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

Perhaps he was too stupid to be afraid. Either that, or he'd seen so many ghosts already that day that he was impervious to being further startled.

Thomas rubbed his hands over his eyes, then looked at Ambrose and took a deep breath.

"You know my sister, Megan?"

"Of course," Ambrose said. "I arranged her marriage to young Gideon de Piaget."

"Of course," Thomas said faintly. He toyed with his glass and the bottle on the table for a moment or two, then looked at Ambrose. "If I ask you a few questions," he began, "will you answer them?"

"Ask all you like," Ambrose said easily. "I've naught but time on my hands and a love for a goodly bit of talk."

Iolanthe caught herself before she snorted again. Ambrose always told the truth, and never more than when he said he loved to talk. She sat down on the little boot bench by the door and settled in for a long evening.

"Who is she?"

"Who is whom?"

"Herself up the way."

Iolanthe pursed her lips. Ah, here was the question indeed. Perhaps he intended to have answers as to how to rid himself of her so he could be about his work with his accursed tools.

"And why, lad, would you be wanting to know that?" Ambrose asked.

"Well," Thomas began slowly, "I met her today. And I have no idea what came over me."

All the fatal flaws in your character? she wanted to ask.

"She does have that effect on men," Ambrose murmured into his cup.

Iolanthe glared at him. She was quite sure he felt the heat of it because he rubbed the side of his neck absently.

"Well, actually I do know what came over me: a gargantuan headache. It wasn't much of an excuse for how rude I was to her, but—"

Aye, "but," she thought sourly. Here comes the excuse, indeed.

"I looked at her, standing there in the sunlight, and... well..."

My wee brain caught fire and left me with no wits, she finished with a snort. She almost wished he could hear her thoughts and know just what a reprehensible oaf she found him.

"I read this poem once," he said. " 'Loveliness shone around her like light/Her steps were the music of songs.' " He looked up at Ambrose. "Do you know it?"

"I don't, lad."

"It's Lachlan MacDonald," Thomas said. "I couldn't think at all when I was looking at her, but that's what came to me once I could think straight again. It's a fair description of her, don't you think, those lines of verse?"

Iolanthe couldn't have cared less if Saint Michael himself had been wielding the pen when those words had been put to parchment. She could only gape at Thomas in surprise. He was using such to describe her?

"Then you found her beautiful," Ambrose prompted.

Thomas shook his head. "No."

Iolanthe was almost relieved to find that she hadn't misjudged his character. He was simply without redemption. Flawed. Unpleasant. Besides, why would he have found her beautiful? She knew the truth. She'd seen her own visage—

"Beautiful is too tame a word," Thomas said, interrupting her thoughts. "She was ... stunning."

Iolanthe was sure she hadn't heard him aright. Stunning? What meant he by that foolishness? That she was so ugly that she left him gasping with horror? She looked at him narrowly. He wasn't gasping in horror now. In truth, he was smiling—and the sight of that was almost her undoing. By the saints, he was a handsome man. When he smiled, she could almost forget his lack of character.

"I'd walked into that hall expecting to find another Connor MacDougal, or perhaps a dozen of him, facing me, so when I saw her, I was, well, speechless. Which for me is a rare condition."

Would that it afflicted you more often, she thought, but she couldn't muster up any venom to go with the thought. If he wanted to think her beautiful, poor fool, then he could, she supposed. She was too surprised that such a thing would occur to him to do much but stare at him, dumbfounded.

"And then what happened?" asked Ambrose. "I take it you found your tongue."

"I told her my name, and she wasn't exactly impressed. Things get fuzzy from there, and I'm not sure quite what I said. My head was killing me, and it was all I could do to stand up. I'm fairly sure I was very rude."

He paused. Iolanthe supposed a more foolish woman might have thought he looked almost repentant.

"I made her cry."

"I daresay they were tears of rage, not hurt," Ambrose said placidly. "Herself has a fiery temper."

"I owe her an apology."

"I'd say you do."

"If she'll listen."

Ambrose shifted a little uncomfortably. "Well, I daresay you may not have her full attention the first time. I'd keep at it, were I you."

Thomas looked at him closely. "Then you know her? You know her name?"

"I know her," Ambrose said.

"What's her name?"

"Don't know it," Ambrose said evasively.

Thomas blinked. "You don't?"

"It's something of a secret of hers," Ambrose said.

"Hmmm," Thomas said with a frown. "Well, then what do you know about her?"

Ambrose smiled into his cup. Iolanthe saw him do it and knew he was about some kind of mischief. She was half tempted to urge him on. Perhaps he would startle the fool into some sort of fatal heart condition.

Then again, perhaps she should bid Ambrose cease with his games. If he chatted Thomas up long enough, the oaf would spout more of that ridiculous nonsense he'd been blathering on about before.

About her being lovely, and all.

"I know her father," Ambrose was saying.

"And?"

Ambrose only smiled.

"Are you going to make me beg?" Thomas asked.

Ambrose stretched with his cat's smile, and Iolanthe shook her head. Here came the killing blow. The man hadn't held the chieftainship for so long without having a mighty head for strategy. She could scarce wait to hear what he was going to say to destroy Thomas.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Ambrose asked.

"I'm sure."

Ambrose paused dramatically. "Well, lad ..."

Thomas waited. Then he frowned. "Yes?"

"Well, she'd be your ... aunt."

Thomas stood