Chapter 6
Nathanieldecided that if he didn’t get hold of himself soon, he was going to be missing critical parts of himself because some fourteenth-century clansman was going to cut him to ribbons before he realized there was a sword coming his way. He was so befuddled that he was starting to run into things in both the past and the future without paying them any heed.
His present situation was proof enough of that. It should have been so innocent, the current morning where he found himself in his proper century with nary a medieval clansman in sight. A little run along a path he’d been down countless times, a bit of peace for thinking, and an ear cocked for the sound of rental cars carrying women on the hunt for the recluse up the hill. His light exercise should have been accomplished with no trouble and no fanfare.
Instead, he’d practically run into trouble before he’d seen it coming. In his defense, he’d never before seen anyone inhabiting that little cottage James MacLeod apparently owned. He had no idea who had owned it before—he thought it might have been Ryan Fergusson—but the point was, he’d never had to look out for any lodgers on his morning exercise.
This was also the first time he’d ever paused to watch smoke coming out the front door. He stood there and watched the doorway belch out a coughing woman as well. He noted, with an emotion he couldn’t quite identify right off, that it was his Yank.
A more romantic lad than he might have suspected there was something akin to Fate at work.
He realized once he was on her front stoop and pulling her away from the smoke that she was staring at him as if she’d seen a ghost. He didn’t suppose he was all that much to look at, though the lassies who came hunting him seemed to feel differently. At least he’d left his sword at home, a happy decision he generally made differently. One never knew when one was going to be called on to investigate some happening or other in the past.
He suppressed the urge to sigh. His neighbor obviously recognized him from his ill-advised dash across Southerton’s garden. Best to help her concentrate on something else as quickly as possible.
“The Aga?” he asked.
She nodded, wide-eyed.
“Trying to burn the house down, are you?”
“That hadn’t been my plan,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’m about to.”
He moved past her and peered inside the kitchen. It looked to be less an out-of-control fire than a fire that had been fed damp wood. He had experience enough with that. “I’ll see to it. Just wait here.”
“Thank you.”
He walked into the house and grabbed the first thing he laid his hands on to hold over his mouth and nose—it was unfortunately something of hers that smelled lovely enough that he paused to appreciate it before he thought better of it—then set to saving James MacLeod the trouble of building himself a new guest cottage.
He threw open a few windows, brought the night’s fire back to life properly, and set the kettle on for tea. He brought in a goodly stack of wood to dry out thoroughly, then supposed that was the best he could do short of taking up residence on her sofa and tending the stove constantly. It took less than half an hour, long enough to decide that perhaps he should invite himself to breakfast.
He turned, leaned back against the sink, and looked at his new neighbor, who was standing just inside the door, watching him. He returned the favor, now that he was at his leisure to give her a proper examination.
It was as he’d decided the night before. She wasn’t beautiful in the fashion magazine way that most of the gels who came hunting him seemed to be, but lovely in a quiet sort of way that left him wanting to sit down and study her a bit longer. She was fair skinned, pale eyed, and possessing a waterfall of dark, straight hair flowing down her back. He wondered why she was in Scotland, though perhaps the question of why she was half a mile from his house was more pressing.
He answered the latter easily enough. Madelyn and Patrick had obviously offered her refuge in James MacLeod’s cottage. It also occurred to him that he’d heard her say something about someone having tracked her down in Scotland. He could understand how she might not like that, given his own experiences with the same.
“Breakfast?” he asked, reaching for a reasonable distraction from his unhelpful thoughts.
She pushed away from the doorway. “Of course. I’ll see what I can put together.”
“Nay,” he said, “I mean, would you like breakfast?”
She stopped and looked at him in surprise. “You want to buy me breakfast?”
“Not anywhere in the village at this hour that you would want to try,” he said wryly. “I’ll dig around in your fridge and see what’s available.”
She gestured toward a basket on the counter. “I don’t have anything in the fridge, but Patrick left me that.” She paused. “You know, Patrick MacLeod. He’s the lord of Benmore Castle.”
“Aye,” Nathaniel managed, “so I’ve heard.”
“I haven’t put anything away yet.”
“Too busy trying to burn the house down?”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Apparently so. This isn’t exactly how I wanted to repay them for their kindness.”
“I’m vexing you for sport,” he said. “Don’t give it another thought. A bit of air and the place’ll be good as new. In the meantime, we’ll put our feet up and stay warm whilst we’re eating the five-star meal I’m about to prepare. Any ideas what the young Himself sent along?”
