“Paris,” he said thickly. “’Tis Paris this week.”
“I wish I could jet off,” she said wistfully. “It sounds exciting.”
If she only knew. “You have time yet,” he said.
“I’m sixteen. Old enough for jetting off.”
He managed a smile. “Not with me, lass, but I’ll bring you something back from my next trip and let your father inspect it for propriety.”
“Oh, would you really?”
He started to assure her that he would, but he was distracted by the feel of something unseen figuratively tapping him on the shoulder. Fate, no doubt, or perhaps one of her more ironic cohorts such as Father Time. He didn’t bother toinvestigate who it might be. He simply advised Fiona MacLeod to get herself back inside, then walked away before he thought he might need to be running.
1387. Those were numbers that didn’t care to be ignored for too long.
He jumped inside his decrepit Range Rover, apparently the vehicle of choice for any self-respecting recluse, and wasted no time in getting himself home. If he drove a bit more quickly than he might have otherwise, who could blame him? He had a schedule to meet, a schedule that certainly wasn’t one he set for himself. He knew better than to argue when he began to feel the pull of something that, if someone else had been describing it to him, he would have considered completely barking. There were times he almost wondered if he might be losing his mind.
He put his car behind his house in its accustomed spot and let himself in the back door. The only benefit to his current life, he supposed, was finally feeling as though he had a home. Perhaps five years of being rained on and eaten alive by midges was enough to claim his rightful place amongst the ranks of proper Scots.
That last bit he cherished, if he were to be a bit maudlin about it all.
He dropped his keys on the table and went to fetch his gear. The only trouble was, when he felt called on one of these, ah,journeys, he never knew how long they would last or what he would find whilst on them. He could only hope the present summons to a time definitely not his own would entail a brief stay. He had emails to check and business to see accomplished in the current day.
The current day. Even thinking it made him sound daft.
He strapped his sword to his back, then pulled it free of the scabbard, just in case. Truly, he had to do something about his current straits. He was definitely the one living his life, but it was beginning to feel a little surreal. Heaven help him if anyone became entangled in his madness.
He helped himself to a couple of chocolate digestives, checked to make sure the fire in his stove was properly banked and the kettle wasn’t left on the stove, then walked over to the door. He took a deep breath, opened the door, then stepped outside.
The whistle of a blade coming his way had him ducking before he even thought about what he needed to do to save his own sweet neck.
And the game, as the saying went, was on.
•••
Itwas noon the next day before he had the chance to truly catch his breath. He stood with a pair of companions inside the safety of the MacLeod keep and was grateful to be out of the rain.
“’Tis unusual that you’re back,” Angus MacLeod said suspiciously. “A miracle, one might say.”
“Ach, leave off, ye fool,” Lachlan MacLeod said with a gusty sigh. “He comes and goes as he pleases, as he’s been doing for years now.”
“If I didn’t ken better,” Angus continued stubbornly, “I’d say he were a witch.”
Nathaniel didn’t care for the tone of Angus’s voice, as it happened, and generally did his best to do whatever it took to dispel anything that might cause it. When one loitered in a time and place not one’s own, it was best to fit in as thoroughly as possible. He shot the laird’s son a skeptical look. “Are ye that daft in truth, Angus?”
“He is,” Lachlan MacLeod said with a snort. He reached over and slapped Angus on the back of the head. “He’s a lad, ye fool, not a witch.”
“A ghostie, then,” Angus insisted.
“Angus, stop being daft,” Lachlan said, sending Angus a look that said he’d do well to shut his mouth very soon indeed. “Never know when he’ll come home, but I’m always relieved to see him. Ye might share that feeling when ye think about how he saved yer sorry arse last evening.”
Angus mumbled his thanks, which Nathaniel accepted loudly and with an equal amount of praise heaped on the head of Malcolm MacLeod’s son, because when one found himself standing in a keep full of medieval clansmen, one also tended to want to be as pleasant and accommodating as possible. Angus had his reasons for not particularly liking Nathaniel, but those were reasons Nathaniel couldn’t change for him, so he tended to let them lie.
He accepted a cup of ale from a rather handsome servingwench, toasted his backside against the fire in the middle of the hall floor, and draped the persona of laird’s bastard son around his shoulders like a well-loved plaid. He was happy enough for something warm to drink and someplace safe to linger for the moment. Getting to the keep had been a dodgy business the night before, only because when he’d walked out of his house, he’d walked right into a bit of a disagreement between raiding parties from neighboring clans. He supposed he was fortunate to be alive to even enjoy the memory of those heart-stopping moments.
But since he was alive and warm, he sipped at his strengthening brew and considered the absolute improbability of his life.
He was, as fate would have it, the middle son of a simple Scottish girl and a dyed-in-the-wool Anglophile, grandson of extremely old New York money, and founder of a very successful venture capital group. He owned a couple of cars, played too much golf, and was never equal to resisting the lure of coffee in a Parisian sidewalk cafe. His life wasn’t without its complications, but he had good attorneys and a decently large bank account.
