And so, he noted happily, was the state of their marriage. He was simultaneously bemused by and arse over teakettle in love with that woman there who had arrived in the Future only to, as she would have quoted her father saying, stride forth and conquer everything in her path, including him. He suspected if her uncle Lachlan could have seen her presently, he would have been very proud of the very confident modern woman she’d become. He knew he was.
He pushed away from the range and started around the island to acquiesce to her demand, but found himself coming to a halt at the sound of a knocking on their front door.
“Och, nay,” Mairead said, reaching out and taking hold of his arm before he could react. “I’ve business with you.”
He pulled her into his arms. “I am, as always, your humble and devoted servant. But I think we have company. There they go, knocking again as if they very much want to get inside.”
“Kiss me briefly, then.”
“If you insist.”
“You know you want to.”
He laughed and kissed her as thoroughly as he dared because, as she had so rightly divined, he most certainly did indeed want to. He lifted his head and looked at her.
“I’m having a thought.”
She looked a little flushed. “So am I. Let’s ignore the knock.”
He smiled, because he was just so damned happy he couldn’t seem to stop. “They are persistent.”
She sighed. “Very well, let’s go—wait, what was your thought?”
“I’m wondering if we dare answer given that it’s a door and we’ve run afoul of them in the past.”
“Let’s hold hands whilst we do.”
He nodded, then paused. “Let’s examine your thought later.”
She smiled. “If you like.”
“You know I do.”
She laughed a little at him, which he enjoyed more than he would ever admit, then kept hold of her hand as he walked with her across their flat, promising himself to boot out swiftly whoever had dared arrive on their front stoop at the truly indelicate hour of 7 PM.
A quick look through the spyhole revealed souls no more nefarious than Jackson and Olivia Kilchurn, whilst an opening of the door disclosed that Jackson was carrying dessert. Maireadsqueezed his hand briefly, then abandoned him in favor of drawing inside one of her favorite new London friends. Jackson held up the bag.
“Mint chip and something else with seven types of chocolate.”
Oliver waved him inside without hesitation, then popped Jackson’s offerings into the freezer for later consumption.
He found himself once again leaning back against his AGA only this time he was listening to rapid-fire, authentic Gaelic being tossed about with enthusiasm by those three there. His headache was far less than it had been at first on those same sorts of evenings, but perhaps that was due to spending every day of his current lifetime speaking the same with his, again, favorite person.
He watched them for a bit, then found himself joined in his leaning by Jackson himself.
“Any interesting finds lately?” Jackson asked.
“A few swords,” Oliver said with a shrug. “A handful of rare gems and some priceless art. The usual.”
“You’re jaded.”
Oliver shot Jackson a look. “You’re one to talk.”
Jackson smiled pleasantly. “Agreed. And since I am, I’m wondering if you might be up for something different.”
“I’m all ears,” Oliver said. “What’s on offer?”
“A bit of a hunt.”
