Seven

O liver paused just inside Moraig's house and wondered about the wisdom of going outside. After yesterday, he was beginning to think he might do better to make himself a little nest in the loo and hide for the duration of his sentence.

But he was nothing if not disciplined and he had tasks to complete. If that required him to venture out into nature, so be it. He checked that his medieval gear was covering everything it should and that his weapons were in their upright and locked positions, then cast caution to the wind and opened the door.

A shopping bag was sitting on the front stoop.

That at least had come from the current century. He picked it up and brought it inside where he could enjoy the delights without being observed, though he couldn't imagine who would have cared. Then again, he was wearing his medieval Highland uniform instead of a comfortable tracksuit, so perhaps he was a little more concerned about company than he wanted to admit.

What he was certain of was that he wouldn't be seeing any Renaissance Highland lassies wandering around in times not their own.

He had to wonder if she'd been the one he'd been seeing out of the corner of his eye from the first day of his holiday, but he wasn't sure how that was possible. She obviously wasn't a ghost, so perhaps there was some odd quirk in the fabric of time that left them passing each other along time-travelly passageways that had very flimsy walls.

He was absolutely going to demand extra credit for all the paranormal shenanigans he was being subjected to. The next thing he knew, he would be entertaining an entire cast of Shakespeare's best ghostly offerings, all come to unsettle him at the same time.

He made a hasty grab for his good sense and walked back into the kitchen to see what had been delivered. He was utterly unsurprised to find the oft-threatened leopard-print yoga bottoms which made him shudder just to look at them. They were only marginally modest, but the note attached guaranteed him double points for donning them, so he set them aside as something to consider later.

Also in the bag was a shocking pink water bottle adorned with the usual felines—though these lads looked a bit more zen-like than the previous collection—and a key. He looked at the note the key was attached to by means of a cheerful heart sticker and braced himself for more absurdities.

You haven't killed anyone yet and we haven't heard any off-key yowls of terror or excessive swearing. You've earned the key, but remember we're still watching you. More delights to come.

He could scarce wait to see what those delights might be. He also wasted no time unlocking his anklet. He was half tempted to go barefoot for the rest of the day in celebration, but one never knew where one might wind up whilst in the wilds of Scotland, so he forbore. He was fully tempted to chop that damned tracker up into tiny pieces, but it occurred to him that he might want to torture someone else with it at some point, so he popped it in a drawer for future use.

He was still without a phone or any sort of useful computing device, but he had to admit that the depravation was starting to feel a little less horrifying than it had in the beginning.

He clapped his hand to his forehead, but there was no dislodging any good sense. That he was actually contemplating the thought of an entire day of being unplugged without howling in outrage was terrifying. He was ruined, obviously, and someone would need to pay for that.

But until that happy time came, he would do his best with what he had to hand, enjoy the fact that his ankle no longer felt as if it were being slowly sawn in half, and see to ticking a few more boxes next to tasks that didn't involve wearing those obscene spotted yoga trousers.

He realized there was one last bit of misery left in the bag and decided it was best to have it all over with at once. He pulled out a tin that turned out to be full of very tiny colored pencils. The note attached instructed him to find things to sketch and be about rendering them properly on the pages to be found behind the appropriate tab in his master notebook.

He hesitated to speculate on who might be judging his skills, vowed not to draw anything obscene no matter how tempted he might have been, and decided he might as well venture out into the meadow and see what turned up. He might manage to sniff a few flowers whilst drawing them and kill two eejits with one stone.

He had a final look around the house to make certain everything was as it should have been, then opened the door and hopped energetically over the threshold before any time-traveling sprites could give him a shove into a year where he might not be so relaxed and refreshed.

He realized after the fact just how close he'd come to knocking himself out on the top of the threshold, filed that away as something to be more careful about in the future, then walked through the forest, keeping to the shadows out of habit and happily finding himself free of any hangers-on in the person of Patrick MacLeod. Perhaps the man had decided a little lie-in might be just the thing for the morning.

He reached the meadow in good time, diligently ignored the fairy ring that he knew lay fifty paces to the north of his current position, then looked around himself instead for a comfortable rock from where he might observe the local flora. If he finished quickly, he supposed it wouldn't be unthinkable to meditate a bit on soothing things such as who he was going to kill first once his fortnight of torture was over.

He sat down, sincerely hoping there weren't any stray, soon-to-be-deceased colleagues lurking in the tall grass across the way with telephoto lenses at the ready, fully prepared to take a shot up his saffron shirt. At least he was wearing Cameron plaid boxers and not a pair of white Y-fronts with abusive language scrawled on the bum where it might be most advantageously read as he turned and mooned the blighters.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He wasn't sure meditation was doing him any favors, but perhaps he needed to concentrate on more positive things.

He opened his notebook to the appropriate Activities for Relaxation section, found the Draw Flowers Here page, then looked at the little tin of tiny pencils he'd been given. How anyone expected him to do anything with those besides load them into a dart gun and shoot them into a criminal, he didn't know. He chose something useful—green, as it happened—then looked around himself to see what floral delights there might be for him to attempt to reproduce—

He froze.

He wasn't alone.

He made a production of pretending he hadn't noticed anything unusual. It seemed like a perfect time to do a little yoga, so he replaced his pencil, shut the lid, and used the tin's shiny underside to make certain no one was standing directly behind him, waiting to stab him. Not a great mirror, admittedly, but sufficient for his purposes. Finding no one, he put his gear on the rock where with any luck it would get nicked, then rose and began to stretch.

He limited himself to twisting at the waist, partly because he was, as usual, in an outfit that required a princess-like commitment to keeping his knees together and partly because a little releasing of the tension in his back gave him the chance to look over his shoulder in both directions where he found…

Nothing.

He frowned thoughtfully. He was being watched—he would have bet his favorite pair of trainers on it—so obviously he would have to go investigate. The only question that remained was did he keep his sword strapped to his back and possibly clunk himself on the back of the head thanks to a misstep, or did he leave it behind and hope his invisible friend wasn't Patrick MacLeod trying to keep himself awake?

He decided abruptly that keeping his sword with him could be considered an exercise in Being Prepared for Scottish Adventures —and for all he knew, Jamie could be persuaded to create a section for just that with hefty points attached—so he clapped his hand to his forehead in an exaggerated fashion, then stomped back the way he'd come, cursing himself loudly for having forgotten the very thing he'd intended to bring outside. He suspected he also might need to add a section entitled Why Eejits Should Do Reconnaissance , but that might become too full with all the recriminations he would be directing at himself.

Time marched on as doggedly as he did, but perhaps with a bit less grumbling.

He heard the snap of a twig behind him and quickly ran through potential suspects. Those included anyone from one of Jamie's children to Ian MacLeod taking over whilst Patrick was having his lie-in. He indulged in a quick prayer that he wouldn't turn and impale himself on a death-dealing medieval blade, held up his hands, then turned slowly around to face his fate.

A woman was standing there.

Well, to be perfectly accurate, a fearless Highland lass he recognized was standing there with the knife she'd obviously intended to use to defend herself lying at her feet. He realized he was already very still, but he felt that stillness increase exponentially. That happened, he supposed, when one encountered in the present day someone who should have been comfortably loitering four centuries, give or take a few years, in the past.

He wasn't sure who she was, especially as she hadn't given him her name. He also wasn't entirely certain about Highland clan structure past knowing in his head that when he'd pledged fealty to Robert Cameron, he'd become part of the Cameron clan. What that meant to his heart in terms of being considered family was something that generally left him feeling overly maudlin, so he didn't think about it.

"Friend not foe," he said, because that had worked well enough before. "Still."

"I don't need a knife to best ye," she said.

Oliver nodded solemnly. "I'm sure that's true." He would have attempted a smile, but the woman had called him a demon the day before, so there were obviously discussions still to be had. He dug deep for his best Gaelic and pointed to the dirk down the side of his boot. "I'm going to draw my blade and hand it to you."

"Why?"

"So you'll feel safe while I bend down and pick up your knife."

She didn't look as if she would be feeling safe any time soon. In fact, she looked as if she might be one poorly chosen word on his part away from a complete meltdown. He considered offering a soothing calm down , but he'd listened to more than one eejit of his acquaintance utter those fighting words to a female companion and marveled at the ensuing carnage. Caution and silence were obviously the orders of the day.

He carefully pulled the dirk free from its sheath and handed it to her haft first, then kept his eye on her as he bent and picked up her knife. He handed her that as well.

"You will not find me easily vanquished," she said, her voice shaking as badly as her hands.

"I never thought you would be." As an afterthought, he pulled the dirk from his left boot and held that out as well.

She considered that third blade, studied him for a moment or two, then stuck her own knife into what he assumed was a sheath loitering in the back of her belt. She took his second blade, then pointed them both at him, though she honestly didn't look as if she would be holding onto either for very long.

"I have questions," she said, her voice quavering badly.

He could only imagine. He took a deep breath and nodded carefully. "I'm certain you—"

"Am I in your book?"

He blinked. "My what?"

"Your book!"

He was tempted to scratch his head to see if that helped, but he had the feeling that any sudden movement might inspire her to dig answers out of his gut—with his own blades, no less. She couldn't possibly mean his book of absurdities and torments, though it wouldn't have surprised him to learn his mates had secretly designed a bit of time-traveling as part of the programme.

He had vague memories of his current companion having mentioned a book the day before—had it only been a single day ago?—about a duke, which at the time had only left him with the uneasy feeling that he should have watched more period pieces on telly.

"The book about the duke?" he ventured.

She looked as if he had just handed her—well, not the keys to an obscenely expensive sports car, but something era- appropriate. Or perhaps that was just the look a body wore when she'd taken her first decent breath of the day.

"You know it, then," she said, obviously relieved.

He had no trouble producing a baffled look. "I've forgotten, I fear. Refresh my memory, if you would."

Her relief turned a bit of a corner there, right into a cul-de-sac of skepticism. "You've forgotten your own tale?"

"Ah …"

"And your own scribe?"

"Well—"

"Mistress Buchanan will not be pleased with you, I'll tell you that plainly."

"I only want to make sure she's written it down properly," he lied, attempting to stall. He couldn't imagine why his companion thought he had a book, though he supposed finding herself in what was indeed a different world might have led her to believe she was in a book.

She had begun to study him as if she expected him to do something villainous at any moment, but he'd seen that sort of thing before and had no trouble continuing to look as trustworthy as possible.

"'Tis the tale of the Duke of Birmingham," she said, watching him closely, no doubt to see if that rang any literary bells for him.

"Such a fine, strapping lad," Oliver managed, wondering if he had suddenly plunged face-first into the land of faeries and bogles. And books, apparently. He was torn between trying to decide where her tale might land on the literary time line and being relieved he wasn't going to be explaining any modern offerings containing either terrible weapons or superheroes in tights.

"Of course I only have the first part of it," she continued. "I fear the rest was lost somewhere, no doubt causing Mistress Constance Buchanan a great amount of vexation."

"Constance Buchanan," he repeated, nodding to keep the peace whilst rifling through his catalog of fiction to see if that name rang any bells. No tolling, unfortunately, but the beginnings of wishing he'd bypassed the Jaffa cakes and settled for something green for breakfast.

She put her hands on her hips. "Do you not know her?"

"Recent blow to the head," he said promptly, putting his hand to the back of his head and attempting to look a bit confused. "I've forgotten many things."

"She is the scribe who wrote down the duke's tale. Your tale, if I'm guessing aright."

He hardly knew where to begin with that, so he simply nodded and hoped that would be enough.

"There is talk of his kitchen maid," she continued, "who is in every particular his equal, especially in gaming, shooting, and tossing back port."

"She sounds exceptional," he said, hoping she wouldn't mind if he reached for more French than usual. His Gaelic was absolutely not equal to the current conversation.

"I've yet to discover the maid's name as she held it as a closely guarded secret."

"Very wise," he noted. He suspected there was romance in sickly abundance in the duke's tale which he wasn't sure was an improvement over superheroes. What he did know was that the woman standing there studying him seemed to be coming to conclusions she didn't particularly care for.

"I thought the tale was yours when I first saw you," she said, beginning to frown. "There is a painting of the man on the cover and you resemble him greatly."

"Poor lad," Oliver managed.

"Oh, nay, he's very handsome. And he would never use a sword on a woman."

"I like him already," he said promptly. He nodded toward the meadow. "Why don't we take a walk and you can tell me more about his finer qualities so I'll know where to improve."

She didn't move. "I will not be vanquished," she said bluntly. "I am very fierce in battle."

She couldn't have sounded more like a grown-up Patricia MacLeod, which would have left him smiling if he hadn't suspected any smiles would result in his being vanquished. He settled for the most trustworthy look he could muster, which didn't take any effort as he meant it fully.

"You are perfectly safe with me," he said. "And I would step between you and harm without a second's thought."

"Well, you have before."

He conceded that with a nod, had a brisk nod in return, then clasped his hands behind his back as they walked in the direction of the meadow. He could, however, feel her gaze boring into the side of his head. He'd endured worse so he simply let her have her look.

"You aren't the Duke of Birmingham, are you?"

He was surprised to find that he suddenly wished he were. He glanced at her and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said simply.

"And we're not in your book."

"We're not. We are in Scotland, though."

"But things are different from how I left them this morning," she said. She shot him a look that said clearly that she suspected he might be responsible for that. "The outside of the healer's croft is different. I couldn't bring myself to look inside it."

Thank heavens for small favors. Not only were there things inside that would have sent her into an entirely different level of unsettled, he couldn't remember whether or not he'd left clothes strewn about or done the washing up after breakfast.

He suddenly had vastly increased respect for the time travelers in his circle of acquaintances. Of course he'd thought it was absolute bollocks when the notion had first floated across his brain. He'd consigned it immediately to the same place that contained his experiences with ghosts who might or might not have protested any of the antiquities he had cheerfully moved to new digs.

Ghosts could be very annoying at times.

He supposed it might be best not only to leave any antics in 1602 alone, but also his journeys with James MacLeod to places and times not their own. All seven times, each more unbelievable than the time before.

He wondered how that might be worked into keys to a Bugatti.

He also wondered how one went about explaining the inexplicable, especially when the one who might not particularly care for the particulars was holding—barely—two very sharp dirks. He wished he'd taken advantage of Jamie's offer to give him his full lecture series on the vagaries of time travel and its attendant social conundrums, but that was a poor excuse for his own failing to do his due diligence.

He never went into any situation where he hadn't mapped out every contingency well in advance. That he found himself at present so completely out of his depth was galling. He should have, at the very least, taken a few minutes to contemplate how a Renaissance clanswoman might feel should she find herself again in the present day instead of spending all his time enjoying the horrors he would perpetrate on his work colleagues when he tracked them with a thoroughness and efficiency that even Patrick MacLeod might have admired.

All of which left him, at the moment, with a woman standing in front of him, looking very lost, and he didn't have a damned clue where to start in fixing that for her.

"Lord Oliver?"

He pulled himself back to the tangle at hand, a little surprised at how distracted he'd become. "It's just Oliver."

He waited, but she didn't offer any of her credentials. For some reason, that didn't surprise him. There was a gel who kept her cards close to her vest. He suspected he might understand given what he'd seen of Tasgall, the de facto laird of the hall.

"Oliver, then," she said, then she shivered. "I do not like to admit weakness, but I fear I might be lost."

He attempted a reassuring smile. "You aren't lost," he said firmly. "You're still on MacLeod soil." He nodded in the direction of the meadow. "Why don't we go for a walk and you'll see that things aren't so different after all."

She nodded, but he could see the wheels still turning. He just wasn't entirely sure where her thoughts were going to lead her.

He forced himself to keep a weather eye out for trouble as they walked, but saw nothing more nefarious than a few birds and some stray shafts of sunlight. He realized at one point that his companion, that nameless lass with the sweet smile, was also marking their surroundings. He wondered, with a bit less detachment than the thought merited, where she'd learned that skill and why she needed it.

Though he supposed just her time period was reason enough. He was half tempted to send her back to whenever she'd come from with a can or two of safety spray, though he imagined that might have gotten her burned at the stake after the fact.

"My uncle Lachlan says there are fairies and bogles in this forest."

He glanced at her. "Do you think that's possible?"

She looked absolutely shattered. "I don't know." She stopped, stared off into the distance for a moment or two, then looked at him. "Do you think ‘tis possible?"

"Well—"

She searched his face more closely than he was comfortable with. "You do," she whispered.

"Scotland is a very special place," he conceded, because he found, to his surprise, that he believed it. It was no wonder Cameron—and Derrick, for that matter—came back to it as often as possible. For the first time, he found himself envying them their connection to the land.

And then it occurred to him just what that meant. Her uncle? Was she one of Laird Ranald's daughters then?

He felt himself come back to earth in a particularly ungentle way. He wasn't looking at a simple serving girl; he was looking at a Renaissance noblewoman who was off in the wilds of the future without permission. Obviously, things had to change, and rapidly. He had years of experience in inventing reasonable-sounding excuses for being wherever he was, though he would be the first to admit that trying to convince a 16th-century clanswoman to stay in her proper time was new.

"Let's say this," he began slowly. "Have you been to Cameron Hall?"

She nodded.

"And whilst it is still in Scotland, it's different to the MacLeod hall, aye?"

She frowned. "Aye, of course."

"Then think of this place as just another place, much like a different hall. Still in Scotland, just different."

"But I left my part of the book in the bole of a tree near the witch's croft yesterday," she said carefully. "When I looked a bit ago, ‘twas there no longer."

"Think of this forest as being a bit different from yours as well."

"That's daft," she said, though she looked to be considering it. "So, I'm not in a dream."

"I think we're both real enough," he said, trying to be as careful as she had been.

She looked over the meadow. "I cannot hear my flock."

"You might, if you moved a bit closer to them."

She nodded up the meadow. "Have you seen that strange patch of earth on the border of our lands?"

He had the feeling he might know the place, but he didn't want to assume anything that might interfere with getting her back home where she belonged.

"Show me?" he asked politely.

She nodded and walked with him up the meadow. She paused by that particular ring in the grass, then looked up at him.

"What is this thing, do you think?"

"I think it could be a way to get from here to a different place," he said carefully.

"What place?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "Your demon world?"

He smiled. "I thought we decided yesterday that I'm not a demon."

She scowled at him, though her heart didn't look to be in it. "I'm still coming to a decision on that, but I'll allow that your manners are too fine for it."

"Thank you."

She looked back at the ring in the grass. "Then ‘tis a bit like a doorway," she mused.

He half expected Jamie to come striding up the meadow with his sword bared. He took a deep breath, then nodded.

"I think it's exactly like a doorway," he agreed.

"You know that's absolute foolishness."

He almost smiled. "I couldn't agree more."

She looked out over the meadow. "I should likely go home."

He had the most absurd urge to tell her perhaps she didn't need to quite yet. He had lunch and colored pencils and his left knee was absolutely not giving him any forewarnings of impending weather.

But he'd likely already said more than he should have and she had definitely spent more time than was wise in a century not her own. He accepted his knives back and watched her step toward that unsettling circle in the grass and actually saw the gate open for her. He'd seen the same happen at a spot near Raventhorpe a year ago, but he'd been happy to consign that to not enough sleep.

At the moment, he could safely say that if he hadn't believed in the whole ruddy business of time traveling before, he would have believed it then. He could hear a dog barking on the other side…

"Shall I walk you home?" he asked, because he had a sword and she was a woman who might need protecting.

She looked at him and smiled faintly. "I'm on my own land."

So she was, which was likely something to keep in mind for the future. "Safe home, then," he said quietly.

She turned away and stepped into the ring, then paused. She looked over her shoulder at him.

"Mairead."

He closed his eyes briefly, then nodded and made her a low bow. He straightened, a thank you on the tip of his tongue.

But she was gone.

He sighed deeply, dragged his hands through his hair, and walked off to fetch his gear. He'd done the right thing, sent her back with hopefully an explanation that would make sense, and she would get back to her normal life whilst leaving him to his.

He felt surprisingly… bereft, which was absolutely absurd and someone would pay for it—and dearly.

He kept himself company with thoughts of which of his mates he would do in first because that was better than wondering why the hell he'd been blindsided by a woman who was nothing more than a freckled girl-next-door type that a dozen undiscerning lads would have looked past.

Unfortunately, he was not an eejit, no matter what his book—not hers—called him and there was something about the way her smile took her face from plain to breathtaking that left him wishing he could ask her out on more than a first date.

He made his way back to Moraig's, let himself in the cottage without rejoicing overmuch that he'd arrived in the proper century, then made himself something to eat. He could hardly believe he was relieved that he had no device with which to do a little online sleuthing to find out a few more details about that plainly lovely woman, but perhaps that was for the best. He didn't want to find out she'd married someone likely hadn't deserved her.

He wished her well, finished up his lunch, then hoped a quick nap in a chair would restore his good sense.

If not, he would have to rely on Patrick MacLeod's very sharp sword to do it instead.