He lifted one of his shoulders in as much of a shrug as he could manage whilst holding onto a sleeping five-year-old.
“I won’t stab you,” she grumbled.
He smiled. “I was worried.”
“I don’t think you’re worried at all.”
“You might be surprised,” he said honestly. “But, aye, I daresay she did.” He imagined he didn’t need to tell her just how many other tales the illustrious Miss Buchanan had invented. “Was the story good?”
“Very,” she said. “Many fierce battles and scorching looks—and that was just between the duke and his kitchen maid.”
“She sounds impressive,” Oliver said.
“Very courageous,” Mairead agreed. “The duke was full of many noble virtues and skills in battle as well, though, along with being a deft hand at cards.”
“Why did you want the rest of it? Do you like knowing how things end?”
She shook her head. “I thought if I knew how the kitchen maid’s own life had finished, I could see how to escape mine.”
Damn it, when would he stop being winded by every damned MacLeod he met?
“Though I dislike the thought of running.”
He understood that. He wasn’t one for running unless it was from thugs or to rescue someone from thugs. Well, and the occasional wee scarper from overzealous bobbies, but that was likely something he could safely leave in his yob years and have done. He preferred to take firm, measured steps away from people and situations that he no longer wanted to be a part of.
But he wasn’t sure how Mairead MacLeod did that. It wasn’t as though she had a modern-day list of jobs to apply for orfriends in other cities. She was a woman with no escape and no prospects if she did escape.
He had no idea what it was he hoped to do for her, and he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t made an enormous mistake setting foot in that ring of plants that should have been nothing but dried weeds.
But he was where he was and perhaps it was for good reason. He laced his fingers with hers and would have winced at how hard she was holding his hand if he had been made of less stern stuff.
It wasn’t possible to fall in like so quickly, was it?
He suspected it would take nothing but a slight push to have him falling face-first into something far more serious. That he should have found that thing in 1583 was beyond ridiculous.
He wondered if she might ever feel the same way about him.
“Sleep,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll keep watch.”
“I shouldn’t—”
He nodded toward his shoulder. “Use me,” he said quietly. “If that isn’t improper.”
She shifted a sleeping child, moved closer to him, then rested her head on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Oliver.”
“You’re welcome, Mairead. Sleep well.”
He could feel her nod. It was all he could do not to turn his head just a bit and kiss her hair, but he was, as he’d pointed out so virtuously before, a gentleman.
What he was doing in 16th-century Scotland, finding himself bewitched by a woman with beautiful eyes and an angelic smile who had been quite conveniently overlooked in favor of her truly spectacular sisters, was anyone’s guess.
Fortunately for the fabric of time, he was well-practiced in simply lingering on the edges of any given situation, holding a useful cup of something in his hand and acting as if he belongedwhere he was. It worked like a charm with bobbies, bloviating academics, and insufferable gallery owners. Perhaps he would find a cup of mead in the morning and attempt the same sort of casual loitering in Renaissance Scotland.
Because apart from anything else, he didn’t believe in luck or fate, but he absolutely trusted his gut and his gut was telling him at present that Master James who was not the king of Scotland was up to no good. Add to that mix a few superstitious souls in the current clan MacLeod along with a few more with chips on their shoulders and those storm clouds he could see on the horizon might bring in more trouble than just a nasty fall blow.
He would stay another day, just to make sure the storm blew itself out.
