He stared at her name until he thought he could speak without howling, then looked at Patrick to find him now sitting in the chair next to the desk. Oliver appreciated the fact that silence seemed to be the man’s go-to response to terrible things, though he wondered if that had always been the case.
“How did you survive it?” he asked before he managed to stop himself. “The time period, that is.”
Patrick smiled without humor. “I came through the forest gate behind our hall at sixteen, so I was witness to far fewer horrors than my brother.”
“I’m guessing you saw enough.”
“Aye,” Patrick said simply. “I did rescue my lady from a journey back in time that I will readily admit was my fault and—” He paused and took a deep breath. “She suffered and that was also my fault. I took lives to save hers and fought to save my own skin in the current century, so I’ve lived it, however, briefly, as a man.”
“Your brother would tell me to walk away.”
“He would,” Patrick agreed, “and he has good reason for it. He had a close-up look at what was left of Zachary after his second try at rescuing that gel from the stake.”
“Pardon my frankness, my lord, but I can’t imagine he cared about either Zachary or the girl.”
“Do you honestly believe that?”
“After this morning?” Oliver asked. “I think I just missed watching a woman be dragged off to be burned in a fire, so I would have to say yes.”
Patrick pushed his lips out as though he feared they might say something without his permission. “Let’s say this,” he began carefully. “If Elizabeth or one of his children or any member of his little clan here wandered off where they shouldn’t have, Jamie would never admit how far he would go to rescue them. He would instead bore you silly with endless lectures on not changing the past.”
“I’ve heard one or two.”
“There are more.”
Oliver imagined that was the truth. “Yet he hops through those damned gates as if he’s nipping down to the village for crisps. How does he know just showing his face in a different time doesn’t change the past?”
“He tries to tread lightly,” Patrick said. “And, to be honest, he grows bored easily. As modern and tame as he seems, he spent all of his life knowing he would lead the clan and a good deal of his life doing just that—with all its attendant excitement and not just a few dire deeds. I suspect half the books on psychology he has cluttering up his study are things he’s read to try to unravel his own thinking.”
“The saints preserve us.”
Patrick smiled. “You’ve spent too much time with him, obviously.”
Oliver closed the book and set it very carefully back on the desk. “I cannot let her die.”
“I understand.”
He looked at the book on the desk, then a thought occurred to him. “If I could rescue her at the right time, leaving them thinking she had died, then it wouldn’t matter what happened in the end, would it?”
He hadn’t meant it to be a question and Patrick seemingly didn’t take it as one.
“That is the prevailing theory,” Patrick agreed.
“Zachary brought Mary de Piaget forward because she was on the verge of death.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
“I don’t need any convincing, my lord,” Oliver said without hesitation.
Patrick looked to be coming to a conclusion about something. Oliver decided it was best to keep his bloody mouth shut on the off chance it would turn out to be something he didn’t like.
He wasn’t unused to waiting people out. He’d tended to simply walk away in his youth, which saved him endless brawls and arguments he had early on decided weren’t worth his time, but that had changed as he’d matured. His ability to simply sit and watch as someone else came to conclusions about everything from writing checks to calling the bobbies was something he developed and honed endlessly after watching Robert Cameron do the same.
Patrick pulled a mobile out of his pocket and set it on the desk.
“Untraceable.”
Oliver closed his eyes briefly, then picked it up. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
