She tucked the knife into the back of her jeans, then descended the steps to the great hall. It was still early, but she was surprised to find the hall empty. Surely, though, Ian's household would be up by now.
She stepped out into the crisp December chill and found herself enormously grateful for the warm clothes Thomas had bought her. She toyed with the idea of repaying him for them, then discarded it. He had done it out of love for her. She would take some of the money Jamie had given her for an inheritance and buy him something that pleased him.
Or she would hoard it for their children. They would need things along the way. Or perhaps she would save it for an inheritance for them when she was gone. That she actually had something of value to leave anyone was a miracle. She was grateful to Jamie for it.
She walked around the castle and through the east forest. Ian's house was past the little lake and over the field. Jamie had drawn her a careful map and bade her be wary of where she stepped. She had almost laughed, then she had realized how serious he was. Judging by the fact that she was now a mortal and not a ghost, and that thanks to the little gates in his forest, she knew she had cause to believe he knew of what he spoke. Traveling through time was not a matter for jesting.
So she carefully avoided medieval England—she had been there and had no desire to return—skirted Barbados and Ancient Rome, and made her way across the far meadow to
Ian's house. Her heart lifted with every step she took. Not that it was a particularly beautiful morning, for it wasn't. It was cold and threatened rain. But to her mind, the sun was shining and the flowers were a blaze of color. Her heart was light. What else could she have asked for?
Ian's house was grand enough, she supposed, though certainly smaller than Jamie's keep. It seemed a cozy place, and she was happy to be going there. She walked around to the back door. It felt comfortable, as if she'd done it a number of times. Then she realized it was the Boar's Head Inn's kitchen door she was thinking of. As she'd only entered it a time or two after walking in the garden, she couldn't credit herself with that memory. Or could she?
After reading her own tale, she could credit herself with quite a few new things.
She opened the door to find two women sitting at the kitchen table with cups of something steaming in their hands. Iolanthe paused and smiled.
"Sorry to interrupt," she said in her best modern English. "Is Thomas here?"
"And why," one of the women asked, scraping her chair back as she stood, "would you want to know that?"
Iolanthe faltered for a moment. She'd never been faced with this kind of creature before. She was petite, fair-haired, and radiated a crispness that Iolanthe had to admire. Surely not even a single crease in her blouse dared disobey by flattening itself where it shouldn't. As she watched, the woman looked down at the black trousers she was wearing, espied a speck of lint, and screeched in horror as she hastily picked it off.
"This country is filthy!" the woman exclaimed. "Dirt everywhere!"
"Actually, it's not dirt, it's wool," Jane said, walking into the kitchen. "Very fine wool that I make into very expensive sweaters." She looked at Iolanthe and smiled. "Good morning, Io. It's good to see you. How are you?"
Iolanthe found herself surprisingly grateful for Ian's lady's friendly greeting. "I am well, Jane. And you?"
"Couldn't be better. Girls, did you introduce yourselves? No, well, this is Thomas's sister, Victoria. And this is Cartier—"
"That's Tiffany," the little screecher growled.
"Sorry, wrong jeweler," Jane said, looking anything but repentant. "This is Tiffany. Victoria's friend."
"Thomas's fiancée," Tiffany corrected, turning to look at Iolanthe. "And just who might you be?"
Iolanthe considered the women facing her and just what mischief or not they were about. First, there was Tiffany, who looked as if her fondest wish would have been to bury a dagger in Iolanthe's chest—assuming, of course, that she could have done so without mussing her clothes. Then there was Thomas's sister, Victoria, who was staring at her with such a piercing gaze that Iolanthe wondered just what she suspected.
And then there was, the saints bless her, Jane Fergusson MacLeod, who stood there and looked at Iolanthe with a serene smile that Iolanthe couldn't interpret any other way but as one of friendship and affection.
"I am," Iolanthe said finally, "Thomas's cousin."
"See?" Tiffany said, brushing off her chair and sitting back down. "Thomas's cousin, not his girlfriend. I told you Megan had it wrong. Evidently your means of getting information out of your little sister aren't as good as you claimed."
Iolanthe looked at Victoria sharply. "You harmed Megan?"
"Just a little sisterly tussle," Victoria said smoothly.
Iolanthe favored Victoria with the coldest look she could muster. "If you harmed her, you will regret it."
Victoria looked at her assessingly. Iolanthe stood firm under the scrutiny. Then Victoria looked at Tiffany, and there was ice in those blue eyes.
"I'm beginning to think, Tiffany, that perhaps you haven't been as genuine as you've led me to believe," she said slowly.
"I told you that Thomas loves me. He didn't want to leave the States to come over here. He just felt obligated to come over and look at Megan's stupid inn."
Iolanthe snorted in disgust.
Tiffany glared at her. "What would you know, Miss Hayseed?"
Iolanthe wasn't sure what she meant by the title, but she had no trouble understanding that it wasn't complimentary.
