But until that happy time came, he would do his best with what he had to hand, enjoy the fact that his ankle no longer felt as if it were being slowly sawn in half, and see to ticking a few more boxes next to tasks that didn’t involve wearing those obscene spotted yoga trousers.
He realized there was one last bit of misery left in the bag and decided it was best to have it all over with at once. He pulled out a tin that turned out to be full of very tiny colored pencils. The note attached instructed him to find things to sketch and be about rendering them properly on the pages to be found behind the appropriate tab in his master notebook.
He hesitated to speculate on who might be judging his skills, vowed not to draw anything obscene no matter how tempted he might have been, and decided he might as well venture out into the meadow and see what turned up. He might manage to sniff a few flowers whilst drawing them and kill two eejits with one stone.
He had a final look around the house to make certain everything was as it should have been, then opened the door and hopped energetically over the threshold before any time-traveling sprites could give him a shove into a year where he might not be so relaxed and refreshed.
He realized after the fact just how close he’d come to knocking himself out on the top of the threshold, filed that away as something to be more careful about in the future, then walked through the forest, keeping to the shadows out of habit and happily finding himself free of any hangers-on in the person of Patrick MacLeod. Perhaps the man had decided a little lie-in might be just the thing for the morning.
He reached the meadow in good time, diligently ignored the fairy ring that he knew lay fifty paces to the north of his current position, then looked around himself instead for a comfortable rock from where he might observe the local flora. If he finished quickly, he supposed it wouldn’t be unthinkable to meditate a bit on soothing things such as who he was going to kill first once his fortnight of torture was over.
He sat down, sincerely hoping there weren’t any stray, soon-to-be-deceased colleagues lurking in the tall grass across the way with telephoto lenses at the ready, fully prepared to take a shot up his saffron shirt. At least he was wearing Cameron plaid boxers and not a pair of white Y-fronts with abusive language scrawled on the bum where it might be most advantageously read as he turned and mooned the blighters.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He wasn’t sure meditation was doing him any favors, but perhaps he needed to concentrate on more positive things.
He opened his notebook to the appropriateActivities for Relaxationsection, found theDraw Flowers Herepage, then looked at the little tin of tiny pencils he’d been given. How anyone expected him to do anything with those besides load them into a dart gun and shoot them into a criminal, he didn’t know. He chose something useful—green, as it happened—then looked around himself to see what floral delights there might be for him to attempt to reproduce—
He froze.
He wasn’t alone.
He made a production of pretending he hadn’t noticed anything unusual. It seemed like a perfect time to do a little yoga, so he replaced his pencil, shut the lid, and used the tin’s shiny underside to make certain no one was standing directly behind him, waiting to stab him. Not a great mirror, admittedly, but sufficient for his purposes. Finding no one, he put his gearon the rock where with any luck it would get nicked, then rose and began to stretch.
He limited himself to twisting at the waist, partly because he was, as usual, in an outfit that required a princess-like commitment to keeping his knees together and partly because a little releasing of the tension in his back gave him the chance to look over his shoulder in both directions where he found…
Nothing.
He frowned thoughtfully. He was being watched—he would have bet his favorite pair of trainers on it—so obviously he would have to go investigate. The only question that remained was did he keep his sword strapped to his back and possibly clunk himself on the back of the head thanks to a misstep, or did he leave it behind and hope his invisible friend wasn’t Patrick MacLeod trying to keep himself awake?
He decided abruptly that keeping his sword with him could be considered an exercise inBeing Prepared for Scottish Adventures—and for all he knew, Jamie could be persuaded to create a section for just that with hefty points attached—so he clapped his hand to his forehead in an exaggerated fashion, then stomped back the way he’d come, cursing himself loudly for having forgotten the very thing he’d intended to bring outside. He suspected he also might need to add a section entitledWhy Eejits Should Do Reconnaissance, but that might become too full with all the recriminations he would be directing at himself.
Time marched on as doggedly as he did, but perhaps with a bit less grumbling.
He heard the snap of a twig behind him and quickly ran through potential suspects. Those included anyone from one of Jamie’s children to Ian MacLeod taking over whilst Patrick was having his lie-in. He indulged in a quick prayer that he wouldn’t turn and impale himself on a death-dealing medieval blade, held up his hands, then turned slowly around to face his fate.
A woman was standing there.
Well, to be perfectly accurate, a fearless Highland lass he recognized was standing there with the knife she’d obviously intended to use to defend herself lying at her feet. He realized he was already very still, but he felt that stillness increase exponentially. That happened, he supposed, when one encountered in the present day someone who should have been comfortably loitering four centuries, give or take a few years, in the past.
He wasn’t sure who she was, especially as she hadn’t given him her name. He also wasn’t entirely certain about Highland clan structure past knowing in his head that when he’d pledged fealty to Robert Cameron, he’d become part of the Cameron clan. What that meant to his heart in terms of being considered family was something that generally left him feeling overly maudlin, so he didn’t think about it.
“Friend not foe,” he said, because that had worked well enough before. “Still.”
“I don’t need a knife to best ye,” she said.
Oliver nodded solemnly. “I’m sure that’s true.” He would have attempted a smile, but the woman had called him a demon the day before, so there were obviously discussions still to be had. He dug deep for his best Gaelic and pointed to the dirk down the side of his boot. “I’m going to draw my blade and hand it to you.”
“Why?”
“So you’ll feel safe while I bend down and pick up your knife.”
She didn’t look as if she would be feeling safe any time soon. In fact, she looked as if she might be one poorly chosen word on his part away from a complete meltdown. He considered offering a soothingcalm down, but he’d listened to more than one eejit of his acquaintance utter those fighting words to a female companion and marveled at the ensuing carnage. Caution and silence were obviously the orders of the day.
He carefully pulled the dirk free from its sheath and handed it to her haft first, then kept his eye on her as he bent and picked up her knife. He handed her that as well.
“You will not find me easily vanquished,” she said, her voice shaking as badly as her hands.
“I never thought you would be.” As an afterthought, he pulled the dirk from his left boot and held that out as well.
