“It will be substantially more so if someone finds out she’s been traipsing through the centuries to fraternize with you.”
Oliver dragged his hand through his hair. “I won’t be in Scotland more than another week or so.”
“And that makes it better?”
Oliver looked at him seriously. “A few days to make memories to last a lifetime isn’t better?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “You should be writing greeting cards.”
“Too much time spent lingering in the sitting rooms of grannies with valuable antiques placed strategically behind cards from their progeny has left its mark.” He sighed. “You won’t tell Jamie, will you?”
“What, that you’re dating a woman who’s four hundred years older than you are?” He snorted. “What am I, your mother?”
Oliver smiled faintly. “Thank you. And I’m not dating her. We’re just friends.”
Patrick only shook his head and sighed. “Be careful with her.”
Oliver nodded. “I understand.”
“I’m not sure you could,” Patrick said bluntly, “but I also know it won’t be for a lack of trying.” He turned away, then stopped.
Oliver suddenly didn’t care for the feeling in the air. He watched as Patrick turned back to look at him.
“Jamie has been poking into the late 16th century for a pair of years, you know.”
“I hesitate to ask why.”
“Because crowds get swept up into things they wouldn’t if cooler heads prevailed.”
“Even here in the Highlands?”
“Aye, even here. I wonder what he’s found in the past that troubles him.”
“Something foul, no doubt.”
“That foul thing might be you.”
Oliver closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. “If I see her again, I’ll convince her to stay where she belongs.”
Patrick only waited.
“And I won’t go myself,” Oliver said, blowing out his breath.
“You likely shouldn’t.”
He nodded, then watched his current swordmaster go, no doubt making his way without thinking to his own castle where his lovely wife and children waited for him.
Lucky bastard.
Oliver shook his head at himself, then turned and made his way toward the meadow, enjoying the silence of the forest and—heaven help him—the lack of technology. The horrors of beingunplugged hadn’t abated, of course, but he was equally horrified to find he was beginning not to care.
After all, men had gone centuries with nothing more than the same sort of skills he’d honed over a dozen years of boarding school, namely eavesdropping, being keenly aware of one’s surroundings, and extricating oneself from impossible situations with just one’s wits and a few tools in pockets and down boots, hadn’t they? He wasn’t sure Renaissance Scotland’s food could possibly be any worse than what he’d eaten at St. Margaret’s, so there was also that to consider.
Which didn’t mean he was going anywhere, of course, but it was an interesting intellectual exercise. In fact, he might just make a new section of his self-care notebook completely devoted to the beauties ofBeing Unplugged. Surely there would be at least a pair of lads who would understand when he bound them with one set of cords and did electrical experiments with the other. He had to acknowledge that that was more on the plugged-in side of things, but perhaps there was no need to quibble over details.
He supposed the details he should fuss over—if he were contemplating a trip to a time not his own—included what to leave behind: his watch, any sachets of indigestible condiments he might or might not generally keep in the glove compartment of his car, and his fairly comfortable Cameron plaid boxers.
He took a deep breath and carried on, forcing himself to empty his mind. If that didn’t count for meditation, he didn’t know what would.
