When Patrick allowed him to breathe approximately an hour later—in all honesty, he had no idea how much time had gone by, but it felt as if a small slice of eternity had passed—he managed to latch on to at least one thought and that was that he could safely say that Patrick MacLeod was the best swordsman he had ever encountered. Given the number of medieval clansmen he’d faced off against, he thought he might be a respectable judge of the same.
He rested his hands on his sword, which was point-down against the ground, dragged frigid air into his desperate lungs, then managed to look at the man who had provided them with such delightful music to try to kill each other by. His mouth fell open as the piper walked over to them.
“Ah,” Nathaniel said, wondering if he would look thoroughly weak if he simply sat down in the mud, “Robert.”
Robert MacLeod laughed a little. “Nathaniel, my friend. How do you fare?”
Nathaniel looked quickly at Patrick, but the man was only standing there with his sword against his shoulder, watching him with the slightest of smiles. Obviously, there was no pointin trying to avoid anything any longer. He looked at a man he had known several hundred years in the past.
“You’re a ghost.”
Robert shrugged. “Patty needs a piper now and again and I’m happy to oblige him.”
“Nice to see all your fingers straight for a change.”
“The beauties of the afterlife, my friend.” He looked at Nathaniel. “Will your lady mind if I go visit with her?”
“I have absolutely no idea, but you can try.”
Robert smiled and walked away. Nathaniel glanced Emma’s way, but she was only watching him with a grave expression. She didn’t even flinch when Robert introduced himself to her, which Nathaniel supposed should have concerned him. Then again, perhaps a ghostly piper wasn’t the worst thing she’d seen in the past few days.
He took a deep breath, then looked at his host. He wondered if he had displayed enough skill with the sword to earn a few answers or if he was facing a man who would look at him as if he were daft if he asked any of the questions that burned in his mouth. More alarming still was the thought that perhaps he, as Emma continued to insist, had just imagined the past several years of his life.
“Are you ready to tell me anything interesting yet?” Patrick asked mildly.
Nathaniel dragged himself back from the edge of what felt like madness. “I’d rather ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“And you think I’ll answer them after that feeble showing?”
“I could have a nap, then try again.”
Patrick smiled, a quick little smile that Nathaniel imagined had earned him more than one wench willing to warm his bed.
He knew that because he had used that same smile more than once himself.
“I’ll show mercy and allow you to pose the odd question, then decide if they’re interesting enough to answer.” Patrick looked at Nathaniel with a faint bit of alarm. “I sound just like my brother.”
“Not a good thing?”
Patrick drew his sleeve across his eyes. “Nay, not at all,” hesaid. “I think a whisky might put me to rights, but ’tis early yet.” He nodded toward a section of stone wall. “Let’s take our ease there for a moment or two and see if I can’t recover on my own first.”
Nathaniel nodded and followed Patrick over to sit down on the wall. He tried not to groan as he did so, though he had to admit his first inclination was to weep with relief that he wasn’t trying to keep himself alive against the madman leaning casually against the rock and humming a cheerful battle tune.
“I don’t suppose,” Nathaniel said, when he thought he could voice a question without wheezing, “that you’ll tell me your birth year.”
“I don’t suppose you can cut it from me, can you?”
“Not at the moment. I could try later, when I can move again.”
Patrick smiled faintly. “Where’d you learn your swordplay?”
“On the job.”
“It was well done.” He seemed to consider his words for a moment or two. “I would suggest, however, that you have a care for that gel of yours. Those times are no place for a modern woman.”
Nathaniel thought he could agree with that readily enough. “I hesitate to ask how you know that. In fact, I’m not sure, now that we’ve come right to it, that I’m ready to admit to any of this.”
“Ye wee fool, you’ve been at this for five years,” Patrick said, shaking his head in disbelief. “When are you going to be ready to discuss it?”
