"Better fetch your fellow," he reprimanded. "Shame on you for leaving him."
The Fat Scribe pushed past Roderick and ran screaming down the way. The Gray Lady took a deep breath, then turned back inside the hall. She hoisted the Rat over her shoulder, staggered, yet managed to keep her feet. Roderick gallantly encouraged her as she hastened from the keep. Iolanthe could hear him keeping up a steady stream of chatter as the poor woman struggled down the way.
"Should someone help the auld wench?" one of the clansmen milling about said.
"Dinnae fash yerself, Douglas," another said with a hearty laugh, clapping his fellow on the back companionably. "She heaved him into the grass down the way, didna ye see it?"
"Ach, weel, a brave one, that," Douglas conceded.
Iolanthe let their conversations drift over her as she made her way to the back of the hall. She nodded to the men she passed, smiling to let them know she was pleased with their performance.
But inside, she was trembling.
From fury, not fear.
By the time she reached what was left of the battlements, she was seething. How dare some strange man, who she'd never met and who she knew already that she wouldn't care for in the least, think to overrun her home? Not that she cared overmuch for the place, given the circumstances, but 'twas her home, and she'd paid a dear price for it.
Well, no matter what the Yank thought, he would not be spending any nights in her hall. Her men would see to that and enjoy the doing of the deed.
Aye, there would be no intruders in her home.
She wouldn't allow it.
Chapter 5
Thomas struggled to find the demarcation between X dreaming and waking. His dreams had been full of Everest, of snow and wind and desperate weariness. He wondered at times if he would ever escape the shadow of that experience and the way it consumed him. Then again, with the number of ghosts he kept seeing serving as a distraction, maybe he just might.
He forced himself to be fully aware of where he was. He wasn't camped on the side of a mountain; he was in a comfortable bed in his sister's inn. Once he'd convinced himself of that, memories of the day before returned with a rush, though he studiously avoided mentally reliving any scarcely avoided encounters with sheep, pedestrians, and other vehicles he'd had on his journey north.
He looked at his watch, determined that he'd slept until almost ten, then rolled out of bed and stretched, feeling remarkably like his old self. He was mentally alert, physically restored, and ravenous. All very good signs. The past few weeks of packing up his gear, seeing it sent, closing up his house, and getting to England seemed like nothing more than a bad dream.
He shaved, showered, and dressed in record time. With any luck, General Pruitt wouldn't have closed down the mess hall. If so, he'd have to fend for himself. Would foraging in the fridge result in a court-martial? He wondered if she preferred an old-fashioned hanging or the firing squad. He could easily see her executing either.
There was no one at the registration desk as he trotted by, so he started opening doors. He found the library, a sitting room, an office of some kind, a gathering room of another kind, and then finally the dining room. It was occupied, which came as a relief. At least he hadn't come too late for some kind of meal. He smiled politely at the group there, then looked for an empty seat at the long table.
And then he noticed the reception he was getting. He paused, halfway to sitting down.
"I'm sorry," he said, wondering if he'd stumbled in on some private breakfast. "Am I interrupting?"
The other three occupants of the room were giving him looks of complete disgust
"I should say you are!" said one man, who threw down his napkin, shoved away from the table, and got to his feet, all the while glaring at Thomas.
Thomas sat down, baffled.
"I couldn't agree more, Nigel," a rather portly man said, standing up and throwing down his napkin as well.
"Thank you, Gerard," Nigel said with a sniff in Thomas's direction.
Nigel? Gerard? Who were these yahoos?
"Just like a Yank," Gerard continued, "without a thought in his head for loyalty to the Crown!"
Thomas wondered if his hearing had gone right along with his mental stability. "I beg your pardon?"
"Romantic, historic ruins are riot to be tampered with!" Nigel stated.
"Oh, I see," said Thomas. And so he did. Clearly. He was facing a preservation group taking exception to his remodeling plans. Somehow, it just figured.
"Leave him to it," said Gerard with a knowing look at Nigel. "He'll have his just deserts up the way, I'd say." He looked at the older woman. "Coining, Constance?"
"When I've finished," the woman said placidly.
The two men left the dining room without further ado, leaving Thomas looking at the woman named Constance. She had gray hair that looked so solidly plastered in shape that Thomas doubted even the fiercest of storms could move a single strand. She looked neither indignant nor flustered. She merely finished her breakfast, then dabbed her napkin to her lips. Without comment, she pushed back from the table and stood.
Thomas could hardly wait for her assessment of his character, nationality, and/or ripeness for receiving just deserts, all of which seemed rather ironic to him. He'd always prided himself on the ability to blend in with the natives. His dark hair and blue eyes allowed him to pass for several nationalities, and his gift for languages allowed him to pick up accents easily. In addition to that, he went out of his way to be unobtrusive and excessively polite. That usually took care of what his looks and tongue didn't. It looked like all his skill and charm would do nothing to win over this group.
Constance cleared her throat. "We're from the National Trustees
