She wasn't sure she wanted to know. She was beginning to suspect that what she really wanted was some privacy so
Thomas could ask her any questions that might be burning inside him at present.
Damnation, but would these ghosts never give her any peace?
And now more of them! She scowled as Ambrose MacLeod, Hugh McKinnon, and Fulbert de Piaget came strolling into the great room as if they had a right to. Duncan came as well, but she couldn't fault him for it. After all, he was her closest kinsman.
Chairs appeared as if they had conjured them up out of thin air, tankards of ale were hefted in a spirited manner, and talk revolved for quite some time around Thomas's performance two days before. By the saints, hadn't they discussed that enough already? The men criticized, complimented, and considered Thomas's showing until Iolanthe was heartily sick of ghosts, swordplay, and ancestors who should have known when to take their leave so that Thomas might be about the business of asking her to be his wife.
Assuming he wanted her to be his wife.
Fulbert stood up with a grumble. "I can tell we're no longer wanted." He scowled at her. "Mind yer thoughts, missy. Yer shoutin' 'em at me."
Iolanthe felt her jaw slide down of its own accord.
Fulbert tossed his mug into the fire and disappeared.
Hugh stood up and made her a low bow.
"Don't mind him," the former laird of the clan McKinnon said kindly. "He's a sour sort. I'll see to him for ye, if ye like."
She could only nod as she made a valiant attempt to retrieve the lower half of her face from where it currently rested on her chest.
Ambrose stood finally and looked at her. "Too much talk of warring does become tedious, daughter. But I thank you kindly for sharing your man with us this morning. He showed himself very well, didn't you think?"
"Aye," she managed in a strangled voice.
"Good afternoon to you then, Iolanthe, my dear," he said, as he turned and walked through the wall.
The illusionary chairs vanished. Well, all except the one that still contained Duncan MacLeod. He looked primed to leave as well, but Thomas held up his hand.
"Duncan, please stay."
Iolanthe would have protested, but for the look in Thomas's eye. And his tone. There was a seriousness in his voice she'd never heard, and she wondered if it could but betide something foul. She felt herself grow unaccountably nervous.
"Thomas," she began, "perhaps 'tis I who should leave—"
"Why?" he asked, looking at her with surprise. "Do you want to go?"
"Nay," she said slowly, "but perhaps my wishes should not matter."
"They matter most of all," he said. "They always have. Well," he added quickly, "except for when I said I was going to use the time-travel gate in Jamie's forest. You were hopping mad about that, and I ignored you." He smiled at her. "I'm sorry."
"You aren't," she said with pursed lips.
He smiled. "You're right, I'm not." His smile faded, and he wiped his hands on his jeans.
Iolanthe could hardly believe it, but he looked nervous.
"I need to talk to you," he said. "And Duncan needs to stay and hear it."
Was he going to tell her he was leaving? That he'd changed his mind and didn't love her? That killing to save her had left such a bad taste in his mouth that he couldn't look at her anymore?
He stood.
And she thought she might be ill.
He fished about in his pocket for something, then knelt down in front of her.
Well, that was promising.
"I hope," he began, "that I'm not being too hasty about this."
He stopped.
She frowned. "Be hasty," she said. "I think I've waited long enough."
"Hey," he said, sounding aggrieved. "You haven't been the one Ian's been grinding into the dust every day over here for almost a month."
"Nay. I was the one haunting the walls of Thorpewold for six centuries."
"All right," he conceded, "you win." He took her hand in his and looked at her with affection shining in his eyes. "I love you, Iolanthe MacLeod. I loved you from the moment I saw you, and there hasn't been a day since where I haven't either wallowed in it or fought it." He smiled. "I didn't fight it for very long."
That was romantic enough, she supposed. Her great-grandmother would have approved.
"I am willing to give my life for yours, if need be," he continued. "But more than that, I want to live my life forever intertwined with yours. I will protect you with my body, I will shelter you with my name, and I will work to see you never lack for your needs."
She wished somehow that she'd had a pen to write that down. They were surely the finest words ever said to her.
"I'd like," Thomas finished, "to ask you to marry me."
Aye had almost rolled off her tongue when he interrupted her.
"But I should ask your father first."
"My sire?" she said, in surprise. "My sire? Why in the bloody hell would ye ask that damned fool?"
A romantic? Why, the man was an idiot!
Thomas only smiled faintly. She had the intense desire to slap him quite smartly across the face.
"I'd ask him," Thomas said quietly, "because he's sitting right there, waiting for me to."
And then he quite slowly and deliberately turned to look at the other man in the chamber.
Duncan MacLeod.
Iolanthe looked at her cousin. Nay, she was quite sure she wasn't looking at him, she was gaping at him. And he was looking none too pleased with Thomas.
"Lad," he said, blustering about indignantly, "this was hardly the time—"
"I would like," Thomas said, "to ask you, Duncan MacLeod, for Iolanthe's hand in marriage."
"Father?" Iolanthe repeated. "Why did you call him my father—"
She found, quite suddenly, that she couldn't find the words to say anything else. Duncan squirmed and looked as if he wished quite desperately to bolt.
Iolanthe sat back, speechless. She looked at Duncan and, as she did so, memory after memory washed over her. Duncan standing two paces behind her
