My Heart Stood Still by Lynn Kurland (best book club books of all time .TXT) 📕

all manner of shiny things adorning its top. Promising herself a good look later when she was suitably attired, she fixed Mrs. Pruitt with a scalding look.

"Good woman," she said crisply, "what have you done with my clothing?"

There was a brief chorus of groans behind her. Iolanthe looked behind her and saw that the trio of souls she'd dismissed had fallen to the floor in various stages of incapacitation. Iolanthe turned back to the errant innkeeper.

"My things from the horse," Iolanthe said. "Where have you hidden them?"

"Young Thomas has them," Mrs. Pruitt replied, sounding rather less apologetic than loathe would have liked. "He afeared to wake ye last eve, so he put them in his room. He also said that if ye didn't find anything to suit, you were welcome to go through more of his sister's things."

"He has a sister?"

"Aye, miss. Megan, Lady Blythwood."

"Megan," loathe said, finding the name surprisingly familiar on her tongue. Immediately an image came to mind of a red-haired girl with a smile that greatly resembled—

"Anything wrong?"

Iolanthe turned to her right and saw that smile on the face of the man coming down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom and put his hand over his mouth—no doubt to hide another smile.

"My clothes," Iolanthe demanded. "Where are they?"

The words were scarce from her mouth before she realized how ungrateful she sounded. By the saints, she'd never experienced such finery in the whole of her life and there she was demanding its return? She felt her shoulders begin to sag.

"Forgive me," she said quietly. "I've no right to demand—"

"You have every right," Thomas said. "Come on, and I'll show you where the stuff is. I just didn't want to wake you up last night by emptying saddlebags into your room. Didn't you like what Mrs. Pruitt brought you of Megan's clothes?"

"They were scandalous," she said promptly.

He laughed. "Do you think? I don't imagine anyone's ever said that about Megan's wardrobe. She'll love it."

Iolanthe sighed. In what other way would she show herself ignorant and poorly spoken that morn? "I meant no offense—"

"Io," he said gently, tugging on her elbow to get her to move, "don't apologize. Say what you want, when you want, and to whom you want." He smiled. "I can take it. I'm a MacLeod, too. We're made of stern stock."

"You're a what?" she gasped.

"My mother was a MacLeod. But trust me, you and I are very, very distant cousins. So distant that the McKinnon blood more than makes up for anything that isn't exceptionally distant."

She wasn't sure what was more shocking, that he was possibly kin, or that he was falling all over himself to convince her that he wasn't possibly kin.

What she did know was that he was pulling her up the stairs by her elbow, and it was all she could do to keep her bedclothes draped over herself with any kind of modesty. She waited in the passageway whilst Thomas fetched her gear and put it in her chamber. He stood aside to let her pass inside, then paused by the doorway.

"You know, you could go look in Megan's closet, if you'd rather. She has more than just jeans in there, I'm sure."

"Jeans?"

He tugged on his long-legged trews. "These."

Iolanthe looked at the clothing he'd set on the bed, then back at him. "What I have doesn't suit?"

"What you have suits perfectly," he said firmly. "Don't change a thing. Why don't I wait for you downstairs? We can have breakfast. Then I thought you might like to go for a walk."

"To the castle?"

He nodded. "If you like."

"I likely should."

"Probably."

She clutched the bedclothes to her throat. "I'll dress now."

He smiled and turned to leave the chamber. Iolanthe pursed her lips. She couldn't say much for his trews, but she also couldn't deny that there was something powerfully fetching about the view from—

She stomped across the room and shut the door. The very last thing she needed to be doing was dwelling on Thomas McKinnon's backside, no matter how fetching it might find itself to be. She turned back to the bed and dug through the saddlebag there. She dressed in one of the extra gowns the lady of Artane had seen made for her, put on her soft leather shoes, then had a final look at her hair in the mirror. Short of getting it wet again, there was nothing to be done. She braided it quickly, tied it with a ribbon to match her dress, then left the chamber.

Thomas was indeed waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, apparently talking to himself again.

"Thomas, if you don't cease that kind of babbling," she said patiently, "people will think you're daft. I'm not unconvinced, myself."

He only turned away from looking at one of the side tables, smiled placidly, then led her into the dining chamber.

The meal was unremarkable. She was far too busy watching the other souls at the table who were watching her. She felt exceptionally self-conscious as she chewed, but she wasn't going to allow a few foolish stares to ruin the chance to fill her belly.

It wasn't long before Thomas had excused them and was leading her from the inn. She went, feeling a tingle go through her as she passed through the doorway. She'd done that before. Beyond reason, she knew that she'd passed through that portal—and more than just the night before.

But that was impossible. How could she have? She'd never been so far south in her life.

Unless Thomas's tale was the truth.

The thought of that was almost enough to send her back to bed. She shook her head. It just wasn't possible that she'd lived so many centuries as a ghost.

Was it?

Nay, she could not accept it. Not yet. But she was also no coward, so she walked with Thomas down to the road. He walked beside her easily, with his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans. The day was gloomy, the sky flat as a trencher, and she suspected they would see