Oliver knew the way to the kitchen given that he’d been there before on his way to other places, but at the moment he suspected it might be best not to think about those other places.
He made Ian a bow, fetched the scabbard for his own sword, then walked over to where the laird of the local clan MacLeod was holding out his sword. Hilt first, which he appreciated. He took it and resheathed it, then waited for the verdict on his day’s work.
“Not a bad showing,” Jamie conceded.
Oliver made him a low bow. “Thank you, my lord.” He took a deep breath and looked at Patrick MacLeod, fully prepared for anything from a brutal assessment to a knife in his gut.
Patrick only lifted his eyebrows briefly and said nothing.
And that was likely the best he was going to have from that quarter. He made Patrick an equally polite bow, then excused himself and did his damndest to walk in a straight line around to the front of the keep before the invitation to find a meal was rescinded in favor of more torture in the lists.
He stopped on the hall’s front stoop and put his hand on the massive wooden door for a moment to catch his breath. He loathed admitting to any sort of weakness, but in his defense he’d had a long day. That day had begun in the middle of the night when he’d woken to find himself being roughly trussed up like a misbehaving Christmas goose. His subsequent journey,first by private plane, then by an equally private helicopter, had ended with his being heartlessly deposited onto the doorstep of a certain Highland laird. The note secured with gaffer tape to one of his bonds where he hadn’t been able to chew it off had informed James MacLeod that he was there to have a holiday.
He suspected much darker things were afoot.
Then again, the retribution he would exact for those darker things was going to beexceptionallyunpleasant, so balance would eventually be restored. With that happy thought to keep him from blurting out any off-key nursery rhymes—which was a filthy lie; he had perfect pitch—he knocked, then gingerly opened the door and peeked in to see if anyone friendly might be home.
Elizabeth MacLeod was coming out of the kitchen and waved him inside. He accepted the invitation, then shut the door behind himself, suppressing the urge to throw not only a bar over it but stack a few pieces of heavy furniture in front of it as well. He shuffled over to the lady of the hall where he made her a bow.
She laughed. “Oliver, you don’t have to do that.”
“I’m hoping to flatter you out of something to eat,” he said honestly.
“I’m already putting dinner together, so no flattery needed. I’m just waiting for you to finish with the boys.”
“I sincerely hope that I have,” he said with feeling. “And I owe you for breakfast this morning. It was the only thing that saved me.”
“You answer my endless research questions about modern spy stuff, so it’s a fair trade.”
“Is that useful?” he asked.
“It is when Patrick’s answer to any of my questions on how to deal with bad guys is a blank look and a sword-poking motion.”
Oliver suspected Patrick MacLeod’s skills were exponentially more extensive than that, but again, he hadn’t had the pleasure of a personal encounter, something he fully intended to keep on with for as long as possible.
“I’ll go clean up, then,” Oliver said, “and I’ll try not to drip overly on your floors.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Elizabeth said with a shrug.
Oliver imagined she had, so he made her another bow, then tried not to squelch his way too aggressively across her floor and up the stairs to the guest room he’d been given. He’d been offered the same accommodations precisely seven times in the past, something he also decided was best not to think about at the moment. It would get in the way of less unsettling thoughts of vengeance perpetrated on those who absolutely should have known better.
He walked inside, locked the bedroom door behind himself, then propped his sword up against a chair bearing the duffle bag that had so thoughtfully been packed for him. He looked into the corner of the room and scowled at the collection of zip ties and steel-banded cables that were piled atop enormous chains that could have comfortably moored a small cruise ship. He likely should have been flattered that his kidnappers had considered him dangerous enough to merit all three, but that might have stirred up feelings of mercy which would have indeed made him sad, so he forbore.
There was no silencing duct tape joining the rubbish there, but that indicated how well those hapless lads knew him. He had considered commenting on what fates awaited them as they’d been about their foul business of transporting him to places he hadn’t wanted to go, but he’d decided that silence had been a more terrifying option.
He imagined Patrick MacLeod would have agreed with that, at least.
He stripped off his medieval gear and ignored the fact that he was trying to keep a saffron shirt and what amounted to a plaid-patterned blanket in a tidy pile atop his muddy boots. It was a bit more difficult to ignore the bright pink ankle monitor that had been applied to his own poor self whilst he’d been wearing the aforementioned cables and chains, but he limited himself to a brief hope it wouldn’t electrocute him whilst he was having a wash.
Half an hour later, he followed his nose into the kitchen. The lady of the hall was there, dividing her time between keeping watch over a stew that smelled very promising and keeping her children focused on their homework. The youngest of the spawn, a wisp of a thing named Patricia, jumped up from her stool and raced across the room.
“Oliver!”
He caught her as she flung herself at him and couldn’t help but feel a bit flattered by her enthusiasm. She hugged him tightly, then pulled away.
“Which do I pick?” she asked. “Treat or a card?”
“Patricia, he doesn’t always have to bring you something,” Elizabeth said mildly.
