“Sounds delightful.”
The man only laughed a bit. “Aren’t you a pleasant guest.”
“Trying to be,” Nathaniel said. Actually what he was trying to do was keep the lord of Benmore from thinking about how he’d dented the side of the man’s car not a week ago.
Had it only been that long? He could hardly believe it.
It was less than a quarter hour later that he was sitting in Patrick MacLeod’s great hall, enjoying both a warm fire and a perfect glass of his admittedly favorite libation. His host seemed content to sip in silence, which he appreciated. He applied himself to his own glass and watched the fire, wondering if perhaps he shouldn’t have made a visit sooner. Dinner and conversation. How dangerous could that be?
“So,” Patrick began slowly, “what do you do with yourself to earn your bread?”
Nathaniel opened his mouth to answer, then he realized not so much what Patrick had said but how he’d said it. Or, rather, in what vintage Gaelic he’d said it.
Damn it, when was he going to stop running afoul of these men who knew things they shouldn’t?
He had the feeling his safe, comfortable life spread across several centuries was in danger of becoming not so safe or comfortable. He looked at Patrick and wondered if he might be able to stick his fingers in his ears and plead ignorance.
“Ah,” he began.
Patrick smirked. “There’s a decent start there.”
“I read medieval literature at St. Andrews,” Nathaniel said, hoping that might be enough to satisfy Lord Patrick’s curiosity.
“That explains it, of course.”
Emma came into the room and Nathaniel stood immediately, partly to show her a bit of respect but mostly because he thought he might manage to turn and bolt more easily that way. Damn it, he should have been more careful. He was going to be outed for what he was—
Which was, as it happened, very similar to that man now resuming his seat.
He sat down heavily, then decided that life as a recluse was definitely the life for him. All the socializing he’d done over the past week had obviously been a mistake. He needed to get back to his usual business of hiding in the hills and trying to survive the madness that was his life.
Though he was getting damned tired of it all, truth be told.
“I’m surprised we haven’t had occasion to break bread together before now,” Patrick said smoothly. “With you living so close.”
“It is a pity,” Nathaniel said. “Tonight was lovely, though. Thank you again.”
“Perhaps we might do this again,” Patrick said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nathaniel hedged. “I’m generally quite busy.”
“Doing what?”
“I run.”
“What a coincidence,” Patrick said. “I run as well.”
“I run a lot,” Nathaniel said, wishing he could just tell the man across from him to shut the hell up. “Wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“What else do you do?” Patrick asked, leaning back in his chair and looking at Nathaniel from half-lidded eyes. “If you aren’t uncomfortable indulging my curiosity.”
“I write poetry.”
To his credit, Patrick didn’t laugh. A corner of his mouth went up just the slightest bit, though. Nathaniel couldn’t blame him.
“That pay much?” Patrick asked.
“Nothing so far.”
