“MacLeod!”
Oliver jumped away from the shout, then whirled around to face a rather unfriendly looking clansman who didn’t seem at all reluctant to use Oliver’s collarbone as a resting place for the point of his perilously sharp blade.
“You shouldn’t,” the clansman began politely, “ever lose your sword.”
Damn it, did none of these bastards ever sleep? Oliver would have glared at Patrick MacLeod, but he didn’t know him well enough to anticipate how that might go for him. He set aside the relief he felt at being—or so he hoped—back in his own time and prepared to keep himself alive in a different century.
Holiday? The word didn’t begin to apply.
“I didn’t have one to begin with,” he said briskly.
“Not my problem.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Patrick snorted. “And I should care about that, why?”
“Because killing your quarry before you’ve stalked it to your satisfaction would be stupid—”
He missed losing his head only because he had decent reflexes. That was the only thing that he could say about the encounter that was positive, however, because he had no sword, Patrick’s sword was very sharp and obviously well-used, and he—still—hadn’t had enough sleep. He managed to keep himself from becoming a resting place for what he was certain was medieval steel, but he suspected that was nothing more than dumb luck. That made him angry—mostly at himself—and anger inspired him to reach for and use his hands and feet in ways he generally only resorted to when his need was very dire.
A pity Patrick MacLeod seemed to know the same techniques, which left him wondering just where in the hell the man had learned such an impressive array of martial arts.
He eventually found himself in the usual place he wound up whilst on his Scottish pleasure trip, namely flat on his back, looking up into a misty sky and not having to wonder why the Scots had so many bloody names for what that sky produced. He glanced to his left to find his companion resting comfortably a few feet away with his hands clasped over his belly, looking perfectly at ease. Oliver sat up, dragged his hands through his hair, then shifted to face his current torturer.
“My apologies,” he said without hesitation.
Patrick looked at him. “For what?”
“Resorting to other things than steel.”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“Clearly not.”
Patrick sat up without so much as a huff of exertion. “You might want to work on not losing your sword, lad.”
“Again, I didn’t have one to begin with.”
“You would have lost it just the same.”
Oliver took a deep breath. “You startled me.”
“That’s generally the idea,” Patrick noted. “Something you likely also know is that you cannot do that sort of unapproved fighting business in the past. Well, perhaps you might post-1800s if you limited yourself to proper fisticuffs, but anything earlier and they’ll think you’re a demon.”
Oliver suspected that might very well be the case.
“That, and you might find it failing to serve you whilst you’re facing a man pointing a six-foot broadsword at you.”
“What a thought,” Oliver said, attempting a light tone.
Patrick leaned back on his hands and crossed his feet at his ankles. “I pushed you.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to see what you were made of.”
“And did you?”
