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

Ambrose was in his usual place, leaning negligently against the sideboard. But next to him was a broadsword. A bright, shiny, new broadsword. Thomas looked at his ancestor.

"Nice," he said.

Ambrose snorted. "Nice? Lad, this is perfection. Best not practice with it, though. You're liable to nick Jamie, and then you'll find yourself in his lady's sights."

Thomas slung his bag over his shoulder, then walked across the floor to touch the hilt. He looked at Ambrose.

"You didn't have to do this."

Ambrose only smiled. "I know. But we wanted to, Hugh, Fulbert, and I. Duncan designed it. A man of many talents, that one."

"He certainly is. But who made the blade?"

"A smith in the Highlands." Ambrose smiled. "One quite used to unusual customers, I daresay. But he takes our gold and delivers to our door, so none of us has any complaints."

Thomas ran his finger over the finely tooled sheath. "I don't quite know what to say."

" 'Thank you' will do, my lad. Use it well."

"Thank you. And I'll do my best."

"You'll have to do better than that."

Thomas nodded in acknowledgment, then hesitated, unsure just how he should say good-bye. He looked at Ambrose, but saw nothing but encouragement in the older man's eyes.

"Watch your back," Ambrose said.

Well, maybe that was all that needed to be said. Thomas nodded confidently, then picked up his new sword and headed out the door. He tried not to think about the complete weirdness of the fact that in one hand he was carrying a duffel bag and in the other he was carrying what for all intents and purposes was a medieval broadsword.

He stowed his gear in the car, then jogged down the driveway and out onto the road. It wasn't so much that he was in a hurry as it was he supposed that after two months of not really working out, he'd better start. Who knew what sorts of tortures awaited him up in Scotland?

He slowed to a walk once he reached the road leading to the castle. This was a place that deserved a little more time taken with it. He looked at the surrounding countryside, memorizing the general layout. Six hundred years would have changed the foliage but not the bone structure. With any luck, he'd be slipping in and out of the place—in the past, of course—without any undue problems.

Like finding himself a helpless captive right alongside Iolanthe.

He shook off the negative thought. He'd managed impossible tasks before. He could do this one as well, especially when so much rode on his success.

The customary Highlanders decorated the outside of the castle walls. Thomas nodded to them and received respectful nods and not a few suggestions on what to do to Iolanthe's father, should he meet him. He filed those away for future reference. He wouldn't have thought the garrison would know what he was up to, but maybe word traveled faster than he supposed.

Thomas continued on into the bailey. The MacDougal was standing there with his arms folded across his chest. Thomas was prepared for another onslaught of nastiness.

"Ye willna succeed," the MacDougal said.

Thomas stopped. "You would think," he said slowly, "that you would be overjoyed if I did. If the lady isn't a ghost, the lady isn't here to be top dog. Then you are."

Connor MacDougal opened his mouth, then shut it suddenly. He gave Thomas a glare, then walked off, muttering to himself. Thomas shrugged. The only thing that would have surprised him would have been if the MacDougal had been pleasant. At least the status quo was still the same.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and continued on his way. He checked all the rooms in the tower but found them empty. The garden was nothing but dirt and dead weeds. Thomas turned back and had almost walked out the gates when he realized the one place he hadn't looked.

It was, perhaps, fitting that he look there last.

He walked into the great hall and saw her immediately. It was as if the first time he'd seen her was happening all over again. She stood in the center of the hall with the sun shining down on her, alone. She was wearing some long flowery skirt and a navy sweater—another outfit that looked like it had come straight out of Megan's closet—but that was the only difference. Her hair still hung down her back in long, heavy curls, and the sunlight still fell down on her like fine strands of silk. Thomas stopped just short of her.

"Iolanthe," he said quietly.

She looked up at him but said nothing.

"Are you sure you won't come?"

She shook her head.

Well, there was nothing else to be said then. Thomas smiled gamely.

"I'll see you soon," he said.

She wasn't smiling. "And if I don't remember you?"

"You will remember me. And if you don't, we'll start over again. How could you not help but like me?"

"How can you not help but fall by the sword before you see the inside of my hall?" she returned.

"Have faith."

A single tear slipped down her cheek. "Thomas, after everything we've said, I simply cannot believe that the risk you intend to take is worth it."

He lifted his hand to touch her cheek, then let his arm fall back to his side. "Iolanthe," he said, "it will work. You'll see."

More tears joined the first. He found himself jamming his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to her.

"Oh, Iolanthe," he whispered. "Please, don't."

She dragged her sleeve across her nose and sniffed mightily. "This is not," she said, putting her shoulders back, "how a woman sends her man off into battle."

"Then you have words of encouragement for me?"

"Aye. Duck often."

He laughed in spite of himself. "Thanks. I'll remember that." He paused. "You're sure you won't—"

"Aye, I'm certain."

He wasn't going to push her any more. She knew where her family home was, and if she'd forgotten, he was quite sure Ambrose could help her find the way. He shifted, unsure how one went about leaving behind the