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

her again, but he suspected it was futile. He had no sense of her being near.

And if she had any sense, she would be far away.

Well, perhaps he had once again done enough damage for the day. He looked at the torch and had no idea how to blow it out. Rubbing on the floor seemed like a good idea, so he did so until even the embers were extinguished. Then he felt his way down the stairs, across the courtyard, and out the front gates. No Highlanders lingered at the barbican to heckle him. No protestors lined the road to sling slander at him.

Ambrose was, however, waiting for him, leaning casually against the outside of the crumbling castle wall.

"Finished, grandson?" Ambrose asked.

Thomas didn't bother to ask why Ambrose had come. Maybe he had heard Thomas shouting from the inn.

They started off down the road.

"I guessed her name," Thomas said.

Ambrose's jaw slipped down. "You did?"

"Didn't you hear me yelling for her to come back from out here?"

Ambrose shook his head. "I just came out to enjoy the evening and thought I'd wait for you." He looked closely at Thomas. "How did you guess? How did you even know where to begin?"

Thomas looked at him helplessly. "I have no idea. I just knew it. I just know things."

"She couldn't have been happy about it."

"She cried again."

Ambrose opened his mouth to speak, but the bellow from behind him stopped all hope of conversation.

"There he goes! After him! To me, lads! The MacDougal!"

Thomas sighed. "My friend, Connor MacDougal." He turned to face the Highland chieftain bearing down on him. "Can I help you?"

"So," Connor said, his chest heaving, "ye thought to escape 'afore I could see to ye, eh? Not this time, ye wee—"

"Connor," Ambrose said wearily, "shut up."

"Shut up?!" Connor drew his sword with a flourish. "I'll be avenged for that, ye wee silly woman! Bring out yer blade, unless ye've forgotten how to wield it."

"You're the bloody woman, MacDougal," Ambrose said, drawing his blade with a great whoosh.

"And ye're a field faery, MacLeod!"

Ambrose looked at Thomas. "You can stay if you like, grandson," he said conversationally. "This won't take long..."

It was amazing how swords that were seemingly made of nothing but thin air could ring so truly. Thomas had the feeling that sword lessons might have to be bumped up on his list of priorities. Just in case the odd laird decided that his head really would make a fine gate post adornment.

He walked down the path, leaving the sounds of battle behind him. He turned at the bend of the road and looked back at the keep. Was she watching? Would she ever speak to him again?

Iolanthe MacLeod.

It was a beautiful name. No doubt it had been her mother to give it to her. One thing puzzled him, though. How could a girl live out a good portion of her life in the close quarters of a Highland castle without anyone knowing her name?

Well, that was a mystery indeed. He suspected that the story would provide him a great many of the answers to the questions he still had about her.

Assuming he could ever pry the story from her. After today, he wondered if she would ever show herself to him again. Maybe the next time, if there was a next time, he could just keep his big mouth shut. Not everything he thought had to come out in words. He could grunt and shake his head. He could just smile and nod.

It would probably be safer that way.

Or maybe he should just get to restoring the castle, keep his hands busy, and his conversation to a minimum. He wondered if it would be too late to root around in Mrs. Pruitt's shed. It was past time he got to work. It would be nice to have at least some part of the castle put together before it got really cold.

He could only hope that the chill would come just from the climate.

He sighed. It looked like another apology was in the offing.

Chapter 10

Iolanthe knelt in the midst of her herb garden, pulling weeds. That she had allowed weeds to grow there in the first place should have given her pause, but she steadfastly ignored any hidden meaning that might have been found in her actions. What she did know was that if she'd had the sense given a thistle, she would have been anywhere but where she was. She would have left the keep the night before and never returned. She would have at least ensconced herself in some bloody nook somewhere to keep herself out of eyesight of any prying soul who might happen by.

A pity that she wasn't so wise, for there she was out in the open, kneeling with her hands in dirt that wasn't real, tending flowers that weren't real, and dreaming of things that could never be real.

Such as a man to love her.

She savagely yanked a particularly nasty interloper out. How much more wise she would have been to have spent her time regretting the moment of weakness she'd had when she'd agreed to let Thomas McKinnon ruin what was left of her poor keep.

Well, should he be bold enough to return, she would merely ignore him. If he spoke to her, she would give him no answer in return. If he approached her, she would give no indication of having marked him. He would be less than nothing to her.

That man who knew things he shouldn't.

"Iolanthe is a lovely name, you know."

She was up on her feet with her hands at Roderick's neck almost before she realized what she was doing. She shoved him, tripped him, and took him down to the dirt, all with her hands still clutching his throat.

"Don't you ever," she said, banging his head smartly against the ground, "ever use that name again!"

"But—" he gurgled.

" 'Tis not yours to use! I did not give it to you."

For all his preening, he was still a man and still