And the Groom Wore Tulle
By Lynn Kurland

Prologue
Scotland, 1313
Ian MacLeod lay in the Fergusson's dungeon and, not having much else to do, contemplated life's many mysteries.
How was it that the Fergusson could be so hopelessly inept at growing grain or raising aught but stringy cattle, yet have the knack of producing such a fine, healthy crop of rats? Ian would have been annoyed by this if he'd had the energy—especially given the fact that one of the rats was currently making a nest in his hair while the rodent's fellows sat in a half-circle around Ian, apparently waiting for the nest maker to finish and invite them to have a closer look at his building skills—but Ian didn't have the energy to even shake off the offender, much less muster up a good frothy head of irritation.
Secondly, he gave thought to the location of his sorry self. It wasn't often that a MacLeod found himself in a Fergusson hall, much less in his pit.
It wasn't as though his kinsmen hadn't made attempts to liberate him from their bitterest enemy's dungeon. They had and he had appreciated their efforts, even though they'd been to no avail. He would have liked to have forgotten about the entire affair, and the accompanying indignity of it, but he was, after all, the one sitting amongst the vermin, so thinking on it was almost unavoidable.
And then lastly, and by no means the least of any of the things clamoring for his attention, he thought he just might be dying.
That, however, was the only good thing to come of the past two months.
Ian settled back against the wall—or pretended to, as there wasn't much movement in his once finely fashioned form anymore—and gave thought to the whole business of dying. It was actually the only thought that had cheered him in days. His time in 1313 was obviously over and no one would miss him if he perhaps managed to elude death's sharp sickle and sneak off to the forest near the MacLeod keep. And if by some miracle he reached that forest and happened to find the exact spot that would carry a man hundreds of years into the Future, well, who would begrudge him that? What would one fine, manly addition to the Future hurt? It was either escape to there or toast his backside against the fires of Hell.
Unfortunately, Ian had no illusions about his sins. He'd spent too much time at the ale kegs, wenched more than any man should have without acquiring scores of bastards, killed with too much heat in his blood, and—surely the most grievous of all—wooed Roberta Fergusson to his bed and cheerfully robbed her of her virginity.
It was the last, of course, which had earned him a place in Roberta's father's dungeon.
It wouldn't have mattered so much had Roberta possessed any redeeming qualities besides her virginity. More was the pity for Ian that she sported a visage uglier than a pig's arse and the temper of an angry sow. Her guaranteed virtue had been her only desirable trait and she possessed that no longer.
Ian suspected that her new unmaidenly condition didn't trouble her overmuch. After all, he had taken great care with her and spared no effort to make the night memorable for her. 'Twas rumored, however, that her father had been less than enthusiastic upon learning of the evening's events. Ian had known there would be retribution. He also knew that 'twas almost a certainty that the Fergusson was in league with the Devil, which left him wondering what conversations the two had already had about him.
Best not to think on that overmuch.
He turned his mind quickly from the contemplation of Hell and settled back instead for speculation about where he would have gone had he had the choice.
The Future. Even the very word caused his pulse to quicken. He knew as much about the distant future as a man in Robert the Bruce's day should—likely more. He'd had a young kinsman travel to the Future and return briefly to tell of its wonders. And then another miracle had occurred and a traveler from the Future had arrived at the MacLeod keep. She had married the laird Jamie and carried him home to 1996 with her. Ian had grieved for Jamie's loss, for he was Ian's closest friend and most trusted ally, but he'd been afire with the idea that one day he too might travel to a time when men flew through the skies like birds and traveled great distances in carts without horses. At the time Jamie had forbidden him to come along with him to that unfathomable point so far ahead, telling Ian that his time in the fourteenth century would not be over unless he escaped certain death.
Ian was certainly facing death now.
Ach, but if that wasn't enough to make Ian ache for the chance to walk in the MacLeod forest, he didn't know what was. Ian dreamed of how it might have been had he managed to gain the Future. He would have been dressed in his finest plaid, with his freshly sharpened sword at his side and a cap tilted jauntily atop his head. Future women would have swooned at the very sight of him and Future men would have envied him his fine form and ability to ingest vast quantities of ale yet still outsmart his shrewdest enemies—and all this, mind you, before even breaking his fast in the morn.
He would have searched for his kin soon after his arrival. Jamie would have been pleased to see him, and Ian would have been pleased to see Jamie. First he would have hugged Jamie fiercely, then planted his fist in Jamie's nose—repeatedly.
Jamie being, of course, the reason Ian found himself wallowing in the slime.
Ian found the energy to scowl. If he and Jamie just hadn't been in that one tiny skirmish together, Ian might have avoided having a rat fashioning a home upon his head. Jamie had caught William Fergusson's son scampering off to safety, boxed the lad's ears in annoyance, then filled them full of a message for the boy to take to his father. Of course, Jamie had informed the lad in the most impressive of details just how thoroughly Ian had bedded Roberta, then wished the family good fortune in finding a mate for her.
Ian's fate had been sealed.
Ian tried to shake the rat off the top of his head, but found that all he could do was sit in the muck and give a grim thought or two as to whether or not he should be repenting while he still could. Perhaps Saint Peter would have pity on him and let him squeak through the gates. Ian spared a thought as to whether those heavenly gates swung inward or outward, and the means of defending them if it were the latter, then he found that even that was too taxing a thought to ponder.
Death was very near.
Ian mustered up the energy to give one last fleeting thought to the Future. Perhaps if he vowed to leave off his wenching ways and settle down with one woman. Aye, that he could surely do to earn himself a place in heaven…
Suddenly a piercing light descended and blinded him. He closed his eyes against it, fearing the worst. Apparently not even his last-minute bargain was enough to save him. From behind his eyelids he could see that the light flickered wildly.
Damn. Hellfire, obviously.
Ian sighed in resignation and took one last deep breath.
And then he knew no more.
 
"Did ye get him?" "Aye."
"Sword too?" the first asked.
"Aye," the second said, hefting his burden over his shoulder with one hand and holding onto the blade with the other. "Ye can see I've both." 
"Is he dead, do ye think?" 
"Dunno." The second would have taken a closer look, but his burden was heavier than he should have been after all that time in the pit. "Looks dead to me."
"Well, then," the first said, apparently satisfied, "take him and heave him onto MacLeod soil. Sword too. The laird wants it so."
The second didn't need to hear that more than once. Best to do what the laird asked. He had no desire to see the bottom of the Fergusson's pit up close. The riding would take all night, but 'twas best seen to quickly. He would return home just as quickly, for he had no desire to be nearby when the clan MacLeod discovered their dead kinsman.
"Was that a moan?" the first asked suspiciously.
"Didn't hear it," the second said, walking away. Dead, alive, he couldn't have cared less in what condition his burden found himself. He'd do the heaving of the man, then be on his way. If the MacLeod fool wasn't dead now, he would be in a matter of hours.
"Leave the sword near the body!" the first called.
"Aye," the second grumbled, tempted to filch it. But it was a MacLeod blade and he was a superstitious soul, so he turned away from thoughts of robbery and concentrated on the task before him. He'd return for his payment, then find a dry place to lay his head, hopefully with his belly full of decent fare and his arms wrapped around a fine wench. He'd do it in honor of the almost-dead man he prepared to strap to the back of his horse. The man might have been a MacLeod, but he was a Highlander after all, and deserved some kind of proper farewell.
The second man set off, his mind already on his supper.

Chapter One
New York, 1999
Jane Fergusson sat with her chin on her fists, stared at the surroundings of her minuscule cubby at Miss Petronia Witherspoon's Elegant Eighteenth Century Wedding Fashions, and contemplated the ironies of life. There were a lot of them and her contemplating was taking up a lot of time. But that wasn't much of a problem, mainly because she had a long weekend stretching out in front of her and no beach house to retreat to. No, what she had was herself trapped in Miss Witherspoon's shop with only her imagination to keep her company.
What a waste that was. There she was in New York, city of designers, and she had the talent and ambition to design ultra funky clothes in a rainbow of colors. She had her health. She had panty hose in her drawer without any nail polish stemming the tide of runaway runs. She even had an apartment she could afford. Surely with all those things in her favor, she should have been working at a fashionable house designing incredible things for only the long-legged and impossibly thin to wear.
But where did she find herself?
Trying to keep her head above the water line while drowning in vats of faux pearls and more lace than a Brussels seamstress could shake a seam ripper at—all for use in the design and construction of wedding gowns.
The problem was, Jane didn't particularly like bridal gowns.
In fact, Jane wasn't even sure she liked brides.
She sighed, closed her eyes, and let her mind drift back to how it had been in the beginning. She had come to New York with her head full of bold, energetic designs and her suitcase full of funky, short things in black. She'd heard that the truly chic of New York dressed all in black and she had cheerfully pitched every colored item she owned on the off chance that the rumor was true.
She had hoped for a place with someone big, really big; someone who was so ultrahip that even her stuff would look a little frumpy by comparison.
It was then that her course had taken a marked quirk to the left.
She'd been pawing through an upscale antique store's selection of vintage fashions, on the lookout for the elusive and the unusual and muttering to herself about how she would have designed the gowns differently, when she'd felt the imperious tap of a bony finger on her shoulder.
"Are you a seamstress, dear?"
The term alone should have sent up a red flag, but Jane had been so thrilled that someone might think her something akin to a designer that she'd bobbed her head obediently and waited breathlessly for some other gem of recognition. And when she'd been offered a place at Miss Witherspoon's salon, she'd leaped at the chance.
Little had she known that she would wind up designing wedding gowns for a woman who made Oliver Twist's Fagan look like a philanthropist. And not only was she designing all those eighteenth-century wedding gowns, she was watching Miss Witherspoon's niece take credit for it. It was pitiful.
Jane planned to leave. She'd been planning to leave for almost three years, but what with one thing and another—mostly rent and food—she found herself staying. After all, she was actually doing a great deal of designing, and that wasn't something she could turn her back on lightly.
So she invested a lot of time trying to ignore the fact that she was basically an indentured servant. That invariably led to questions about where her Prince Charming was hiding his white horse. Surely there was someone out there who would rescue her from the acres of tulle she'd gotten herself lost in.
She sighed and turned her mind away from the rainbow of colors she could be working with to more productive thoughts—such as if hari-kari were possible with dressmaker's pins. Before she could do any experimenting, the phone rang, making her jump. She was, of course, the only one left at the shop, having been assigned the task of closing up for the three-day weekend. She picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Jane, dear," Miss Witherspoon said, sounding rushed, "just a few last-minute things before we visit yet another royal residence. So many beautiful gowns preserved for the discriminating eye, you know. Remember that we'll be hopping back over the Pond on Tuesday."
Yeah, on the Concorde, Jane thought with a scowl.
"Europe has given Alexis such glorious design inspiration…"
Not even Europe will improve her stick figures, Jane thought with a grumble.
"… Christy and Naomi will be in early next week, so you'll want to be sure to remain behind the scenes. Alexis will do the showing of the gowns, of course, for we all know she has the beauty to complement them while you do not!"
Jane had no reply for that, so she merely rested her chin on her fist and thought Gloomy Thoughts about her less-than-arresting face.
"Oh, and one last thing, dear. I want you to check in the workroom immediately. There was a rat heard frolicking about there this afternoon."
Rats. What else? Jane put the receiver back in its cradle, her head down on her desk, and sighed. Miss Witherspoon never would have asked Alexis to check out a rat rumor. Alexis wouldn't have been any good at rat patrol anyway. Alexis was from California. If they had rats, which Jane doubted they did in Alexis's neck of the woods, they were no doubt tanned, relaxed, and unaggressive. Alexis was not up to the New York rat, a hearty, belligerent beast. Jane, however, was unafraid.
At least that's what she told herself as she picked up a yardstick and headed for the back room.
She opened the door, flicked on the light, and spared a brief moment to look at her creations hanging so perfectly on the long racks against the wall. Every pearl in place, every tuck just so, every drop of lace dripping as if it had been poured that way. Jane had to admit that even though she wasn't all that fond of bridal wear, the gowns were beautiful. She had taken the styles of the period and put as much of her personal stamp on them as she could get away with. It wasn't much more than an unexpected tuck here or an unusual bit of lace there, but at least it was something.
It was then that she was distracted by the sound of crunching.
She glanced down and saw a trail of junk food wrappers leading over to the corner.
And she muffled a squeak of fright.
Well, it was obvious that the rat wasn't dining on satin, so what was the use of chasing him out right then? Jane let the benevolence of the moment wash over her as she quickly retreated from the room. She left the light on and shut the door. Maybe the light would convince the rat that he'd wandered into the wrong place and he would abandon his designs on the workroom.
That sounded much better than trying to convince him to leave by means of a flimsy stick.
She quickly packed up her bag, put on her sneakers with the rainbow shoelaces—not chic maybe, but definitely colorful—and hurried out into the Manhattan evening. The colors and smells of the twentieth century assaulted her, assuring her that she wasn't trapped in a Victorian sweatshop. She took a deep breath, slung her bag over her shoulder, and set off down the street to her sublet, thoughts of rats temporarily forgotten.
By the time she reached her building, she was sweating and cross. She trudged up three flights of stairs, stood outside her door until her breath caught back up with her, then shoved her key into the lock and welcomed herself home to her glorified attic apartment. She turned on the lights, then closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, letting her bag slide to the floor. A quick survey of her surroundings told her she was indeed in the black-and-white space she had created for herself upon her arrival in New York. She had been convinced a monochromatic scheme was perfectly in keeping with her chic, designer self and would do nothing but enhance her creativity.
Lately she had begun to have her doubts that this was good for her state of mind.
She pushed away from the door with a sigh and headed toward her bedroom to exchange her requisite working uniform of anything black—heaven forbid we should compete with the brides, dear!—to something at least in a comforting sweatsuity shade of gray. She usually found her bedroom, with all the purity of its white contents, soothing. Today it just felt sterile.
Jane quickly took stock of what she'd consumed that day, decided that the M&M's had pushed her over the edge, and vowed with a solemn crossing of her heart to stay away from the vending machine at some point in the very near future. Perhaps before she turned forty, in another decade or so.
There was one deviation from her color scheme and that was the hope chest her parents had insisted she take with her. It was a beautiful, rich cherry and it sat under her tiny window and beckoned to her with all the subtlety of a lighthouse beam at close range. Jane knew what was in the trunk.
She was tempted.
But she also knew where looking would lead, so she turned sharply away and rummaged in her dresser for something appropriate for her aprez work Friday night activity of watching an old movie.
Once she'd shed her Witherspoon image for something more comfortable, she made herself a snack and settled down with the remote. She couldn't afford cable, but the public broadcasting system always had something useful on Friday nights.
"Great," she groused, tuning in and getting ready to tune out. "Sheep."
Ah, but it was sheep in Scotland and that was enough to keep her thumb off the remote. Scotland and all those sheep who worked so hard to donate all that wool. Jane's fingers itched at the very thought of it. Truth be told—and it was something she didn't tell anyone at work lest it ruin her image as a user of already woven goods only—put a pair of knitting needles in her hands and she could work miracles.
And yarn came in such a rainbow of colors.
She watched until she knew more than she wanted to about sheep and their habits, then she turned off the TV and crawled into bed.
And she dreamed of Scottish sheep.

Chapter Two
And back in the workroom…
Ian lifted his sword and plucked from the end another of the bags of food he had gathered. He broke open the outer coating and reached inside for some of the crunchy inner meat. While he ate, he looked at the words engraved upon the outside of the pouch. Cheetos. He nibbled, then looked with concern at the orange residue left upon his fingers. It only added to the acute alarm he felt. He continued to chew, certain he would need whatever nourishment he could have, and contemplated the direness of his situation. He was dead, obviously, for he was surely no longer in the Fergusson's pit. It concerned him, however, how much his mortal frame still pained him. He'd been certain he would have shed his body on his trip to the afterlife. But possess it he still did, and an uncomfortable thing it was indeed.
He looked about him. He was in a chamber full of white gowns. He hadn't seen them at first, as he had woken to complete darkness. Then a faint light had forced its way through a window, leaving him with the knowledge that he was no longer in the Fergusson's keep. He'd heaved himself to his feet in a desperate search for food and water.
It was then he'd espied the little box full of pouches. Drink he'd found there too, in little boxes and tasting of strange and exotic flavors. The drink he had enjoyed. The food, less so.
He'd staggered back to his corner and settled down for a rest when a light so bright it burned his eyes blazed to life before him. He'd been so stunned, he hadn't moved at first.
Heaven? he had wondered. Or perhaps a chamber assigned to those who awaited their journey to Hell. He couldn't be certain, but he strongly suspected that he had somehow, while being out of his head with weariness, escaped the Fergusson's guards and landed himself in a chamber containing gowns for future angels. There were, after all, all those garments in white to consider. And those little black machines on the tables. Ian hadn't dared touch them, but he'd read the words inscribed on them easily enough. Singer. If that didn't cause a body to think of singing angels, he surely didn't know what would.
But there had been no angels roaming about fingering the gowns so Ian had been left to ponder other alternatives. He'd eventually come to the conclusion that he wasn't in either Heaven or Hell, he was in Limbo, that horrible place between the two. The food alone should have told him as much. He looked about him at the remains of what he'd consumed. Cheetos, Milky Way, Life Savers—and aye, he could have used those in truth—all in colors he hardly recognized and tastes he'd never before set his tongue to. All in all, he couldn't help but wish heartily that he were back in Scotland braving the fare at his clan's table.
Then another more disturbing thought occurred to him. Perhaps the powers that were deciding his fate were still struggling to make up their minds about him.
He looked about him and frowned at the leavings scattered here and there. He'd had to remove the slippery outer coatings of the food—once he'd discovered those outer shells weren't fit to eat, that is. Perhaps 'twould make a better impression on Saint Peter's gate guards if Ian tidied up his surroundings. He struggled to his feet, using his sword to help him get there, then merely leaned upon his sword and caught his breath Never mind where he was; what he needed was a decent meal and a fortnight's rest to recover from his stay in the Fergusson's keep.
Ian started to bend down to see to his clutter when a door at the far end of the chamber opened. He froze, afeared to draw attention to himself when he was looking less than his best.
A demon walked in. It could be nothing else. It was dressed all in black, its hair pulled up and pinned to its head with half a dozen sticks of wood. Ian spared a thought about what kind of pain that must have caused the beastie, then realised that it likely felt no pain. Dwelling in such a place as this would surely numb the senses.
The creature looked over the angels' gowns, thumbing through them with the air of one familiar with such things. The gowns hung on shiny poles in a most magical manner and Ian spared a bit of appreciation for such a finely wrought manner of hanging the clothing. Perhaps Limbo was a more advanced place than he'd thought at first.
The demon finished with its work, then turned his way. He watched its eyes roam over the chamber, then watched those eyes widen. The she-beastie, and he could now divine that it was a she and not a he, opened its mouth to speak—but no sound issued forth. Ian took the opportunity to assess his opponent before she spewed forth things he likely wouldn't care to hear.
Her face was unremarkable, but fair enough, though Ian wasn't of a mind to examine her too closely. She was passing skinny. Perhaps she was only allowed to make a meal of her victims on an occasional basis. Ian was almost curious enough to ask her, but he was interrupted by the low whine that suddenly came from her. It started out softly enough, then increased in volume until it became a most ear-splitting shriek. Ian threw his Cheeto-encrusted fingers up over his ears until the beastie's mouth closed. Then he hesitantly took his hands down. The beastie blinked, shook her head, then blinked again.
"Only in New York," she said in a particularly garbled tone. "This could only happen in New York."
She repeated that as she turned and left the chamber by the door Ian hadn't dared open before.
New York? Was that what they called the place, then? Ian reached up to scratch his chin over that piece of news, then realized how unkempt he must have appeared to her. Then a more disturbing thought occurred to him. What if she had gone to tell the Deciders of His Fate about his less-than-pleasing appearance? By the saints, with the way he looked at present, the very last place they would think to send him was up the path to the Pearly Gates.
He looked about him frantically for aid. He had been strengthened somewhat by the ghoulish fare and felt certain that he had the vigor to make himself more presentable. Perhaps if he looked the part of an angel, they might mistake him for one and send him along on his way.
'Twas nothing short of a miracle what he was surrounded by.
Angel gowns.
He set his sword aside, peeled off his plaid and shirt, and set to work looking for something in his size.
Jane walked into her office, very proud of herself that she was still breathing normally. It wasn't every day that a woman saw a filthy, sword-bearing, bekilted man six inches taller than she loitering in her workroom. Her hand was very steady as she reached for the phone and dialed 91—
Her finger hovered over the last number . What was she going to tell the cops anyway—hey, there's a grubby guy standing in the middle of junk food wrappers in the room down the hall? For all she knew, they would come get her and haul her away. She slowly set down the receiver and took stock of the situation.
It was the Saturday before Memorial Day and given the fact that Miss Witherspoon had given the entire staff the long holiday off—except Jane, of course—it was a safe bet that she would be the only one in the salon until Tuesday.
Alone with a crusted-over Swamp Thing.
Jane looked around her for a weapon. Damn, nothing but a handful of dressmaker's pins—and she had already determined their lack of usefulness in inflicting fatal wounds. It looked as if her only option was to beat a hasty retreat and face the remains of the mess on Tuesday with everyone else.
Her hand hadn't gone halfway to her bag before she realized that wasn't an option either. The best gowns in that workroom were one-of-a-kind creations that she had put together herself. She had spent hours rummaging through estate sales, garage sales, and dusty antique shops to find the unique bits and pieces that went into making her additions to the salon truly special. Could she really allow those creations to be ruined because she'd been too cowardly to face the man nesting in the workroom? Besides, he really hadn't looked too steady on his feet. Maybe he needed help.
She squelched the Florence Nightingale thoughts before they could bedazzle her common sense, then gathered up what she hoped was defense enough: a Bic pen and a pair of very long, very sharp dressmaker shears.
"Here goes nothing," she muttered as she left her office and tiptoed down the hallway to the workroom.
She stopped outside the door and put her ear to it. Damned old metal things. Where was a good old-fashioned hollow core wooden door when a girl needed one? With one last deep breath, she flung open the door and stepped inside.
Swamp Thing squeaked in surprise and spun around to face her, his skirts rustling loudly in the sudden silence. Jane would have squeaked as well but she was too dumbfounded by what she was seeing.
He was wearing the most modern of their gowns, a nineteenth-century Southern Belle special. It was an off-the-shoulder number with dozens of hand-placed pearls and enough lace encrusting the bodice to turn the upper half of the dress into the stiffest noncorseted creation ever worn by anyone who'd ever said "y'all."
Well, at least he wasn't toting the matching parasol.
Jane felt her mouth working, but she found that all sound refused to come out. There was a man in her workroom wearing a bridal gown. It was too small by several sizes, the hem hitting him midcalf. His relatively hairy arms poked out at an awkward angle through the sleeve holes and the neckline barely reached midsternum. Jane decided right then that men with any amount of body hair at all were not meant for shoulderless, sleeveless bridal fashions.
And then Swamp Thing spoke.
"Would ye perrrchance be one of Saint Peterrr's ilk," he began, sounding rather nervous, "or are ye belonging to the… errrr… Deevil's minions?"
His r's rolled so long and so hard, they almost knocked her down. It occurred to her that he was a Scot, which explained what had looked like a kilt before, but it didn't explain what he was doing in Miss Wither-spoon's shop.
And then it sunk in what he had asked her.
"Huh?" she said, blinking at him.
He took a deep breath. Then he put his shoulders back—no mean feat given his attire. "Be ye angel," he asked, "or demon?"
She was sure she'd heard him wrong. "Angel or demon?"
"Aye."
"Well," she said, wondering what planet he'd just dropped down from, or, more to the point, what asylum he'd escaped from, "neither, actually."
"Neitherrrr," he echoed.
That Scottish burr almost brought her to her knees. Jane put her hand to her head to check for undue warmth there. There was a lunatic standing ten feet away from her and she was getting giddy over his accent.
He gave his bodice a hike up and scratched his matted beard. "Limbo, then," he said with a sigh. "And here I am, having taken such pains to look my best."
"Look your best," she said, watching him lean wearily against one of the worktables. "Is that why you put on one of the dresses?" "Wacko, she decided immediately. And one for the books.
He nodded, then explained, his r's rolling and all his other vowels and consonants tumbling and lilting like water rushing over rocks in a stream. Jane was so mesmerized by the sound of his speech, she hardly paid attention to what he was saying.
"So, I was thinking that if you were indeed someone keeping watch for Saint Peter that perhaps I'd make a better impression if I wore something that would make me seem more angelic"—and here he flashed her a smile that just about finished off what his r's had done to her knees—"and spare me a trip to Hell." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "But if you're trapped in Limbo as well, I can see my efforts were for naught."
"Limbo," she repeated. "Why do you keep talking about Limbo?"
He looked at her as if she was the one who was seriously out of touch with reality. " Tis the place between Heaven and Hell, and you know nothing of it? 'Tis worse for you than I feared."
"Pal, we aren't in Limbo, we're in New York."
His expression of resignation turned to alarm. "New York? Is that closer to Hell, then?"
"It's actually closer to Jersey than Hell, but we try to forget that bit of geography, except when the wind's from the south, then it's an inescapable fact." She tucked the pen into her hair and loosened her grip on the shears. "Look, let's try to get you back to where you came from, okay? You tell me how you got here and I'll help you get home." That sounded reasonable enough.
He leaned more heavily against the table. "How can I go home? I'm dead." He shifted and a snootful of his aroma hit Jane square in the nose.
"Nope," she said definitely, "you're not dead. I told you, you're in New York. Different state of being entirely."
He looked very skeptical, but she pressed on.
"Do you have any family?"
"I've kin in the Highlands," he said. "I've also kin in the Future, but I daresay I've bypassed them to get to here."
A wacko with delusions of time traveling, she noted. She'd read those time-traveling romances and knew all about how it worked. Standing stones, faery rings, magical jewelry—those were all devices necessary for the time traveler. Since there were none of the above in the vicinity, it was a safe bet the guy was kidding himself. Jane wasn't familiar with any of the local sanitariums, so she decided to ignore that alternative for the moment. She took a different tack.
"You got family in the area?" she asked. "In Manhattan? Queens?"
"I'm first cousin to the laird of my clan," he said wearily. "But I fear there are no queens amongst our kin."
Jane opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, then shut it and shook her head. Better not to know.
"Okay," she said slowly, "how about your name instead."
"Ian MacLeod."
That was a start. "Birth date?"
"Allhallows Eve, 1279."
"Right," she said, starting to feel like Joe Friday. Maybe if she could get just the facts. "Whoa," she said, holding up her shears, "let's fix that. What year did you say?"
"The Year of Our Lord's Grace 1279," he repeated absently, looking around in something of a daze.
"All right," she said, putting that tidbit into the "Really Wacko" column. "Let's move on. What about your family?"
"All left behind in 1313," he said, plucking at his skirts with grimy fingers. "Save my cousin Jamie, of course, but he's in the Future."
Okay, we'll play it your way, she thought. "The Future? What year would that be?"
"1996," he said, leaving fingerprints behind on the antebellum gown. "That was the year he said they would hope for."
"Wrong," she said, shaking her head and hoping the motion would dislodge the rest of his words. The year they would hope for? What kind of babble was that? "1996 is the past, buster," she continued. "We're in 1999- Just a blink until the new… um…" She found her voice fading at the look on his face.
"1999?" he whispered.
"Yes."
"1999, not Limbo?"
She was sure she had never before seen such a look of dreadful hope on anyone's face. She nodded slowly.
"1999," she confirmed. "That's the year, New York is the place."
His eyes suddenly filled with tears. Before she could ask him why, he had fallen to his knees.
"Ach, merciful Saint Michael," he breathed, his hands clasped in front of him. "I escaped… I escaped in truth!"
Escape. Now there was a word she didn't really want to hear from him. It conjured up thoughts of bars and breakouts and maimed guards.
But before she could tell him as much, he had begun to teeter on his knees.
"Um, Mr. MacLeod,' she said, holding out her hand, "maybe you'd better…"
He looked up at her with a smile of such radiance, she almost flinched.
Then his eyes rolled back in his head, his eyelids came down, and he pitched forward, landing with his face on her toes.
She looked down, speechless.
A passed-out nutcase lying on her feet. What else could happen this weekend?
She was fairly sure she didn't want to know.
She stared down at the unconscious and very fragrant Ian MacLeod sprawled at her feet and wondered what in the world she was going to do with him now. And then she noticed the condition of his back revealed so conveniently by the zipper he hadn't been quite able to get up. She could have been mistaken, but those scabs looked an awful lot like Hollywood's rendition of healing whip marks.
Just what kind of trouble was he in?
And why was he so thrilled to be in New York in 1999?
Somehow, and she certainly couldn't have said why, she had the niggling suspicion that he was just as rational as she was and that he had never seen the inside of an asylum to escape from.
But that was a hunch she really didn't want to pursue. Instead, she turned her rampant thoughts to the matter at hand—namely getting Ian MacLeod out of Miss Witherspoon's workroom on the off chance that someone else was feeling exceptionally diligent and decided to come in for a little unpaid overtime.
Moving him without his help was out of the question. She wasn't a great judge of those kinds of things, but she hazarded a guess that he was several inches over six feet, certainly tall enough to get a kink in his neck while looking down at her. He was heavier than she was by far—even taking into account those last many pounds she hadn't managed to get off in time for bikini season. Dragging him out, even if she could manage it, would do nothing but leave grime on the carpet and ruin the gown. Short of dumping cold water on him, probably the best thing she could do was wait for him to wake up and hope he hadn't left too much of himself on the Scarlet O'Hara dress.
So she took a deep breath, sat down with her shears, and waited.

Chapter Three
Ian woke with difficulty. It seemed to him as if he struggled up from his dreams like a man struggling to escape the embrace of a pond lest he drown. He knew there was a reason to wake, but he couldn't remember what it was. He only knew he had cause to open his eyes and soon, else he would lose what he desperately wanted.
He opened his eyes and realized he was still in the white room. He lifted his head to find the woman who had delivered the glad tidings sitting a few paces away from him, holding onto her strange weapon.
A Future weapon, by the look of it.
Ian smiled, a smile so fierce it hurt his face to do it. He had done it! He had escaped the past and landed himself precisely where he had dreamed of being for years.
By the saints, it was a miracle.
"How're you feeling?"
Ian looked at the woman and realized that he would have to do a great deal of work on his speech before he sounded as she did. He'd learned English, of course, being the laird's cousin and all and potentially in line for the chieftainship, and he'd practiced a bit with his cousin Jamie's wife while she was with them. Hopefully it would suffice him until he could master the new tongue.
"Well enough, mistress," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster, being facedown on the floor before her. "I fear I never asked your name."
"Jane," she said. "Jane Fergusson."
"Fergusson?" he croaked.
She waved her hand dismissively. "We've got a Scottish ancestor way up in the branches of the family tree."
"Well," Ian managed, "as long as he's not likely to drop from that tree upon me presently."
"He died a long time ago, I'm sure."
Ian decided on the spot to let the past stay in the past. No sense in punishing this girl for what her kin had done. For all he knew, she wasn't directly related to the Fergusson. As Ian's back twitched from a remembered flogging, he certainly hoped not.
Jane Fergusson rose to her feet. "We need to get you out of here."
Ian immediately felt her urgency become his. "Why? Is it a bad place?"
"You're in Miss Petronia Witherspoon's Elegant Eighteenth Century Wedding Fashions, and believe me when I tell you Miss Witherspoon would not be pleased to find you wearing one of her bridal gowns in your… um… present condition."
Ian heaved himself up. It took some doing, and he tangled himself soundly in his skirts before he managed to gain his feet. Even then he had to hold onto the table for a moment or two until the stars ceased to swirl about his head. He looked sideways at Jane and tried to smile.
"I've been a bit… er, detained for the past pair of months."
"Detained?"
She looked less than eager to hear the entire tale, but Ian felt he owed it to her.
"I was in an enemy's dungeon. I fell asleep dreaming of Hell."
"And woke up just yards from Jersey," she said with a nod. "Make sense."
Ian wasn't familiar with the place called Jersey, but he had the feeling he'd be well to avoid it. He continued, trying to piece together what must have happened. "I think they mistook me for dead and pulled me free," he said. "Perhaps they carried me to our land and left me there." He shrugged. "I've no idea, truly, but I'm grateful to be here." He smiled, to show her how grateful he was.
She looked less than convinced. Maybe she didn't believe his tale. Perhaps she would believe him when he found Jamie and Jamie could vouch for the truth of it.
"Dungeon?" she asked. "Here in New York?"
"Nay, in Scotland. In the Highlands. In 1313." He straightened and tried to look as trustworthy as possible. He truly didn't expect her to believe him immediately, but she would in time. Or perhaps she would merely take pity on him and help him find Jamie whether she believed him or not.
Assuming Jamie was in the Future. Ian had seen Jamie and his wife Elizabeth ride off into the forest. He'd even gone to the place where he knew the doorway into the Future to be and made certain they hadn't been overcome by beasties or brigands. There had been no sign of them. Ian had been convinced Jamie had found his way to 1996.
He most assuredly did not want to contemplate what a sorry state he would be in if he was wrong.
"Hmmm," she said, fingering her weapon. "1313?"
"I need to find my cousin, James MacLeod." There. Just saying the like made him feel more confident. Jamie had to be here. Ian would accept no other alternative. He put all doubts from his mind and concentrated on the task at hand—mainly remaining upright.
"Maybe you'd better clean up first," she countered. "You really don't want to go around dressed like that now that you don't need to make an impression on Saint Peter anymore."
He looked down at the dress and frowned at the less-than-pristine condition of it.
"I fear I've ruined the frock," he said apologetically.
"Forget it. It wasn't one of my best anyway."
He looked up at her. "Yours?"
"I designed it." She looked around the chamber. "I designed all of these."
Somehow she didn't sound overly enthusiastic about it. Ian, however, was impressed. He'd fingered the majority of the gowns looking for something he could use. Jane was a fine seamstress indeed to have done so much work.
"They're passing fair," he offered. "Bonny, truly."
"For bridal gowns," she conceded. "Now," she continued briskly, "let's figure out what to do with you."
He made her as low a bow as he could manage without landing himself upon her toes again. "I am in your hands, my lady."
He looked out from under his eyebrows to see the effect his words had had on her. She was looking at him with pursed lips and he straightened with a sigh. So she was resistent to his charms. Ian remembered his hastily made vow that he would mend his ways and settle with one woman. Perhaps Jane was not the woman for him. After all, he had the entire Future to choose from. No sense in not looking them all over before he made his choice.
But that didn't mean that Jane didn't deserve his most gallant self. It was the least he could offer, given his current condition.
A short while later he found himself riding, trapped, in what Jane called an elevator. All he knew was that the floor was falling from beneath his feet and he thought he just might shame himself by crying out. To take his mind off the interminable ride, he fingered the buttons of the raincoat he'd been given to wear over the remains of his plaid. His feet were bare and his sword was wrapped in a sheath of white fabric. He'd seen the wisdom of not parading about with his weapon until he was more familiar with the conditions of the day.
He'd just prided himself on surviving the torture of the little descending box when he found himself outside Miss Petronia's dwelling, standing on strange ground that fair burned the soles of his feet. The heat rose in waves from the hardened ground and beat down upon his person so strongly, he thought he might expire on the spot.
"Are you certain this isn't Hell?" he asked Jane, wiping his grimy brow.
She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled so loudly, he clapped his hands over his ears.
"Nope," she said, when he pulled his hands away cautiously. "Welcome to New York in summer. It's hot as hell, but still a different place entirely."
And then Ian noticed everything else. There were those little boxes on wheels—nay, those were the cars he'd heard tell of. He looked at them in astonishment, amazed at their speed and their braying calls as they surged by one another. Their drivers leaned out of them, shouting and swearing. He jumped as he heard one screech to a halt a mere finger's breadth from the back of another.
Then there were the people who hastened past him without marking him. He was pushed and jostled as more souls than he had ever seen in the whole of his life swelled around him.
The confusion, the noise, the heat and the mass of humanity were almost enough to bring him to his knees weeping with uncertainty. He struggled to regain his courage—something he had never had trouble with in the past. But who could blame him? By the saints, this was a world he'd never expected, full of sights and sounds he could hardly digest. He clutched his hands together only to realize he was clutching Jane's hand between the both of his. He looked at her to find she was staring at him with something akin to pity in her eyes.
"I… I fear…" His voice cracked. "So many people," he managed.
She smiled, a gentle smile that almost had him kneeling at her feet in gratitude.
"We'll take a cab to my place," she said, giving his hand a squeeze. "You'll feel better once you've had a shower and something decent to eat."
Eat was the one thing he did understand at present, so he nodded over that and let her lead him into a little yellow car that suddenly stopped in front of them. He sat on the strange bench and closed his eyes as the car lurched forward, the driver swearing and bellowing his displeasure at those around him.
Ian began to pray.
It seemed to take forever until the car stopped at their destination. Jane handed the man pieces of paper that Ian surmised served as payment. Ian followed her from the car and into a tall, bricked keep. He sighed in relief at the sight of steps. At least there would be no more torture in the little box that went up and down.
"You'll probably want to eat first," Jane said after they had climbed the steps and she had led him through a doorway she had opened with a key. "Stand here and don't move."
Ian stood and he didn't move. He didn't dare. Her dwelling was a curious mixture of only black and white and he feared to soil anything he might touch. He watched as Jane came from another part of her house carrying a goodly bit of cloth. She spread it over a strangely cushioned bench, then motioned for him to sit.
"I'll bring you something to eat, then I'll go see if I can round up some clothes for you. You're not going to want to wear what you've got on much longer."
"Aye, it could bear a washing."
She looked skeptical that such a thing might suffice, but he didn't argue. His belly was nigh to burning a hole in his middle and he didn't want to distract her from her errand in the kitchen.
Within moments, Ian was holding a strange, round trencher with something called a BLT piled atop it. It was very edible and he ingested several, depleting Jane's loaf of bread, but unable to apologize for it. It had been a very long time since he'd had anything fit for a man to consume. After they had eaten, Jane took away their trenchers and headed toward a black box in the corner.
"Here's the television. You can change the channel if you want to. I'll be back in about an hour."
Ian started to say "fine," then gasped in surprise as Jane touched the box. It sprang to life, or rather the people trapped inside the contrivance sprang to life. Ian could only gape at the poor souls, unsure if he should try to rescue them or not.
"Ian? You okay?"
Ian looked up at her, still speechless.
"I know," she said with a sigh. "Saturday afternoon TV. It's pretty bad, but it'll keep you entertained. Here's the remote."
And with that, she left.
He was alone with the television.
By the saints, 'twas almost as frightening as contemplating another trip into the Fergusson's dungeon.
At the thought of that, he felt his eyes narrow of their own accord. Jane was a Fergusson, no matter how far removed she was. Had she turned on the beast to torment him?
He sat on the soft bench in her house and pondered that. Then he looked at the black sticklike thing she had placed into his hand. He pressed upon it and jumped at what happened inside the television. It was too horrifying to be believed. He pressed what he'd pressed before and, by the blessed saints, the group of players trapped inside changed yet again.
He wished somehow that Jane hadn't left him alone.
"Dolt," he muttered to himself. He was a score and fourteen, surely old enough to have lost his fear of things he didn't understand. This was a Future creation. There was no dark magic about it. It was just another marvel the men of the Future had invented to entertain themselves—the saints pity the poor fools they had shrunk and trapped inside the box to provide the amusement.
Could he rescue them? He gave that serious thought before deciding that perhaps that was what he needed to do. He leaned further up on the edge of the bench. The television paid him no heed. He rose slowly and approached as quietly as he could. His body was still battered, but he felt better than he had before. Another fortnight, and he would be fully himself again—if he survived an afternoon alone with the beast in front of him.
The television gave no sign of having marked his approach, so he moved even closer. Ian reached out to touch the smooth surface and jerked his hand back as the beast bit him with invisible teeth.
Ian sucked upon his fingers. As tempted as he was to do a bit of rescuing with his sword, he decided that perhaps patience was a virtue he could practice that afternoon. He retreated to his square of cloth and sat down again, eyeing the television with disfavor. Cheeky beast. Then he realized the players inside were speaking in Jane's English and he saw the benefits of paying close attention to them.
But despite himself, he couldn't help but wish Jane would hurry with her errands.

Chapter Four
Jane stood in her bedroom several hours later, leaned on her dresser and stared at herself in the mirror, and wondered if she would be better off to lock her door and forget what lay outside it. Somehow, though, she suspected locking it wasn't necessary to keep the non-native out. He didn't particularly seem up to turning the handle. Either he was a complete wacko, he was from a different planet, or he was from where he said he was.
Scotland, the Year of Our Lord 1313.
But she didn't want to think about how that could be possible.
Unfortunately, it was a conclusion she was having a hard time avoiding, and that had everything to do with the afternoon and evening's events. She'd never considered herself a Sir Gallahad type, but she had done more rescuing in the past eight hours than Sir G. had likely done in his entire life.
Jane had initially—and with no small bit of trepidation left Ian at home to watch television. She'd warned him under pain of death not to touch anything. She wouldn't have been surprised in the least to have returned and found her building belching smoke and fire into the afternoon air. She'd been relieved to find Ian in the same place she'd left him: gaping at the TV. He'd jumped half a foot when she'd touched his shoulder. She'd then found herself standing stock-still with a sword at her throat.
Whatever else she could say about Ian MacLeod, she had to admit he was apparently a helluva swordsman.
Once she'd been able to breathe again, she'd ushered Ian to the bathroom. She'd soon heard a serious clanking noise and had hurried to investigate only to find he had peed in the sink and was in the process of taking apart her plumbing. She'd saved him from being bonked over the head with her showerhead—by her. The last thing she needed was to have to call the super and ask him to come put her powder room back together. Deciding that perhaps Ian's next foray into the bathroom could wait, she'd taken him back to the kitchen for a second lunch.
That had precipitated his sudden love affair with the chrome toaster. Jane had barely managed to throw together a tuna casserole before she'd had to announce "stop" in a very loud voice to keep him from completing his investigation of the toaster insides with a sterling silver butter knife. He'd transferred his attentions to the outlet, necessitating a stern command that he park himself at the table with his hands empty and in plain sight.
He had subsequently looked at what had come out of the oven as if he'd never seen anything like it before in his life. She was the first to admit she was a lousy cook, but surely her offering hadn't merited such tentative pokes with a fork into the depths of the casserole dish. Apparently Ian's appetite was less threatened by her potato-chip crust than Ian was, because it induced him to wolf down the entire thing without missing a beat.
She'd headed him back into the bathroom again with grooming aids that hopefully wouldn't get him into too much trouble, and left him to it. Then she'd come into her room, leaned on her dresser, and looked at herself, wondering what had possessed her to bring Ian home. And that brought her back to her initial problem of determining his origins: loony bin or fourteenth-century Scotland. She fervently hoped there was a difference.
Well, there was no sense in postponing the inevitable any longer. She would have to go out, find out the truth, and then figure out what to do about it. Maybe she could help him find his family and get him out of her life so she could get back to darts and gathers.
Somehow, though, after what she'd been through in the past eight hours, producing wedding gowns just didn't sound all that exciting anymore.
She took a deep breath and walked to her bedroom door. The apartment was minuscule, but it was hers alone. It had reminded her of drafty servants' quarters in some bad eighteenth-century penny novel and that had seemed so appropriate, she hadn't been able to pass it up. That and she could afford it. The down side was that there wasn't some long, elegant hallway separating her from the living room so she would have its length to get a good grip on herself.
She opened the door and stepped out into the living room/dining room/kitchen combination and for the second time that day found herself gaping at Ian MacLeod. Only this time terror had nothing at all to do with her speechless condition. He had risen to greet her and stood in front of her couch with his hands clasped behind him, a grave smile on his face. She was greatly tempted to swoon, a good, old-fashioned, antebellum kind of swoon. Instead, she shut her mouth and commanded her knees to remain steady.
He'd shaved. She noticed that right off. Amazingly enough, beneath that ratty beard lurked a granitelike jaw, chiseled cheekbones, and a full, pouty lower lip that had her biting hers in self-defense. She wondered if fanning herself would give the skyrocketing of her blood pressure away. And then there was his eyes, a vivid blue that made them seem as if they leaped from his face. They were eyes she could have lost herself in for centuries and not cared one bit about the passage of time.
His shoulders were impossibly broad and she was vaguely disappointed that she'd bought him an extra-large tee shirt. Should have picked up that medium, she thought with regret. It wouldn't have been as good as a wet tee shirt, but she wouldn't have quibbled. All in all, Ian MacLeod was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on in the whole of her twenty-nine years. Something nagged at her, but she shoved it aside in favor of more lusting. She looked lower and saw that his jeans hugged him most securely—and then it hit her what was so dreadfully wrong with the picture.
He was wearing boxer shorts.
On the outside of his jeans.
She looked up, startled, only to find that he'd turned himself around to look at a noise from the kitchen end of the living room and she got a eyeful of his long, glorious dark hair—tied back with a bright pink bow The only relief she felt was knowing it was something he'd unearthed from one of her bathroom drawers.
But before she could say anything else, he'd turned back to her and given her another of his smiles, only this one wasn't grave. It was a hear stopper.
"My thanks for the clothing," he said, with a little bow. "Passing comfortable, these long-legged trews." He pulled at his jeans, then lovingly caressed the boxer shorts with the smiley faces on them. "Veri cheerful and pleasing to the eye."
Jane didn't have the heart to tell him he had them on in the wrong order. Besides, it was New York. No one would look at him twice.
"Do you perchance have a map?" he asked, his lilt taking her for an other roller-coaster ride. "I've a need to find my cousin as soon as maybe and I'd best know where I am now. I'm not familiar with New York."
"Sure," Jane said. She had an atlas. She'd bought it her first month a Miss Witherspoon's, based on her certainty that she'd be traveling to all the fashion hot spots soon and it would be best to know where she was headed.
It was, unsurprisingly, still in shrink-wrap. It had been, after all, very expensive atlas.
But who better to use it on than a lunatic sporting a pink bow and wondering where New York found itself in the grander global scheme of things? Jane got the atlas and sat down next to Ian on the couch. She opened up to the world and then looked at Ian to see if anything was ringing a bell for him yet.
He was looking at it blankly.
Jane pointed carefully to the British Isles. "Scotland," she said. "I think the Highlands are up there."
Ian looked the faintest bit relieved to see something that was apparently familiar. "Aye," he said with a gulp. "And there's Inverness, Edinburgh. Those places I know. Now, where are we? Lower down?"
"A bit to the left," she said, sliding her finger across the Atlantic and stopping on Manhattan. "We're on a little island here."
Ian gaped. "Across the sea?"
"Across the sea."
"But," he spluttered, "how did I come across the sea?"
Jane looked at him carefully. "That's a very good question. How did you come across the sea?"
Ian closed his eyes and she watched him swallow very hard. It seemed to take him a moment or two to regain control of himself before he opened his eyes and looked at her.
"I live in Scotland," he managed. "How I came to be across that vast sea, I know not. But I must go home." He looked bleakly at the map. "I must go home."
There was a wealth of longing in those words and in spite of herself, Jane was moved. She recognized the feeling. She wanted to go home, wanted it more than anything, but home wasn't a return ticket to Indiana. She loved her family, but they were solid, dependable people with solid, dependable dreams. Jane, despite her solid, dependable name had never been one of them, never shared in their dreams. They wanted accountants and bankers; Jane wanted a sheep farm, a spinning wheel, and dyes in vibrant, breath-stealing colors. Her dream home was a little house in the Scottish Highlands where she could weave in peace and never again look at a bridal gown, never again be bound by white and ecru, never again wear black unless someone had died.
Home. In a place she'd never dreamed of.
And with a person she'd never expected.
"I have to go home," Ian repeated.
She nodded. "I understand."
"Can you help me?"
She took a deep breath. "I can. In fact, let's start now. We'll call information and see if we can't get your cousin on the phone."
"The phone?"
She picked up the cordless and handed it to him. He was giving it the same look of intense interest he'd given the toaster, so she took it away from him.
And she couldn't help but wish he'd look at her that way. Maybe women hadn't changed enough since the Middle Ages for her to be all that much of a novelty.
She shook her head as she went to look for the phone book. "Maybe I'm the one who needs the asylum," she muttered under her breath. "I'm starting to believe him!"
Within moments, she was sitting next to him on the couch, connecting with international information. She asked for a listing for James MacLeod in the Highlands.
"There are scores," the operator said with asperity. "Can you be a bit more specific?"
Jane put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Can you be more specific? A specific town?"
Ian peered at the map. "Well, 'tis a half se'nnight's journey from MacAllister's keep, but less from the Fergusson's. We've a forest nearby and the mountains are behind us."
He traced the map with his finger and as he did so, Jane made a decision.
"Thanks," she said to the operator and hung up the phone before she could change her mind. What she contemplated was possibly the stupidest thing she'd ever contemplated, but she was tired of her safe existence. Here she had the perfect opportunity to pick up and do something, well, colorful. There was every reason not to, but none of those reasons was appealing, so she ignored them. She looked at Ian. "We'll just fly over and you can get there by landmarks. You can do that, can't you?"
"Easily. But this flying…"
"In a plane. You'll love it."
"I will repay you—"
She held up her hand and cut him off. She didn't want to talk about money. It wasn't why she was doing it.
"I will," he insisted. "It isn't proper that you spend what you've earned on a stranger."
"We'll deal with that later."
He looked at her, then shook his head. "The journey will be very long. Your work—"
"I hate my work," she said, then shut her mouth when she realized what she'd said. Hate was a strong word. She took a deep breath. "It really won't take very long and I have some vacation time coming up anyway."
"I couldn't—"
"Please." She hadn't meant to say it, but it slipped out of her mouth just as surprisingly as had the other things. "I would very much like to see Scotland," she amended. "I hear it's beautiful."
Ian took her hand and squeezed it. "You're very kind, Jane Fergusson. You have my gratitude."
She would have rather had his unrestrained passion, but gratitude wasn't a bad start.
"How about a movie?" she asked, pulling her hand away before she did something stupid, like leave it in his. "We'll do popcorn, too."
"A Future tradition?"
With the way he said Future, she couldn't help but capitalize it in her mind. Whatever Ian's mental state, he certainly was enthusiastic about everything she suggested.
"Definitely," she answered him. "Maybe we'll do ice cream later." She'd already put her foot to the slippery slope of breaking out of her normal routine. Might as well go for the full trip.
Her only hope was that she had some heart left for beating in her chest once Ian was safely delivered home.
Three hours later, Jane huddled in her bed, wondering if she shouldn't have chosen a romantic comedy instead of an alien thriller. A tap on her door almost left her clinging to the ceiling.
"What?" she croaked.
The door opened a crack. "Jane, might I perchance sleep up here with you? On the floor, even."
More of Ian inched through her door, clad in boxers and dragging a blanket behind him.
"Well…" she began.
"I saw an alien in the garderobe."
She might have argued with him, but she was almost certain she'd seen the same thing in her closet.
"All right," she said slowly. I am insane, she thought. An unknown quality coming to sleep on the floor next to her bed. It would be just her luck to wake up throttled, or worse. She wasn't sure what anyone else might think would be worse than a throttling, but she could come up with a few things.
"A peaceful rest to you, my lady," came the deep whisper from beside her bed.
My lady. Well, how could you not feel just a little more relaxed with that kind of talk coming your way?
Jane closed her eyes, sighed, and then another thought occurred to her.
"Ian?"
"Aye."
"Do you have a passport?"
"Passporrrt?" he echoed in a sleepy burr.
"You know, papers to get you through customs and all?"
"Future customs," he murmured, smacking his lips a time or two. "Must learn those right away."
"Did you leave it at home?"
Her only answer was a snore. Besides, she thought, if he'd entered the country through the normal channels, surely he would have had it on him when he'd arrived in New York.
In Miss Witherspoon's salon, wearing filthy rags and spearing bags of munchies on the end of a sword.
She sighed. Wonderful. What she had was a wacko without the necessary documents to deposit him back on home soil. Why couldn't she have had a cousin in some illegal kind of import-export business?
Then again, there was Frank at Miss Witherspoon's. He dressed like an aging urchin, bathed with the regularity of an eighteenth-century chimney sweep, and always had the faint hint of cannabis clinging to him. If anyone might know where to come up with a passport for Ian, Frank would. It was something to hope for. She closed her eyes and to her surprise, immediately and quite peacefully drifted off to sleep.
And she dreamed of Scotland.

Chapter Five
Ian sat behind a strangely fashioned table in what Jane called her broom closet at Miss Whitherspoon's workplace and marveled at the fineness of the fabric surrounding him. It was all white, of course, but the variety and the beauty of it was truly a wonder. He picked up the Future weapon Jam had originally faced him with and saw that its jaws opened and closed with great precision. He reached for a swath of fabric to try it out upon He hadn't but begun to close the teeth when he heard a screech that fail sent him scampering for cover.
"Stop!"
Ian stopped in mid-closing and looked up to find Jane teetering at the doorway.
"Don't cut that," she said, reaching out and taking the weapon from him. "Come with me. Frank wants to take your picture."
Ian followed her obediently through the empty hallways. Frank, he understood, would provide him with the necessary things he would need to return to Scotland. He wasn't exactly sure why he had come to New York in the first place, but he suspected there was something quite magical about the city that drew seekers of all kinds.
Or wackos, as he heard Jane occasionally mutter under her breath
Within moments, courtesy of another claustrophobic ride in the elevator, Ian faced a small black box and was subsequently reeling from the shock of having a bright light explode in his eyes. He looked at Jane and blinked several times until his eyes cleared. He sincerely hoped whatever Frank intended to do for him was worth what he'd just faced.
"He can do this thing?" Ian asked her, rubbing his eyes.
"I know a guy," Frank said, busily attending to the torture device he'd just used on Ian.
"He knows a guy," Jane said, taking Ian by the arm and pulling him from the chamber. "Now to go beg for some vacation time," she said with a sigh. "This should be fun."
With the way she said it, Ian wasn't sure fun was something he wanted to be involved in. He put his shoulders back and tried to look his most confident. He didn't want to get in Jane's way as she negotiated for temporary freedom from her employer. It was more of a sacrifice than he was truly willing for her to make, but she seemed determined to come with him. And, if the truth were to be told, he wasn't sure he could get himself to Scotland of the Future without her.
Or, strangely enough, that he even wanted to.
He was almost certain it wasn't just misplaced gratitude, though he had enough of that and to spare. How he ever could have survived his arrival in the Future without Jane having been there, he surely didn't know. She had fed him, clothed him, and given him a place to lay his head. There was much to be said for that.
And then he quite suddenly lost track of all his thoughts as the elevator doors opened, he stepped into the passageway, and his rather starved libido caught an eyeful of the women who had suddenly filled Miss Witherspoon's place of commerce.
Too skinny by half, most of them, but passing beautiful. Tall, willowy, in all colors and shapes. Ian could only gape at them, stunned mainly by the looks they were giving him, looks that said they would be more than willing to engage in whatever activity he might suggest. He knew the look. He'd seen it before and he'd certainly taken advantage of it before.
"Models," Jane threw over her shoulder as she plunged into the midst of them. "They wear the bridal gowns for the customers."
Brides? He could hardly believe it, for none of them looked nervous enough to be contemplating their first night with a man. Just as well. Ian was acutely aware of the last virgin he'd tutored and where that evening's instruction had landed him. It was far better to indulge in one of these. Or several.
His conscience gave him a sharp poke, reminding him that at one point in the Fergusson's dungeon he'd made a last-minute plea for forbearance based on the promise of pledging to one woman.
He looked at Jane as she parted the way before him. She was dressed all in black again and Ian wondered if that was so she would fade when compared to the other creatures circling him like carrion birds dressed in white. Her hair was confined the same way he'd seen it at first, all bunched at the back of her head with a handful of sticks poking from it. They were pencils he knew now, but they still looked odd to him. She was almost as tall as the other women but not nearly as slender, though her shape was a fine one.
One woman.
Or the score he currently waded through.
Jane, or a variety of delicacies he thought he just might want to sample.
He felt a smack on his backside and he yelped as the hand lingered. Ian couldn't tell who had done it, but there were several standing about him who looked capable of such an intimate gesture. Jane turned around and frowned at the lot of them.
"Down, girls. He's out of your league."
One of the women snorted. "As if he's in yours, Janey."
It was at that point that Ian began to suspect that beneath all the beauty and seductiveness might lie less-than-nice souls. He also cared not for the quickly hidden flinch he'd seen Jane display. These women knew nothing of her and yet she allowed them to wound her? Ian stepped up to Jane's side and took her hand.
"Let us be off," he said, casting the disparaging woman a look of disapproval. Jane didn't pull her hand away, but Ian felt her fingers fluttering nervously. It was as if he'd caught a butterfly. It was not the hand that would take liberties with an unknown man's backside.
"Models," Jane muttered with distaste. "They're very dangerous."
"So I see," Ian said, rubbing his abused backside with his free hand.
"And what we're going to face is even more dangerous. We're almost there." She looked up at him. "Try to look helpless and pathetic. We're going for the mercy vote."
As you will Ian had planned to say, but before he could get the words out, the door to Miss Witherspoon's office had been opened and he'd gotten a complete eyeful of Miss Witherspoon.
"Oh," Jane said, sounding less than pleased. She pulled Ian behind her into Miss Witherspoon's private chamber. "Where is she?"
"Out," the vision purred, coming to her feet from behind the impressively large table, revealing impressively large proportions herself.
Ian could only gape at the woman, speechless. This was obviously not the stern and unyielding employer Jane had told him about.
"And who do we have here?" the young woman continued.
"A friend of mine," Jane said. "Ian, this is Alexis, Miss Witherspoon's niece. Alexis, Ian."
Ian had never seen such lush curves. He suspected he'd never even dreamed of such a form, impeccably rounded in the proper places and impossibly slim everywhere else.
"Aahh," he attempted.
And then she held out her hand and he looked down to see blood dripping from all her fingers.
"Ach!" he cried, jumping back.
Alexis only stretched and smiled like a satisfied cat, practically clawing the air with her daggerlike hands. "Just nail polish, silly. They're my own nails, of course."
Ian could see that and he was afraid. He knew what kind of marks a Fergusson whip could leave. He could only imagine how a man's back might pain him after a night abed with those.
"Oh, Jane dear, I see you've finally arrived."
Ian found himself pushed aside by a solidly built woman well past the prime of her life. She cast him a practiced look of assessment before she turned her attentions back to Jane.
"Alexis drew some wonderful ideas on the way back. You'll see them mocked up as soon as possible."
"Well," Jane began.
Ian looked down to find that Alexis had sidled up to him and was placing her considerable charms beneath his nose for closer inspection.
"I design all the gowns, you know," she whispered, reaching up to tap his chin with one long nail. "No matter what you've heard. Jane just does the sewing." She slid her finger down and began to toy with one of the buttons on his shirt. "I'm going to be a famous designer one day."
Ian vowed he would believe anything she said to him if she would just cease with her descent down the front of his chest.
"I need my vacation time," Jane said calmly. "Ian needs to get back to Scotland and I've volunteered to get him there."
"No."
Ian looked to Miss Witherspoon. She hadn't bothered to look up from what she was doing.
"I'll take him," Alexis offered. "I've always wanted to see Scotland."
"I've already offered," Jane said.
Miss Witherspoon shoved a handful of pages at Jane. "Get to work on these. I want mock-ups done before next week."
Ian watched Jane take the pages, then he caught sight of the drawing upon the topmost sheaf. And he suspected that even he might be more successful at creating a bridal gown than the woman who had done the depictions before him.
It was then that he began to understand.
"Get to work on my stuff," Alexis said, giving Jane a little push toward the door. "We'll take good care of Ian."
Ian watched Jane hold onto the pages and consider. And for a moment, he thought she just might do as she was bid. Then he watched her put her shoulders back.
"I have three years' worth of vacation time coming," she said firmly "and this is something of an urgent situation. I'm sorry I can't give more notice, but it's imperative that Ian return to Scotland as soon as possible and he needs me to get there."
Alexis made a scornful sound, then looked up at Ian. "I can take him places you couldn't even imagine in your wildest dreams."
Ian was afraid to ask where those places might be and what Alexis might to do him with her claws if he let her escort him there.
"I said no and I meant it," Miss Witherspoon said sternly. "Now, get to work on those, Jane. I don't have any more time for your foolishness."
Ian saw Jane begin to falter and he cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon, my lady Witherspoon, but I do indeed need her assistance. If you would be so kind—-"
"Alexis can accompany you," Miss Witherspoon said with a curt nod. "I have no more time for either of you."
"Alexis is not accompanying Ian anywhere," Jane said. "I want to go to Scotland. I've wanted to go to Scotland for years."
"Have you?" Ian asked, surprised. He hadn't realized the desire was so firmly planted in her, though he could well understand the like.
"Lots of sheep there," Jane said shortly, then she turned her attentions back to Miss Witherspoon. "We're leaving on Wednesday. I'll be back—"
"You'll go nowhere," Miss Witherspoon said, the edge in her voice as cutting as any blade Ian had run his fingers across. "Those designs must be fleshed out."
"That's right," Alexis said, turning to glare at Jane as well. "You can't go."
"It's only a couple of weeks," Jane said firmly. "You'll survive that long without me finishing up your homework for you."
Alexis gasped as if she'd been struck and Miss Witherspoon looked as if she might reach out and slap Jane. Ian fumbled for his sword, then realized he'd left it at Jane's home.
"You'll stay," Miss Witherspoon commanded, "and you'll apologize to my niece!"
Jane laid the drawings on Miss Witherspoon's desk and stepped back. "I'll be back in two weeks."
"If you walk out that door," Miss Witherspoon said angrily, pointing at Jane with a trembling finger, "you're fired."
"Yeah," Alexis added enthusiastically. Then she blinked a time o two, turned, and looked at her aunt in dismay. "But then who will—"
"Fired," Miss Witherspoon repeated. "Do you hear me?"
Jane took a deep breath, then shrugged. "Have it your way. You owe me for six weeks' vacation. I expect to find the check in my mailbox when I get home. Come on, Ian. We've got to go pack."
And with that, he found himself being towed behind her out of Mis Witherspoon's presence and down the passageway back to the broom closet.
"Stupid job," Jane was muttering under her breath as she stomped down the hall. "Didn't like it anyway."
Before much time had passed, Ian found himself loaded down with all manner of odds and ends from Jane's little working chamber. He followed her out into the passageway only to find Alexis blocking his path
"You can't take anything with you," Alexis said with a sneer. "Take nothing—which is what you came here with."
"These are my personal things," Jane said, brushing past her.
Ian gave Alexis's hands a wide berth and hastened down the passage way after Jane.
Once they reached her dwelling, Jane obtained by messenger a food stuff called pizza. She hardly partook, though, before she excused herself and shut herself into her private chamber. Ian couldn't see letting the food go to waste, so he finished off what was left and felt himself as full and satisfied as he ever had after a meal at Jamie's table. He placed the pizza container in the kitchen then paused in the television chamber, wondering what he should do. It was then that he heard the sound of weeping.
He went to press his ear to Jane's door. The sounds were muffled, but he hazarded a guess that the weeping was not of the joyous kind. He tapped on the door and the snuffling abruptly stopped.
"What?"
"How do you fare?" Ian asked through the wood.
"Nothing's wrong," came the answer. "Really."
The last was accompanied by a mighty sniff. Ian knew enough about women to know that such a sound could only mean more tears to follow. He didn't wait for permission to enter, he merely turned the knob on the door and poked his head in the chamber. And what he saw took his breath away.
There was color everywhere. Balls and skeins of yarn in every imaginable color littered the floor where Jane sat. She had obviously unearthed these things from some hidden trunk. Ian walked over to her and knelt down amidst the riot of color. He picked up a ball of particularly vibrant purple, then looked at Jane in surprise.
"I had no inkling," he began.
"I pull them out to make myself feel better," she said, dragging her sleeve across her eyes. "But not very often, because it never makes me feel better."
"I had no idea you cared for such color."
"Yeah, well, I've got plenty of time to do all I like with it now." She looked at him bleakly. "I can't believe I lost my job. It wasn't a great job, but at least it allowed me to eat."
Ian gestured to the yarn. "Have you made aught with these things?"
She nodded, then pointed to the trunk Ian hadn't noticed before. He reached over and drew out a heavy tunic woven of thick, deep red yarn. It was something that would keep any man warm even in the hard winters of the Highlands. Then he pulled out a blanket woven of so many strands of differing colors that it almost hurt his eyes to look at it. It too was made of heavy wool.
"Beautiful," he said, stunned by the sight of the rich colors.
"The yarn was imported from Scotland." She fingered the blanket absently. "Lots of sheep there, you know."
"Aye, I do," he said, fingering the wool.
"I could see myself in a little cottage on the side of a hill, spinning and weaving to keep myself busy."
To his surprise, so could he. He looked at her with her slender hands and could easily picture those hands spinning and weaving.
And tending the small joys and sorrows of a handful of children as well.
He didn't know where it had come from, that thought, but he knew it was a good one. He reached over and pulled the sharp sticks from her hair, watching as the wavy strands fell about her shoulders. Even still wearing her black clothing, she looked much more at peace, much freer than he'd seen her before.
Aye, he thought, here was a woman who could share a hearth with him and not mind the keeping of it.
She began to put her things away and Ian stopped her by taking her hand.
" Tis a pity to waste your gift only on white," he said.
She shrugged. "It's what bridal gowns are made from."
"In my time, a bride wore the colors she found near her home."
"Then your brides were a lot more fun to design for than mine," she said with another sigh. She looked around her at the remaining piles of yarn. "Maybe I can start over again in Scotland."
"Aye—"
She interrupted him with a half laugh that contained no humor whatsoever. "Who am I kidding? I don't have the money to start over. I don't even have the money to go back home to Indiana."
Yet Ian had heard her talking into that magical telephone contrivance, promising to pay for both her and his travel to Scotland. Was that the last of her funds? He couldn't allow her to spend all upon him
On the other hand, he had to get home.
He picked up a ball of yarn and handed it to her. "I'll find a way to repay you," he pledged. "Or perhaps you can remain with us for a time un till Miss Witherspoon regains her senses and takes you back."
"Hrumph," she said with a scowl. "Poverty or indentured servitude I don't know what's worse."
Ian looked again at the fragments of her dreams laying in lump around her feet and thought perhaps that returning to Miss Witherspoon' was the very last thing Jane should be doing.
A little cottage was starting to sound better by the moment. Hope fully they would travel to Scotland and find Jamie there. There was no guarantee Jamie would have returned to their clan home, but Ian couldn't imagine him doing anything else. What other place on earth would call to Jamie but their keep in the Highlands?
Nay, Jamie had to be there and Ian would find him.
And then he would find some way to make Jane's dream come true.

Chapter Six
Jane stumbled off the plane wishing she had somehow managed to acquire a Valium or two before embarking. She looked at Ian who walked beside her, his eyes burning with a feverish light.
"Ach," he purred like a satisfied cat, "now that was a proper rrrush."
"Too much television," she chided, ignoring those blasted r's of his.
"We must do it again. I'll pay for the privilege next time."
I'd rather go by boat, she almost said, then realized that was likely what half of the Thank's passengers had said.
"Sure," she said aloud, "only next time let's go first class."
"First class?"
"Bigger seats. Better food."
As those had been his two complaints about that ride, Ian only nodded in agreement. Jane didn't let herself think about the fact that the odds of her ever traveling again with Ian MacLeod were practically nil. He would find his cousin and be merrily off on his way while she was left to return to the States and face her nonlife. Maybe she could beg Miss Witherspoon for her job back.
She almost pursued that thought when she realized it was out of the question She'd spent half a night fondling skeins of vibrantly colored wool and fantasizing about what she would make from it. She could knit. She could weave. Surely she could make a living doing that. Or maybe she would take those colors, have cloth dyed to match, and design her own clothes. That was what she'd started out to do anyway, before money for rent and food had gotten in the way.
Jane would have given that more thought, but she suddenly found herself facing the rental car and realized that there was no wheel on the driver's side where it was supposed to be. She looked at Ian, but he was too busy peering into the outside mirrors to give any indication that he found the wheel placement unusual.
"Well, here goes nothing," she said, going around to the right side and sliding in under the wheel. She pulled down the sun visor and was greeted with bold letters reminding her to Drive On The Left. "When in Rome," she said, waiting until Ian had clambered into the passenger seat before she turned the car on. She looked at him. "You don't know anything about this driving on the left business, do you?"
He looked at her blankly. "We were accustomed to letting our mounts go where they willed."
"That's what I was afraid of."
The next three days were an endless, relentless exercise in trying to remember which side of the wheel the turn signals were on and spending most of her time turning on the windshield wipers instead. By the time they reached Inverness, Ian had familiarized himself with all the workings of the dashboard doodahs and had apparently decided that bagpipes were much preferable to top forty on the radio. He seemed to have no trouble understanding the unintelligible news reports she couldn't decipher. He spent a great deal of time grunting, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.
They left Inverness and headed north. Jane did the best she could with the roads available to follow Ian's homing beacon. By the time they reached roads that had continually shrunk in width and increased in incline, she was convinced they were hopelessly lost. She stopped in a little town and found the first bed and breakfast—which wasn't hard, as it was a very small town indeed—and pulled in.
"Enough," she said, turning the car off and putting her head down on the steering wheel. "I can't drive anymore today."
"I could drive."
She turned her head and looked at him out of one eye. The light of intense desire was visible even in the twilight.
"Not a chance," she said, resuming her position. "We'll get going first thing in the morning. I need dinner and some sleep."
She heard Ian get out of the car, then felt a brush of cool air as he opened her door. He unbuckled her seat belt, then took her arm and gently pulled her out. Before she knew it, she was enveloped in a warm embrace.
"I have driven you hard," he said, running his hand over her back, "and I beg pardon for it. I am anxious to see my home and know if there is aught left of it."
And to see his cousin, no doubt. Though she hadn't heard him say as much since they'd left the States, she knew he was worried that he wouldn't find what he was looking for. That she was even considering the ramifications of him missing his family because they had landed in different centuries only indicated how very tired she was.
"It's okay," she said with a yawn. "I can understand the feeling." She would have pulled away, on the off chance that such a thing might have gotten her dinner sooner, but she found that she just couldn't move. It was the strangest thing, but for the first time in her life she was content. Content in spite of a blinding headache from too much concentrating on the road, too little sleep, and continually doing her best to ignore what she was going to do when she returned to the States and faced the shambles that was her life.
"Food," Ian announced, "then a bed if they have one. I'll find some means of working for our keep this eve. Surely they have a handful of odd things needing to be done. Perhaps wood to be gathered for the fire or animals to be tended."
The thought of Ian manhandling a chainsaw sent shivers down Jane's spine. She pulled back to look up at him.
"I can pay for it."
"Nay, you cannot."
"I have enough left on my credit card."
His lips compressed into a tight line. "This does not sit well with me. Already you have done more than you should have."
"And if the shoe had been on the other foot?"
"How was that?"
"If I had been popped back to the"—and she had to take a deep breath to keep from stumbling over the very words—"fourteenth century, what would you have done?"
He sighed. "Given you food and shelter, then seen you home."
"What's the difference, then?"
"The difference, sweet Jane," he said as he smoothed his hand over her hair and smiled down at her, "is that being unable to provide for such needs wounds my manly pride."
Jane wasn't sure about the condition of his manly pride, but she was sure about the condition of her knees, and that was completely unstable. She had never considered herself anything but fiercely independent. The thought of anyone, her family or a man, doing anything remotely akin to taking care of her was something she had avoided at all costs.
But somehow, standing in the Scottish twilight in a tiny town on the edge of the sea with Ian MacLeod's arms securely around her, the thought of allowing someone else to provide for her for a change wasn't so hard to stomach.
She savored the moment as long as she could, then pulled away.
"I am starving," she admitted reluctantly. "For all we know, they won't even take a credit card or traveler's checks and we may very well be relying on your ability to chop wood."
Ian kissed her gently on the forehead, then pulled back and took her by the hand. "Perhaps I will have the chance to repay you."
"Perhaps you will. We could head back to the fourteenth century," she offered.
He laughed. "You would find it a very primitive place indeed. No airplanes, no automobiles, and no MTV."
"Ugly," she agreed, and she tried not to enjoy overly the feeling of her hand in his. It was more delicious than she would have suspected and she could hardly keep herself from wishing such hand-holding might continue far into the future—say for the next fifty or sixty years. Or maybe for the rest of forever.
She put her free hand to her forehead. No fever. Maybe insanity didn't begin with an overheated brain. Just a gradual slip into believing thing that couldn't possibly come to pass—such as sharing a life with a man who claimed to be from the year 1313.
The B and B did take credit cards and they also didn't pass up Ian offer to do a few chores as the proprietress was very pregnant and her husband had been laid up for several weeks with a back injury. Jane figured it was the perfect situation. She got to eat and watch Ian strip off his shirt at in the same twenty-four hours. Life just didn't get much better than that.
Late the next morning, after a pair of hours watching Ian soothe his manly pride, Jane crawled behind the wheel of the car again and suppressed a groan. If she'd even suspected Ian might have the wherewith to negotiate a stick shift, she would have turned the keys over to him happily. He'd tried to convince her he was capable, but he'd come close to plowing over half a dozen flowerpots on his way out of the driveway when he'd offered to demonstrate his skill. She'd taken the keys away and promised him a driving lesson somewhere less dangerous.
"Direction?" she asked, turning on the car.
"North."
North, north, and evermore north. Jane drove without hurrying an she wasn't sure exactly about her reasons for her leisurely pace. She told herself she was just meandering so she could enjoy the scenery. It was true that the mountains and forests were breathtaking. And every time the passed a little hamlet that deserved to be immortalized on some postcard she couldn't help but imagine how life would be if she lived there.
And she sure as heck didn't imagine living there alone.
The drive was, needless to say, very hard on her heart.
Hours had passed and Jane's imagination, and her bladder, had take just about all they could take. Espying a choice place to pull off, she did so before Ian could protest. She shut off the car and sighed.
"I don't think this map is accurate," she began. "Maybe it's all this driving on the wrong side of the road, but I don't see anything familiar…"
"I do."
The tone of his voice sent shivers down her spine. She looked at him.
"You do?"
He nodded and pointed out the window. "There's the loch. We're a day's ride southeast. By horse," he added.
"Shouldn't be far in a car, then," she said slowly.
"Shouldn't be."
She pulled back out onto the little two-lane road and continued slowly. They passed through a good-sized village and Jane slowed to a crawl.
"Recognize this?" she asked, then realized the answer was written in Ian's astonished expression. "I take it this wasn't here the last time you rode through."
He looked visibly shaken. "Nay, it wasn't."
She decided that any lightness was completely inappropriate, so she managed a bathroom stop before they continued through the village. The road then took a sharp turn west.
"Wait," Ian said, pointing to a very sketchy-looking road leading more northward still. "Take that."
"But it doesn't look—"
"It's the right direction."
"Whatever you say," she said, following the one-lane road away from the village. She could only hope no one would come flying down it the other way without honking first.
And then suddenly and without any warning at all, the road stopped in what could have been termed a cul-de-sac if one had been feeling generous terminology-wise. Jane hadn't taken the car out of gear before Ian was reaching over to pull the keys from the ignition.
"Come with me," he said, heaving himself out of the car.
"Bags?" she asked, following him.
"We'll come back for them. 'Tisn't far."
Never mind what kind of shape he'd been in when she'd first met him. A week of rest and her cooking, pathetic as it was, combined with the substantial meals they'd had in Scottish pubs, had restored him to a walking form she could barely keep up with. She just held onto his hand and ran to keep up with him as he strode first over a field and then plunged into a forest. It was perfectly quiet in amongst the trees and profoundly chilly despite the time of year. Ian continued to hurry until they were both almost running.
And then, without warning, the forest ended and they practically fell forward into a meadow. Jane hunched over with her hands on her knees and sucked in air until she thought she might be able to stand upright. Then she looked up, and felt her jaw go slack. She held out her arm and pointed.
"That," she spluttered, "that… is a castle." She'd seen plenty of them on their way, but this one was so… well… perfect.
Ian looked down at her, a smile of satisfaction on his face.
"Home," he said simply. He took her hand, hauled her into his arms, and kissed her full on the month before he threw back his head and laughed. "By the saints, Jane, we're home!"
Before she could decide how she felt either about a medieval-looking castle being given such a cozy moniker, or about being kissed by someone who had a sword strapped to his back, she found herself being pulled once again into a flat-out run.
Ian skidded to a halt some two hundred yards farther. "The village," he said in astonishment. " 'Tis gone."
"Well," she panted, "at least the castle is still there."
Ian looked at it suspiciously as well. " 'Tis in a far better state of repair than it was the last time I saw it."
Jane knew that had been something to concern him. They had seen enough ruins along the way to make Jane wonder how any medieval castle survived its trip through the ages.
" 'Tis a mystery we'll solve later," he announced, continuing on the way up the meadow. "Jamie will know the answer to this."
"Think your cousin's here?" she asked with a little wheeze.
"I hope so," Ian said somewhat grimly.
And then he seemed to find just getting to the castle to be taxing enough on his verbosity, because he said nothing else as they trudged toward a dwelling that was starting to give Jane the willies. She'd never seen a castle that looked that authentic and that lived-in. Admittedly, her experience in the British Isles was limited to their drive from Edinburgh, but this was still spooky.
"New gate," Ian remarked as he pulled her through it and across the small courtyard to the castle itself.
Jane didn't have a chance to say anything before he'd marched them up the steps and was pushing on the door. It didn't open, so Ian took his sword and banged on the portal with the hilt. Jane started to say that maybe he shouldn't, then she decided that arguing with a large man with a sword in his hands wasn't a very good idea.
The door finally opened and a young man looked out.
"Yeah?" he asked.
Jane judged him to be in his mid-twenties, exceptionally fine-looking, and obviously home alone based on the carton of milk he held. Bachelor, she deduced by the lack of glass in his hand.
"I am Ian MacLeod," Ian announced, as if that should have clarified everything for the guy.
Apparently it did, because his jaw went slack. "Jamie's cousin Ian?" he asked, looking with wide eyes at Ian's sword.
Ian threw Jane a look of supreme relief, then turned back to the young man. "And you are… ?" he demanded.
"Elizabeth's youngest brother," Elizabeth's youngest brother managed. "Zachary."
"Ah, Zach the Brat," Ian said, thrusting forward his hand. "I heard many tales of your escapades from your sister."
"I'll bet you did," Zachary said, stepping back a pace. "You may as well come in. Jamie and Elizabeth aren't here right now, which means there's nothing in the fridge, but you can make yourselves as at home as you can." He looked at them as if he'd just noticed them. "You guys are traveling light. Don't you have any bags?" He looked at Jane. "Are you fourteenth-century too?"
Jane shook her head with a smile. "Nineteen seventies vintage."
Zachary frowned. "How did you find Ian?"
"He showed up in my bridal salon."
"Figures," Zachary said.
Jane looked at Ian, then looked at Zachary. "You believe all this time-traveling business?"
Zachary gave her a world-weary yawn. "You live long enough in this place, you see it all. I believe just about anything anymore," he continued, turning and heading off to what Jane could only assume was the kitchen.
Ian shut the door, then looked down at her. "Do you believe me now?"
"I think I believed you from the start."
"Tis a miracle."
"You don't know the half of it," she said as he took her hand and pulled her through a large gathering room of some sort. Too much more holding hands with the guy and she'd start to believe in all sorts of miracles.
No, she decided as she walked across the huge room, it was already too late. She'd begun to believe the moment she'd seen Ian in an antebellum gown in Miss Witherspoon's workroom.
Now, she was completely lost—in Scotland, in a medieval-looking castle, holding onto a man from a century far in the past.
A miracle?
Maybe they were possible after all.

Chapter Seven
Ian stood on the steps leading up to the great hall, stared out into the morning light of his first full day back at the MacLeod keep, and sighed a sigh of pure contentment. He was home, in an entirely different century, but home nonetheless. It was nothing short of amazing.
He had a chamber that had been reserved for him. He'd been surprised when Zachary had told him the like, but apparently Jamie had been either suffering from a serious bout of sentimentality, or he'd known Ian would somehow find his way forward in time. Ian hadn't even used the bed. He'd given it up to Jane for the night and slept in Jamie's thinking chamber. There was one of those strangely padded benches there for his pleasure and he'd found it comfortable enough. Saints, he would have slept in marshy rushes for the pleasure of being home again, except this time with a toaster nearby.
He heard a light footfall behind him and turned to see Jane in the doorway. The sight was so arresting, he had to turn fully to better appreciate it.
She was wearing jeans and a black sweater—he reminded himself to do something about the latter as quickly as he could—and her hair was flowing freely about her shoulders. He wasn't sure what had happened to her since arriving at the castle the day before, but it had been a happy transformation. Perhaps she would never possess the kind of beauty that caused a man to stop in his tricks and gape. Hers was a loveliness of a rarer kind, one that only showed itself upon closer examination. Ian had had the luxury of closer examination over the past se'nnight and he suspected he saw what others might miss. And today, not only was she lovely, but she looked perfectly content, as if she had found the peace she'd been seeking. Unbidden, the vision of her sharing hearth and home with him came to him.
By the saints, this was not what he'd expected to find so soon.
Was it too soon? Was it just the shock of the past se'nnight? Should he wait to see what other souls he might encounter?
Then she smiled.
And he thought he just might be lost.
"You have beautiful mornings here," she said.
"Oh, aye," he managed, jamming his hands into the pockets of jeans before they did something foolish, like grab her and never release her. He cleared his throat. "Would you care for a ride?'
"In the car?"
He smiled. "On a horse, actually. I understand Jamie's mount is going to fat in the stables from lack of activity. We could filch something from the kitchens and roam for the day."
"Sounds heavenly."
"If I see to the horse, will you forage for food? I fear I don't recognize most of what's available."
"Neither do I," she said with a laugh. "Zachary's diet isn't exactly stellar, but I'll see what I can do."
Ian nodded, smiled, then turned away and whistled as he headed toward the stables. He had the feeling it might turn out to be quite a wonderful day indeed.
Not two hours had passed that he wasn't congratulating himself on being such a successful seer. Astronaut, Jamie's horse, was as well behaved as he had been the last time Ian had borrowed him for a quick getaway. The weather was perfect, sunny with a bit of a chill wind from the north. The food was actually better than he had hoped.
'Twas the company, however, that gave him the most pleasure. Who would have thought that showing a woman from the Future all the places he had roamed in his youth and fought in the years of his early manhood would have given him such pleasure and puffed his chest out so far?
They spent the middle of the day at the flat top of Jamie's meadow, looking down over the castle and the forests flanking it. Ian told Jane of battles won, cattle lifted, enemies routed and sent home in shame. It was passing odd to see places he'd tramped over in his youth and realize how many years had passed since then. The landscape had changed, but not so much that he couldn't recognize his favorite retreats.
Then he rolled over onto his belly and watched Jane as she told him of her dreams. He'd expected to hear of grand schemes to see her designs made all over the world. Surely she had a gift for it.
But she told him instead of her wish for a little cottage on the side of a hill and a spinning wheel by the hearth. He watched a faraway look come into her eye when she spoke of the colors she would use and the objects she would make with her hands.
It was then he began to wonder if Fate hadn't had a hand in his delivery to the Future. Surely he could provide her with her wishes. They were modest things surely, but he had the feeling that in her hands, they would be grand things indeed.
Once she was finished, he looked down the way and saw a place where such a thing could be built perfectly.
"Care you for that spot over there?" he asked casually, pointing to a little clearing above the western forest. The remains of a crofter's hut sat on the face of the land in the place he gestured to. It wouldn't make much of a house, but it could be used to build something else.
He looked at her from under his eyelashes as she contemplated the location. He didn't want to assume too much, but he could have sworn he saw a bit of longing sweep over her face.
"It's very beautiful," she said softly.
"Is it?" he mused. "Aye, 'tis pleasing enough, but yours is the beauty that holds my gaze."
She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. Then she looked away, apparently dismissing his words.
"I'm in earnest," he insisted.
"No models around for competition," she said lightly.
Ian shuddered. "I care not for that kind of beauty. Rather, give me a woman whose loveliness runs true to her bones."
"Hmmm," she said, but she looked unconvinced.
So it would take him a while to persuade her. Fortunate he was then, to have the rest of the Future in which to do it.
He reached for her hand. "Stay here in Scotland for a bit," he said. Stay forever, he added silently, realizing as he thought it that it was indeed something he wanted very much.
She looked at him, then looked around her. It took no great powers to divine that she wanted to remain.
"Well," she said slowly, "the scenery is beautiful."
He smiled. "Thank you," he said modestly.
She laughed. "I suppose you are part of the package." She paused and sighed. "Well, my rent is paid up through next month. I guess I could get Miss Witherspoon to send my check here. Do we have an address to send it besides 'Jamie's castle'?"
"I'm sure Zachary will know."
She paused again. "Will your cousin mind if I stay?"
" Tis as much my home as his," Ian said.
"Really?"
" Tis our family home. One more addition, and such a fetching one at that, will not trouble him."
That earned him a bit of a blush from her and he was relieved to see that she wasn't entirely immune to his charms.
"All right," she conceded.
"Good," Ian said. He stretched out on the blanket and held open his arms. "I'm in need of a small rest after all that sentiment. Will you join me?"
She did. Ian closed his eyes, wrapped his arm around Jane Fergusson, and felt more at peace than he had the whole of his previous life.
He fell asleep with the sun shining down on his face.
Jane awoke, chilled. Obviously the sun had just gone behind a cloud because she found herself in shadows.
Then she realized it was only a single shadow and it came from a man looming over them. She sat up with a shriek.
And then everything happened too fast for her to do anything. Before she'd finished with her shriek, she found herself behind Ian, who was now on his feet with his sword drawn. There was, she decided, something to be said for having a medieval clansman as a boyfriend.
Boyfriend? She shook her head, deciding to give that more thought later. Now her time was probably better used wondering if she was going to die in the next three minutes.
Well, no blood was being spilt, so Jane took a good look at their attacker so she'd know who to finger in the lineup.
He was tall, perhaps even a bit taller than Ian, and definitely broader. She had to give Ian the benefit of the doubt, given what he'd been through in the past couple of months, but the guy facing him was in very good shape. He had dark hair, a commandingly noble face, and the most piercing pair of green eyes she had ever seen. These she noticed only because he had turned a bit to face Ian more squarely and the sun was shining down on him. And it was as she saw him fully illuminated that she realized what seemed wrong with the picture.
He was dressed—and she could only surmise this to be the case—in full pirate gear. His black boots gleamed. A long saber hung down alongside a leg that, along with the other leg, wore black-as-sin pants that poofed a little as they tucked themselves into the boots. A snowy white shirt, along with a red bandanna draped around his head in true pirate fashion, completed the picture. The only thing that seemed out of place were all the ruffles on his shirt, ruffles completely incongruous with the man's formidable frown.
And it was then that she thought Ian just might get them both shot with the gun the other man was toting so casually on his hip.
Ian reached out with his sword and flicked up a bit of lace.
"Lace?" he drawled. "Have you enough of it, or might there yet be a scrap of your shirt that isn't adorned with it?"
"Ian," Jane whispered fiercely, "shut up!"
The other man only folded his arms over his chest and frowned " Tis pirate clothing, you fool."
"You look like a woman."
"But I still fight like a man. Would you care to test it?"
Then Ian, to Jane's consternation, tossed aside his sword. Well, if he was going to be that stupid, she would have to make up for it. She hauled herself to her feet and made a grab for the blade. It wasn't as heavy as she feared, but it wasn't exactly a pair of pinking shears, either. She managed to get it and herself upright only to find that instead of killing each other, the two men were exchanging a gruff embrace complemented by a great deal of hefty backslapping. It went on for a few minutes, then suddenly the two pulled apart and began to punch each other in the arms and pummel each other on the chest.
Jane rolled her eyes. Men.
"Ian, you randy whoreson!"
"Jamie, you bejeweled peacock!"
Jane let the point of the blade slip down. Jamie? This, then, was Ian's cousin? Dressed like a pirate, no less. She wondered if it was too late to hop in the car and drive off. She was beginning to have serious doubts about the rest of Ian's family and their taste in clothes.
Jamie pulled away and grinned. "Took you long enough to get out of the Fergusson's dungeon."
Ian gave him a healthy shove. "I wouldn't have found myself in his dungeon if it hadn't been for your wagging tongue."
Jamie rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Ah, but what a tale it had been to tell. How could I have resisted?"
"You could have clamped your lips together and remained silent, that's what!"
Jane found herself suddenly being scrutinized and she suppressed the urge to check to see if her clothes were on straight. After all, it wasn't as if she and Ian had been doing anything besides sleeping. Jamie made her a low bow.
"James MacLeod, your servant," he said. "If I might have the pleasure of your name, mistress?"
"Jane F—"
"She's from New York," Ian interrupted. "A very fine designer of bridal wear."
Jamie slapped Ian on the back again. "You didn't waste any time finding yourself a woman, cousin." Jamie winked at Jane. "Never lacked for a handsome wench did this one."
Jane found herself with the distinct urge to use Ian's sword. On Ian. Apparently Ian could see what she was thinking because he flinched visibly, then turned and gave his cousin another healthy shove.
"I've mended my ways."
"When hell freezes over!" Jamie laughed.
"It fair did to get me here and I tell you, I've changed."
"A last-minute bargain with Saint Peter?" Jamie asked in a conspiratorial whisper. "I can only imagine how the discourse proceeded. You always did have an excess of fair speech frothing from your head."
"The difference between you and me is," Ian said tightly, "that I know when to cease babbling and you do not!"
"I never babble."
"You do! That's what landed me in the Fergusson's dungeon, you babbling fool!"
"Fergusson?" Jane echoed. "What's this?"
"William Fergusson," Jamie said, scowling at Ian. "Our bitterest enemy. Ian helped himself to Roberta's—"
"Never mind what I helped myself to," Ian interrupted. He looked at Jane. " 'Tis in the past."
"But, Ian," she said slowly. "I'm a—"
"It matters not."
Jane found herself under Jamie's scrutiny again. She put her shoulders back. "My last name is Fergusson. I'm probably related to that William."
"And you've more than made up for William's lack of hospitality," Ian said, taking his sword away from her.
"Ian, I don't know…" Jamie began.
"Aye, generally you don't," Ian said, then he firmly planted his fist in Jamie's face. "That's for the last time you babbled without thinking. Try not to do it again this time and foul up my future."
Jane would have checked to see if Jamie planned to get up off the ground from where he'd been knocked, but she found that she was being dragged by the hand down the meadow toward the castle. She had to run to keep up with Ian's furious strides.
"Hey, slow down," she panted.
Ian sighed and stopped. Then he stared off into the distance for several minutes while she caught her breath and he apparently worked every tangle possible out of his hair. At least that's what she thought he was doing, dragging his hands through it that way. Then he cleared his throat.
"I should likely tell you," he said, looking down, "of why I found myself in that dungeon."
She shook her head. "I'm getting pieces of it, and I don't know that I want to know any more."
"Jamie will tell you if I do not." He sighed again and looked heavenward. "I robbed a woman of her virtue."
Jane felt a chill come over her. "Forcefully?"
Ian looked so shocked, she immediately relaxed. "Saints, nay," he said, with feeling. "I did it cheerfully, for it made her father's life very difficult, but I wouldn't have done it had she not been willing." He smiled a little smile. "Willing is perhaps not a strong enough word. She knew who she stood to wed with and I daresay she considered me a more pleasant prospect for her deflowering."
"Was she very beautiful?" Jane asked wistfully.
Ian laughed. "Saints, nay. She was passing unpleasant, both of face and humor. And she threatened to unman me should I not do my work well."
"I take it you did your work well."
"Well enough," he said briskly. He looked very uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Now, must we discuss this further?"
She shrugged. "You brought it up."
"Aye, well, I did and I'm sorry for it. I daresay you don't want the details."
"Don't I?"
"You do not."
"Why not?"
"Because you and I… well…"
"Yes?"
"You and… er… I…"
From out of the blue an unexpected warmth began in her heart. Jane had the most ridiculous idea creep up on her that Ian might actually be talking about her and him. Together. As a… well… couple. She found herself beginning to smile. "Yes?"
He frowned at her. "The past is dead and buried—"
"Yeah, I'll say it is. About seven hundred years buried."
"—and I'd prefer it stay that way," he finished with a darker frown. "I've mended my ways, though Jamie will likely never let me forget them. One does not discuss his past lovers with his future… er…"
"Yes?" She could hardly believe she was indulging in this word game, because she could hardly believe he might truly be interested in her, but there was that warmth in her heart. And he was definitely frowning. That could mean any number of things, but still…
Ian looked at her with narrowed eyes, then took her by the hand and pulled her along behind him to the castle. "I'm finished with this discourse."
"I'll just bet you are," she said, but she was very tempted to smile. His future what? Could he have been prepared to use the word friend? Bride would have been the expression she would have chosen, but it was still early yet. Maybe she would spend a few more days with Ian and decide that she really didn't like him. Maybe she would decide that Scotland wasn't really the place for her and she would scurry back to New York and throw herself on Miss Witherspoon's mercy.
Or maybe she would take Ian up on his offer and stay in Scotland for a little while. Who knew what might happen if she did?

Chapter Eight
Two weeks later, Jane found herself sitting on a bench with her back against the castle wall waiting for Ian and Jamie to indulge in a little swordplay.
"And he clouted me in the nose!" Jamie was saying to his wife Elizabeth as they came onto the field. "Just reared back as casually as you please and took his fist to my sweet visage!"
Elizabeth only sighed lightly. "Yes, Jamie, we've heard all about it for the past two weeks. Go use Ian up in the lists to soothe yourself."
"Never should have named my bairn after him," Jamie grumbled, as he kissed his wife and walked away. "What possessed me to do the like?"
Jane had watched Ian's face when he'd first been introduced to his little cousin Ian, and watched the emotions that had crossed that face when he realized how he'd been honored. It had resulted in more backslapping with Jamie, but no apology for the condition of Jamie's nose. Jane suspected Ian was still suffering from very vivid memories of his time in the Fergusson's dungeon.
That she had begun to accept the time-travel story as fact had ceased to surprise her. Maybe it was the Scottish air. Maybe it was the countless walks and rides she'd been on with Ian where he spoke so easily of events in the past. It also could have been watching Jamie and Elizabeth together and hearing them talk so easily of events that they claimed had happened hundreds of years ago.
Or maybe it was just watching Ian, who was no slouch in the sword department, practice against the supposed former laird of the clan MacLeod, who was even less of a slouch when it came to swordplay.
"Ian's still getting his strength back."
Jane looked at Elizabeth who had sat down on the bench next to her. Jane had come to like Jamie's wife in the short time she'd known her. Elizabeth somehow managed to keep equilibrium in her life despite a very strong-willed husband and a rambunctious toddler. She managed the two quite well, seemingly kept up a writing career, and remained a hopeless romantic all without breaking a sweat.
"I think that couple of months took more out of him than he wants to admit," Elizabeth continued. "Especially to you."
Jane paused, considered the far-fetchedness of that, then shook her head. "Ian couldn't care less about my opinion."
Elizabeth looked at her so appraisingly that Jane felt herself begin to squirm.
"Well," Jane began defensively, "he really couldn't."
"I think," Elizabeth said slowly, "that you give yourself too little credit. And you give Ian even less. He wouldn't lead you on. That makes him sound shallow, and that's the last thing I would call him."
Jane felt her cheeks begin to burn and for the first time in a long time, she felt ashamed. "I know he's not shallow. I didn't mean that."
"Then why don't you trust him to know his own heart?" Elizabeth asked with a gentle smile. "He's old enough to have figured out what he wants."
"He hasn't seen what's available this century."
Elizabeth laughed. "Well, he saw more than his share in the past, so don't feel too sorry for him. Ian was something of a—"
"Free spirit?"
"Lothario was more what I was going for," Elizabeth said with a grin, "but how could he help himself? He was a MacLeod minus the grumbles. Women were always throwing themselves at him."
"And he rarely resisted," Jane finished.
"No cable TV," Elizabeth said, as if that should have proven beyond doubt that there was little else to do besides give in. "And it was a hard life. Men died young. It wouldn't have made sense to them to refuse a willing woman."
"Why didn't Ian ever marry?"
"Well, you were here and he was still there," Elizabeth said slowly. "What else could he do?"
Jane leaned her head back against the cold stone. It was so very tempting to believe such a thing when one was surrounded by Scottish countryside. Almost anything seemed possible there. "Hope is a terrible thing," she said with a sigh.
"I think Ian's gone way past hope. He was haggling with Jamie last night over his share of the MacLeod fortune, and that's no small sum."
"Really," Jane said.
Elizabeth nodded. "Jamie unloaded some family treasure he found in the fireplace. I think Ian wants to have a house built before winter. I suspect he doesn't intend to live there alone."
"You're one of those happy ending kind of girls, aren't you?"
Elizabeth only laughed. "Guilty." She smiled at Jane. "Don't you believe in fate?"
"Ian asked me the same thing."
"Did you ever wonder why?"
Jane didn't know how to answer that, so she turned to watch the spectacle in front of her. She suspected that even once Ian got his complete strength back that he might still never be exactly the same kind of swordsman that Jamie was, though she had no doubts he could protect her quite nicely if the need arose. Ian was just, well, less intense than Jamie seemed to be. She couldn't see Jamie loitering by a fire with his feet up and a book in his hands while Elizabeth spun wool into thread. Then again, she couldn't imagine Elizabeth spinning, so maybe it was a good match there.
But she was a weaver herself.
And Ian enjoyed a hot fire and a good book.
"It's all true," Jane said softly. She turned to Elizabeth. "Isn't it?"
"Oh, yes," Elizabeth said, just as quietly. "All of it."
"You lived in the fourteenth century and married Jamie there."
Elizabeth nodded.
"And Ian was there, too."
Elizabeth nodded again.
Jane rubbed her eyes. "The funny thing is, I'm starting to believe it's true, too. Not that I'd want to go back in time and see for myself," she said quickly. "I'll opt for the cable TV, thanks."
"And you know Ian isn't about to give up the possibility of more plane rides."
Jane nodded, trying to put that thought out of her mind. If Ian had his way, they would be flying from one corner of the world to the other on a regular basis, just for the fun of it. She'd been heartily disappointed to find that Jamie had a private jet. Jane had the feeling that if she did intertwine her life with Ian's, she would be flying the friendly skies more often than she wanted to.
But if she had Ian's hand to hold, what was a little turbulence now and then?
She folded her arms over her chest, then looked down at the sweater she was wearing and felt herself smile. It was the most colorful of the sweaters in the local woolen shop and Ian had made her change into it the minute after he'd bought it for her. He'd also bought her a pair of boots for hiking and spent half an hour diligently threading her rainbow-colored shoelaces through the eyes.
If she hadn't love him before, she thought she just might have begun to then.
"Uh-oh," Elizabeth said, shaking her head. "They're reverting to the native tongue for insults now. Once the Gaelic begins, it's all downhill from there." She looked at Jane as she rose. "Going to stick it out?"
Jane nodded happily. "Wouldn't miss it."
Elizabeth smiled a half smile. "It's easier to watch when you know it's just them keeping in shape, not them preparing for battle."
She invited Jane to come in later for cookies, then walked back around the corner to the front door. Jane turned the thought of Ian going off into battle over in her head for a while as she watched him and Jamie go at each other with their swords. She'd spent ample time studying the two and had come to recognize when Jamie was pushing his cousin and when he wasn't. Ian had long since stripped off his shirt and his back was a patchwork of healing stripes.
It was a chilling sight.
"Bad ancestor," she muttered under her breath, wishing she could give William Fergusson a piece of her mind. "Bad, bad, ancestor."
But despite Jamie's well-rested self and Ian's back, Ian was indeed something amazing to watch. She had no doubts that every one of his boasts about his successes in battle was true. She was only relieved that she hadn't known him then to worry over him. Talk about turbulence!
And then talk about turbulence.
"Where is she? Where is that girl?"
The imperious tone that had the power to etch glass cut clearly through the midday summer air. Jane felt her teeth begin to grind of their own accord. And then her jaw went slack as she realized she was hearing Miss Petronia Witherspoon in person. Well, maybe that was what she deserved for even alerting Miss Witherspoon to her whereabouts.
Even the two combatants in the yard turned to look as Miss Witherspoon rounded the corner of the castle like a battleship in full regalia, all sails unfurled. Alexis, clad in a painted-on leopard-print catsuit, came trotting behind her in her wake, loaded down with a couple of bolts of fabric and a pair of dressmaker's shears in her arms. Miss Witherspoon clutched a rolled-up drawing in her hand and brandished it like a sword.
This was not good.
Jane watched Alexis come to a dead stop when she saw both Ian and Jamie in skirts, wielding swords. Jane was used to the sight of them fighting in their plaids. She couldn't decide if Alexis was more shocked by the sight of bare knees or bare chests. Then she took a look at the men and decided it was the latter—definitely the latter.
Miss Witherspoon, however, seemed unmoved by the sensational view in front of her. She gave Jamie a cursory glance, did the same to Ian, then turned and fixed Jane with what Jane always called her eighteenth-century bring-your-sorry-indentured-servant-butt-over-here-this-instant look.
"Jane! Jane!" Miss Witherspoon said this with an imperiousness that even Queen Elizabeth likely couldn't have mustered on her best day. "Jane!"
Jane looked at Ian to see how he was taking all the name-calling. He'd impaled the dirt in front of him with his sword and was resting his hands on the hilt, all the while watching with a smile playing around his mouth. She'd become very familiar with the look. It meant he found something vastly amusing but didn't want to spoil the fun by sticking his oar in where it might not be wanted. That was the thing about Ian. He always seemed to find something delightful about what was going on around him. Jane liked that about him. She especially liked that about him now that Miss Witherspoon was waving a bony finger in her direction and screeching her name. After having spent many days in Ian's company, she too could appreciate the absurdity of what to her had been life or death—read rent and food money—to her but a short three weeks ago. Ian had been talking to Jamie about his share of the MacLeod inheritance. Who needed Miss Witherspoon's paltry offerings?
Assuming he intended to see to the care and feeding of the both of them with that inheritance.
Well, if Elizabeth was worth her salt as a romantic, Ian intended to do something along those lines. In honor of that, Jane slouched back against the wall, and propped an ankle up on the opposite knee in a very un-eighteenth-century pose.
"Miss P.," she said with a little wave, "what's shakin'?"
"You disrespectful chit!" Miss Witherspoon said shrilly. "Without me you would be wallowing in the gutter!"
She had a point there, but Jane wasn't ready to concede the match. She went so far as to put both feet on the ground and stand up. She nodded her head in proper servant like fashion, but refused to curtsey.
"You're right," Jane said with another nod. "You took a chance on me. I wouldn't be where I am if it hadn't been for you." And I never would have found Ian. That alone had been worth three years of slavery.
"I should say not!"
"Your showroom wouldn't be where it is without me, either," Jane said pointedly, "as you cannot help but admit."
Miss Witherspoon, surprisingly enough, was silent, but Jane could hear her teeth grinding from twenty paces.
"Alexis as well has benefitted from my skills," Jane continued.
"Alexis is a brilliant designer," Miss Witherspoon said stubbornly.
"Then why are you here?" Jane asked.
"She needs a wedding gown," Miss Witherspoon said briskly. "You'll sew it. She wants, and I cannot understand this for he certainly is not the man I would choose for her," and she drew in a large breath and released a heavy, disappointed sigh that almost blew Jane over, "but she wants him."
The bony finger lifted, spun around like a needle on a compass, and pointed straight at Ian.
Ian's smile disappeared abruptly. His glance dropped to Alexis's red fingernails and he emitted a little squeak.
"I like him," Alexis said, raking her claws down the bolt of tulle. She fixed Ian with a look that made him back up a pace. "Do you always carry that sword?" she purred.
"By the saints," Ian said, backing up again. "I want nothing to do with this one."
"Of course you do," Miss Witherspoon said briskly. "Jane, come here and take the materials. Get started right away."
Jane walked past Miss Witherspoon, pushed Alexis out of the way, and stood in front of Ian.
"Get lost," she said. "The both of you. I found him first and I'm keeping him."
"I want him," Alexis protested. "Auntie said I could have him."
"Auntie was wrong," Jane said, pointing toward the gate. "Beat it."
"Wait," Ian said, putting a hand on Jane's shoulder and pulling her to one side.
Jane looked at him in astonishment. "Wait?" she echoed.
"Aye," he said, looking in Alexis's direction with what could have been mistaken for enthusiasm. "Wait."
"But you just said you didn't want anything to do with her," Jane said. She shut her mouth abruptly, amazed that the words had come out of it. As if she should point out to Ian where she thought his eyes should and shouldn't be roaming!
"Aye, well, let us not be so hasty," Ian said, continuing to study Alexis closely.
Jane felt her face go up in flames, taking her heart with it. She couldn't believe she'd misread Ian so fully, but apparently she had. He wouldn't look at her, which convinced her all the more that somehow she had overlooked the fact that he was a rat.
A rat. Hadn't it all started that way? She should have known.
"Let me see the design," Ian said, holding out his hand to Miss Witherspoon.
He unrolled it and looked it over. Jane didn't want to look, but her curiosity got the better of her. She snorted at the sight. One of her designs, of course, and one Alexis had no doubt swiped from her office. It wasn't Miss Witherspoon's normal fare. It was gauzy and flowing and like nothing Miss Witherspoon or Alexis had ever imagined up in either of their worst nightmares.
Ian help up the drawing and compared it with Alexis, as if he tried to envision how it would look on her. Then he looked over the materials she'd brought with her. He fingered, rubbed a bit against his cheek, then fingered some more. Alexis had begun to salivate. Jane wanted to barf and she was on the verge of saying as much when Ian spoke.
To her.
"Make this," he said, gesturing toward the drawing.
Jane was speechless. She could only gape at him, wondering where she was going to find air to breathe again since he'd stolen it all with his heartless words. It was bad enough he was dumping her for Alexis. To demand that she make the wedding dress was just too much to take.
"I have my measurements written down for you," Alexis said, baring her teeth in a ferocious smile. She shoved the material at Jane.
Jane had just gotten that balanced when Ian placed the drawing on top. It was the killing blow. Jane felt the sting of tears begin to blind her.
"If you think for one moment," she choked, "that I'm going to do any of this—"
"Of course you'll do it," Ian said. "The gown is perrrfect."
Jane had the distinct urge to suggest he take his damned r's and wallow in them until he drowned.
"But," he added, reaching over and placing the point of his sword down in the dirt between Alexis and her, " 'tis the wrong color entirely, that fabric."
"Huh?" Alexis said.
"Huh?" Jane echoed, looking up at him. Damn him if that little smile wasn't back.
"White isn't your color," he said, the smile taking over more of his face, "but I suspect you'll look stunning in blue. A deep blue, perhaps. We'll find the dye for the cloth and then you'll make up the gown."
Alexis stamped her feet, setting up a small dust storm. "Blue is not my color!"
"Aye," Ian said with a full-blown grin, "I daresay it isn't. But 'twill suit Jane well enough."
"But… but…" Miss Witherspoon was spluttering like a teakettle that couldn't find its spout to vent its steam.
Ian waved his sword in their direction and sent both Miss Witherspoon and Alexis backing up in consternation.
"Off with ye, ye harpies," he said, herding them off toward the gate with the efficiency of a border collie. "Ye've made my Janey frrrown and I'll not have any morre of it."
Jane stood in the middle of James MacLeod's training field, her arms full of her future and could only stare, speechless, as Ian threw her tormentors off the castle grounds. Then she looked at Jamie who was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He made her a little bow.
"I'll see to a priest," he said, then he walked away.
Jane watched him go, then continued to stand where she was, finding herself quite alone.
It had to be something in the air. Or the water.
"I think," she said to no one in particular, "that I've just been proposed to."
No one answered. The clouds drifted lazily by. Bees hummed. Birds sang. The wind blew chill from the north, stirring her hair and the material in her arms. The castle stood to her right, a silent observer of the morning's events. It seemed disinclined to offer its opinion on what it all meant.
And then Ian peeked around the corner, startling her.
"Well?" he asked.
Jane looked at him, noted the grin that was firmly plastered to his face, and considered the possibilities of this turn of events.
She tilted her head and looked at her potential groom.
"Will my little stone house have indoor plumbing?"
"For you, my lady, aye, I'll see it done."
"Electricity?"
"If it suits you."
Well, Ian had lived most of his life without it. It was a certainty that he'd probably live a lot longer if he didn't have any outlets to stick metal implements in.
"I'll give it some thought," she allowed. "How about cable TV?"
That brought him around the side of the castle and over to where she stood. Before she could find out how he felt about television in general, he'd put his hand behind her head, bent his head, and kissed her.
And then before Jane could suggest that perhaps it might be more comfortable if she put the material and sundry down, Ian had wrapped his arms around all of her and her gear and pulled her gently to him. He smiled down at her before he kissed her again, a sweet, lingering kiss that stole her breath and her heart.
By the time he let her up for air, she was convinced he intended that her heart be permanently softened and her knees nothing but mush. If she hadn't been such a good designer, she probably would have lost her grip on the material. As it was, she was sure she'd lost her grip on her sanity because she was seriously considering marrying a medieval clansman who kissed like nobody's business. Heaven help her through anything else he might choose to do.
"Wow," she gasped, when he finally let her breathe again.
He smiled down at her smugly. "We won't need TV."
"I guess not."
His blue eyes were full of merriment and love and dreams for the future. "A spinning wheel, though," he said. "And a hearth large enough for us to warm ourselves by in the evenings."
"And to gather the children around to hear glorious stories of their father's conquests in battle?" she asked, feeling her heart break a little at the thought.
"Aye, that too," he said gently, then he kissed her again. "That too, my Jane, if it pleases you."
She would have told him what pleased her, but he kissed her again and the sensation of having her toes curling in her boots was just too distracting to remember what it was she'd meant to tell him.
Then he put his arm around her and led her back to the castle. He was already planning their future out loud and she suspected she wouldn't get a word in edgewise until he was finished. But since his dreams included her, she wouldn't begrudge him his plans. She was a weaver and he was a storyteller. She would weave her strands in and out of his dreams and he would tell everyone who would listen how it had been done.
And somehow, she suspected they would live out their lives in bliss, quite likely by candlelight.
When you had a fourteenth-century husband, things were much safer that way.

Epilogue
Ian MacLeod sat in a comfortable chair in front of a large hearth, toasting his toes against the warmth of the fire, and contemplated life's mysteries. They were many, but the evening stretched out pleasantly before him, so he had the time to examine them at length.
The first thing that caught his attention and qualified for an item of true irony was that he warmed his toes against a fire in a little stone hut when he had a perfectly good manor house up the way with all the modern amenities a goodly portion of his money could buy. His toes could also have been enjoying a fine Abyssinian carpet and his backside a well-worn leather club chair. Even more distressing was the thought of the stew simmering in the black kettle in front of him when there was a shiny red Aga stove sitting in the kitchen waiting for him to pit his skill against it.
By the saints, he might as well have still been in the Middle Ages for all the advances he'd made in his living conditions.
The sound of a spinning wheel distracted him and he found himself smiling in spite of his longing to test out a few new electrical gadgets. He looked to his left and saw the most wonderful of life's great mysteries.
There she sat, the woman of his dreams, the woman he had searched for all his life and never would have found had it not been for a twist of time. She was born and bred in an age far removed from his, yet she was at her most peaceful when they retreated to a place that could have found itself existing comfortably several centuries ago.
Jane's spinning was soothing with its rhythmic sounds and Ian found himself relaxing as he watched her be about her work. Firelight fell softly upon her sweet visage and caressed her long, slender fingers as she fashioned her strands of wool. They were tasks belonging to another age. There were times during the evenings they spent at the cottage when Ian would have to go to the door occasionally to assure himself that his shiny red Jaguar still sat in front of the door.
Ian had discovered that he liked red.
He had also discovered that he liked going very fast.
He leaned his head against the back of the chair and looked at his wife, noting the changes. Her long skirt was a riot of colors. Her sweater was a rich, vibrant red that brought out the strands of flame in her hair and the fine porcelain of her skin. Whatever wildness had resided under her constrained hair and black clothes had found full freedom in the Highlands. Ian found himself smiling. How changed Miss Witherspoon would have found her.
"You're smirking."
Ian looked at Jane, startled by her voice. "How can you tell?" he asked, moving his feet closer to the fire.
She didn't look up, but instead continued with her work. "I can feel it."
"You're guessing," he countered.
She looked at him then and smiled. The sight of it smote him straight in the heart. Aye, this was where she belonged and he praised every saint he could think of with his few poor wits that he'd had the good sense to wind up in Miss Witherspoon's shop on Jane's watch.
"What were you thinking?" she asked with another smile.
"I was just wondering what Miss Witherspoon would say at the changes in your appearance."
Jane laughed. "She'd have heart failure on the spot. I think color makes her nervous."
"We could go to New York and show your colors to other designers," he said, for surely what had been the hundredth time in the past year. "The apple is a large place."
"That's the Big Apple, Ian. And no," she said, holding up her hand, "I'm not all that interested in going back right now." She looked around the hut with satisfaction, then smiled happily at him. "I like it here."
Ian couldn't blame her, for he felt the same way. It had taken them a year to see their two dwellings built and furnished to their satisfaction. Fall was already hard upon them and perhaps it wasn't the best of times to travel. And what need had they to venture forth when so many things came to their door? Ian had come to look forward to the afternoons when he managed to snatch the mail away before Jane could retrieve it first and hide all the catalogs from him. Shopping by Her Majesty's postal service was another of the Future's great inventions that Ian had discovered he enjoyed very much.
"I can sell enough of my work in the village to keep me happy for now," she continued. "And you have a new batch of students coming in before January."
"Aye, there is that," he agreed. His students were souls who came to him for lessons in swordplay. Through the connections of various kin and partly due to fool's luck, he'd managed to meet a pair of men of the Hollywood ilk who needed a swordmaster for their filming in Scotland. Ian had taken on the task and found himself with a new and goodly work to do. Perhaps it wasn't as exhilarating as battle, but 'twas a great deal less hazardous to his health.
"Perhaps in the summer, then," he said. "A journey to the States."
She shook her head. "You'll be busy in the summer."
He frowned. "I've no students then."
"You'll be helping take care of a baby."
"Elizabeth is with child?" Jamie would be pleased, but Ian suspected Elizabeth's days of traveling would be over for the foreseeable future.
Jane stopped her spinning and looked at him. "No, Elizabeth is not pregnant."
"But who… else…" He stopped and looked at his wife who had turned a bright shade of red. Ian liked red very much. Indeed, the color had begun to swim before his vision, along with a chamber full of stars.
And then he found himself with his head suddenly between his knees.
"Breathe," Jane commanded, with her hand on his neck.
Ian did as she bid until he thought he might manage to get to his feet and remain there successfully. He stood, gathered his lady wife into his arms, and looked down at her, feeling a great sense of awe.
"You didn't tell me," he whispered.
"I wanted to be certain before I did."
"A son," he said reverently.
"It could be a girl," she pointed out.
"A wee lass," he said, petrified. By the saints, the young men he would have to slay to keep her safe from their clutches!
And then another thought occurred to him. He looked at Jane sternly.
" Tis too cold here for you," he said firmly.
"In Scotland?" she asked incredulously.
"In this cottage," he clarified, feeling the thrill of electricity rush through him. Finally he would investigate the mysteries of man's inventions to his heart's content. "We'll repair immediately to the house where it's warm."
"I'm suspicious of your motives," she said, but she smiled as she said it.
"Be suspicious after you've warmed up. I'll return later for supper and the spinning wheel."
He pulled the door firmly shut behind him and herded his wife efficiently toward the marvels of the Future that awaited him at home.
It was very much later that Ian lay in his exceedingly comfortable feather bed with his lady sleeping sweetly in his arms, and gave thought not to the ironies of life, but to the sweet mysteries. There were no angry clansmen who stood to break down his door any time in the foreseeable future. He wouldn't find himself woken from a deep sleep with the necessity of being on his feet with his sword in his hand prepared to fight in any future he could envision. His greatest danger would likely come from machines that wouldn't stop merely when he said "whoa" in a loud voice. That he could live with, especially when the reward for it was the finding of his love and—the saints aid him to be equal to the task of fatherhood!—a bairn.
He surely had no desire to thank William Fergusson for the hospitality of his pit, but Ian couldn't deny that it had certainly been a path to his future and he couldn't help but be grateful for it.
He closed his eyes, sighed, and fell asleep to the comforting click of the radiator.
And he dreamed, for a change, of the Present.