at three tomorrow. Don't be late."

Oliver nodded, then watched Patrick pick up his sword and walk off with a spring in his step he couldn't help but envy. Oliver watched him go for a moment or two, then remembered a most pressing item.

"Does this count as meditation for today?" he called.

Patrick's succinct two-word answer in the negative was unfortunately very clear.

He smiled to himself, then gathered up his own pair of knives and trudged through the forest to what actually seemed like a spa-like retreat. At least he had a decent shower and a bed to look forward to, no matter how inadequate the latter might have been.

Bobby was waiting for him near the doorway, take-away bag in hand. Oliver took a deep breath, then sighed happily.

"Smells delicious."

Bobby held it out. "Enjoy." He turned away, then turned back. "Spend a night out in the wild, did you?"

Oliver nodded. "Got lost."

Bobby snorted, then walked away, making no further comment.

Oliver found the door unlocked, which was slightly unsettling, but none of his gear had been taken, which was deeply disappointing. His clothes were flung everywhere, however, and one of his trainers had landed in the kitchen sink, but since he'd been the one doing the flinging, he wasn't surprised. He made a thorough search of the premises and found everything else still in its place. Perhaps Patrick had assumed he'd been through enough that day without having the contents of his extended stay holiday let ransacked.

He considered what to do first, eat or shower, though he was half tempted to eat whilst in the shower to save time. He decided he hadn't become quite that desperate yet, so he ate half his supper, then went to wash off the Renaissance grime he'd acquired.

An hour later, he was sitting in front of the fire, meditating on things he was certain the lads couldn't have possibly predicted. He'd taken one of the longest showers of his life, had a marvelous second half of his supper, and washed the remains of soup out of his medieval gear whilst being grateful that the fashions in the north hadn't changed all that much over the centuries.

And that led him in a less-than-roundabout way to contemplating his trip back across those centuries and considering what he'd found there.

He hadn't asked the exact date, but if James had been king of Scotland, it had to have been late 1500s. He suspected he might have to check Jamie's history for the particulars, but having a pair of Cameron clansmen breaking bread with MacLeod clansmen who hadn't slain him on sight had certainly been something he hadn't expected.

The daughters of Ranald MacLeod had been, he had to admit, stunning. He had dated his share of very beautiful girls, true, and not because of anything he'd done. Being associated with Robert Cameron had left him encountering all sorts of people as he orbited around that family. Perhaps he wasn't entirely ugly, because it was for damned sure those modern women hadn't been dazzled by his conversation. His parents had, at least, provided him with straight teeth and funds for whatever sport he'd fancied at the time which had left him fit and acceptably kitted out.

Those girls back in the past, though, whilst astonishingly pretty had left him enormously uneasy. He hardly knew what to say to a modern bird. Trying to make inane small talk with a vintage Scottish lass had been beyond him.

And then there had been that girl who had spilled soup on him. He had spent more of his time watching her than was polite, but that was likely because he was almost positive he'd seen an echo of her the morning before—and if that wasn't something to jot down in his book under Paranormal Happenings I Should Have Extra Credit For , he didn't know what was. Perhaps he would add his own section and demand something very dear for it.

He propped his elbow onto the arm of a ridiculously comfortable overstuffed chair, rested his chin on his fist, and allowed himself to contemplate things he suspected he shouldn't.

He couldn't help but wonder a bit about that woman who'd ladled his supper right onto his leg. He'd fully expected the laird's son to make her pay for it, which had left him easily absorbing that piece of hot-tempered backhanding. It had taken a surprising amount of self-control not to flatten the man, never mind the woman's place in the house. Perhaps back in the day there wasn't much distinction between servant and member of the family, not that he would have hesitated to step forward and defend her either way.

The one question he couldn't answer was who she was and why the hell she seemed so ridiculously familiar. He would have said it was because he was fairly certain he'd seen someone just like her out of the corner of his eye, but he was also profoundly sleep deprived and very much out of his element. For all he knew, the spirulina powder he'd inadvertently sniffed the morning before whilst about his fridge investigations had left him hallucinating.

But perhaps more importantly, why was a woman that twelve of a dozen men would have looked past without hesitation have to be the one he hadn't been able to stop watching himself? He could think of all the reasons why she wouldn't been have found beautiful by modern standards, especially compared to the laird's daughters, but he could think of a dozen reasons why she was far more lovely than that trio. All those things began and ended with the smile she'd given those cheeky little yobs he suspected were the laird's grandchildren who'd mobbed her for sweets after supper.

He also suspected it might take him a while to forget the sight of it.

He realized he'd been dancing around what bothered him about the whole venture and that hadn't been winding up in 16th-century Scotland on a whim. Something had felt… uncomfortable. Like a thunderstorm brewing that simply wouldn't break. It was none of his affair, of course, but he couldn't help but feel a little bothered by it just the same.

How James MacLeod managed to never get involved in any of the historical happenings he witnessed was a terrible mystery he didn't want to solve.

He closed his eyes, trying to forget the sight of a woman he would never see again, then shook his head sharply and pushed himself to his feet. He'd had a ridiculously long trio of days and what he needed was a decent night's sleep for a change. With any luck, he might manage to make the previous twenty-four hours fit into his to-do list. Perhaps it could count not only meditation but a change of diet and some sleep.

He checked locks one more time, commended that long-haired serving girl to her proper place in time with a wish for her happiness, then put himself to bed and hoped his insomnia would consider a holiday for itself as well.