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

Dinner had gone off without a hitch. Iolanthe had sat next to him, looking as corporeal as he, but not touching a thing on her plate. The Preservation Trio, as he'd come to affectionately call them, had managed to down their dinner yet gape at her at the same time. Finally, one bold soul had asked her why she wasn't eating.

"Weel," she'd said, her accent as thick as pea soup, "ye ken hoo it is wit' a soor stoomach, aye?"

There had been no more questions, but Thomas hadn't had any trouble imagining what sort of speculation their strategy session that night would include. It was possible they could have thought her nothing but a simple village lass he'd picked up on his way home.

But how could anyone with two eyes in their head think that?

After supper, Thomas had retired to the sitting room with Iolanthe, promising her a thorough explanation of how far Everest was off the ground. Midway through trying to describe to her just how high 29,000 feet was, he remembered the pictures in his suitcase. He had grabbed them, then returned to the sitting room only to find that he was no longer alone with the woman of his dreams.

Ambrose and Hugh were there, chatting pleasantly with her. Thomas had found that his chair had been appropiated by Fulbert de Piaget, Megan's uncle-in-law—the usual generations removed. Thomas had spent a ticklish moment or two glaring at the man pointedly before the shade relinquished the chair with several uncomplimentary comments about Highlanders in general and their descendants in particular. Thomas had resumed his seat with satisfaction, then looked to his left at the woman whose company he'd intended to have all to himself. So he didn't have her undivided attention anymore. He could spend the evening looking at her, and maybe that would be enough.

She sat in an equally comfortable chair in the sitting room, with her long, slender fingers resting on the padded arms. Her dress was the same simple gown he'd always seen her in, but her hair tumbled freely over her shoulders and hung down in tight, heavy curls. The firelight played softly over her face, and he suddenly wished he had the talent to draw something besides very rough blueprints.

She should be painted, he decided. Just like this. With her features at peace and a soft light bathing her in an Raphaelesque glow. She radiated stillness and tranquillity.

"Why, ya bloody fool," she snapped suddenly, "what are ye blatherin' on about?"

Well, most of the time. Thomas put his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Heaven help him if Iolanthe thought he was laughing at her. He'd already heard her give one of the other occupants of the sitting room the sharper side of her tongue.

"Ye silly girl," Fulbert said stiffly, "what would ye know about it?"

"I'm a Highlander!" she exclaimed. "And you and your bloody cohorts have been tryin' to steal my country for the past... um ... How long has it been?" she demanded, turning to Thomas.

"Eight... nine hundred years?" he offered.

She looked unconvinced—and irritated.

"Maybe longer," he amended. "Much longer. I'm sure of it."

The discussion—if that's what it could be termed—only deteriorated from there. Thomas looked at the other members of their little after-dinner party. No one seemed to find the name-calling and shouting to be anything out of the ordinary. Then again, Ambrose was probably used to the bickering. Hugh was alternately wringing his hands in distress and glaring at Fulbert de Piaget as if he meant to do him intense bodily harm.

Fulbert, who was apparently Ambrose's brother-in-law by some unsavory quirk of fate (Iolanthe's characterization, seconded rather heartily by Ambrose himself), was an Englishman to the core and had no trouble defending his national pride. Every now and again, he would look at Thomas as if he expected some sort of aid to come from that quarter, then he'd mutter something about "bloody Colonists" and hop back into the verbal fray by himself.

It eventually came down to Hugh leaping up and unsheathing his sword with a flourish, Fulbert jumping to his feet and casting his mug into the fire before he drew his own blade, and Ambrose bidding them take their quarrel outside. Once they'd gone, Ambrose looked at Iolanthe.

"Nothing like a bit of stimulating conversation, eh, daughter?"

"Aye, my laird," Iolanthe said, stretching happily. "Stirs the blood quite pleasantly."

Thomas shook his head with a wry smile. Maybe after living in times where battle was the norm, a bit of enthusiastic talk was nothing but a diversion. Then he paused and frowned.

"You aren't her father," he said to Ambrose. "I thought—"

"She could use a father, don't you think?" Ambrose said. "Who better than me to take on the task?"

Thomas looked at Iolanthe. "Where's your father? Or do you know?"

"Or is that an ill-mannered question?" she asked.

He held up his hands in surrender. "You're right. Sorry. I'm just curious."

"Been bitten by the search-for-your-ancestors bug?" Ambrose asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Well, as a matter of fact..." Thomas began, then he looked at Ambrose suspiciously. "How would you know?"

"Who do you think gave you your ideas?"

Thomas wondered how much of the remainder of his life he would spend with his mouth open, gaping in surprise at something this crowd said. Judging by the number of times he'd been left speechless already that afternoon, it would probably be a good chunk.

"You didn't," Thomas said. "You couldn't have."

"I whispered a suggestion or two whilst you slept."

"I thought those dreams were because of bad fish!"

Fulbert appeared suddenly out of thin air with his chest puffed out. "Now, if we wants to talk about dreams, let me recount me visit to that Dickens chap."

"Dickens?" Thomas repeated weakly.

Fulbert looked at him archly. "You think he came up with the idea for those ghostly visits on his own? 'Twere me visits that gave him the inspiration for his story. And if I'd had me way, I'd have had the credit for it."

Ambrose sighed deeply. "Leave off with your