Connor looked at Victoria to see how she was reacting to this piece of particularly bad acting.

She was standing there with her arms folded over her chest, her expression inscrutable. Connor supposed she was afraid to show her true emotions lest the king of Denmark burst into tears.

He had watched her, surreptitiously of course, herd all her actors to their chambers on Sunday. The tongue-lashing she had given them had led to a cessation of all pub visits by those so chastised. Connor suspected that was her intent.

Connor leaned back against a bit of scenery and watched the rest of the play unfold. Or, rather, he watched Victoria watch the remainder of the play proceed. He'd told her he would call her Mistress McKinnon, but he realized, with a start, that such was not how he thought of her.

Victoria.

He wondered, as he watched her watch the play, how she would have been on stage with that flaming red hair and her face a marvel of creation. She likely would have made that bleating sheep Cressida look much like... well, a bleating sheep. Connor wondered how it was Victoria could bear watching Cressida's descent into Ophelia's madness without wanting to slap her briskly a time or two and bid her get on with it. Connor blamed Michael Fellini. He had spent more than enough time instructing Cressida in his particular brand of pitiful acting.

But Victoria merely stood there, impassive, and let the play unfold as it would. And when it was finished, she bid her actors be about their business and prepare for another attempt at the beginning of the following se'nnight.

But only a fool couldn't have seen that she was less than pleased with their efforts.

Most souls scurried past her and bolted for the gates. Fred chatted with her for several minutes and seemed impervious to her measured, even answers. Mary barked out orders to her seamstresses, then came and hopped up onto the stage. She sat on its edge and glanced back at him. She nodded toward the spot next to her. Pleased, Connor walked across the stage and dropped down to sit with her.

"Good morrow to you, lady," he said politely.

"You could call me Granny," she said, with a twinkle in her eye.

"It seems disrespectful, somehow," he said seriously.

"Then call me Mary."

"Lady Mary," Connor countered. " 'Tis all I can do."

"It works for me." She nodded toward Victoria. "She's not pleased."

"Aye, so I gathered."

"We open in less than a week. The cast is still making mistakes."

"I cannot lay those at Victoria's feet," Connor said seriously. "But I can lay them at Fellini's."

Mary nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, that's my feeling, too." She looked at Connor and smiled. "It's too bad you can't give him a little scare."

"Ambrose attempted that and all it served was to make the man soil his trousers," Connor said, feeling his nose turn up of its own accord. "And Ambrose doesn't dare do more, lest the coward turn tail and flee, leaving Victoria without a Hamlet."

"You're certainly friendly of late with the lads down at the inn," Mary said, looking at him assessingly. "Softening toward those dastardly MacLeods?"

"Desperate for a captain for my guard," Connor corrected. "I've managed, in spite of my heavy schedule shadowing Denmark's sniveling king, to weed out several more candidates. I fear I must begin to look farther afield. It reduces me to asking Ambrose for suggestions."

"How awful for you."

"My lady, you've no idea."

Mary laughed. "You are a delightful man. I don't know why Thomas told me to be careful around you."

"Perhaps I threatened to cleave his head in twain once too often," Connor offered.

"Perhaps," she agreed with a smile. "I promise not to tell him how kind you've been. I wouldn't want to

ruin your reputation... Connor." She smiled at him. "May I call you Connor?"

"Is it possible to stop you?"

"I doubt it," she said with a laugh.

"Then you may," he said, feeling himself begin to smile.

It felt quite odd.

Indeed, he wasn't sure the last time he'd done the like.

"Don't show that smile to Vikki," Mary said in a conspiratorial whisper. "At least not until the run is over.

She won't be able to concentrate otherwise. Not that she would say anything, of course. She's quite closed-mouthed about you."

"She is?"

"I imagine you had quite a conversation while I snoozed last Sunday in the sitting room."

He looked at her darkly. "Did you eavesdrop?"

"I did my best," she said unrepentantly, "but an old woman apparently needs her rest. I've been trying to pry details out of her for almost a week."

"And?" Connor demanded. Damn that Victoria McKinnon. No doubt she had blathered on like the

woman she was- "She wouldn't give," Mary said. "I tried guilt, even. Nothing. Nada. Nichts. I've had to carry on,unsatisfied."

Connor blinked. "She said nothing?"

"Nothing. But if you aren't busy later, I'd like all those details myself."

"Shameless old woman," Connor said easily.

"Of course."

He thought he might have smiled. He suspected it might have had something to do with the fact that

Victoria McKinnon could apparently be trusted with his secrets.

Astonishing.

"Perhaps you'll divulge a few of those juicy tidbits later this afternoon," Mary said. "Let's go on a picnic. We need to get Vikki out of here. There's nothing she can do to improve things and she'll only spend the afternoon worrying if I don't do something to distract her-oh, damn it, anyway."

Connor blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Look," Mary said, nodding toward where Victoria stood.

With Michael Fellini.

Connor understood immediately.

"I'll go tell her to buck up," Mary said firmly.

And with that, she hopped off the stage with the energy of a woman half her age and bounded over to where Victoria was being beguiled by that slippery snake.

"Michael, if you'll excuse us," Mary said loudly, putting her hand to her head, "I'm feeling a little faint all of a sudden. I need Vikki to help me back to the inn."

"I'd be more than happy to offer my arm," Fellini said gallantly.

"No, I'm sure you have places to go," Mary said smoothly. "Besides, we're going to have a little picnic and I can't imagine that would interest you-"

"A picnic," Fellini said, sounding as if he'd been invited on an outing by the Queen herself. "I'll carry the basket."

Mary discouraged, she hinted broadly, she even bluntly told him he was not wanted. Connor was unsurprised to see that the man remained unmoved.

Unsurprised, but deeply suspicious.

He would have followed them, but at that moment Ambrose strode into the bailey. He spoke politely to Mary and Victoria, then hopped up onto the stage.

"A bit of training, MacDougal?" he asked.

"I might stir myself for it," Connor said absently. He watched Victoria and her granny leave the bailey. He didn't like leaving them on their own with Fellini, but perhaps they would fare well enough. Mary MacLeod Davidson was fierce and with any hope, she would keep Victoria on task. The wench was far too friendly with Michael Fellini for his taste.

"Hmmm," Ambrose said meaningfully.

Connor looked at him sideways. "Eh?"

Ambrose shrugged. "Idle thoughts."

"Do you have any other kind?"

Ambrose laughed. "Occasionally. But presently, I daresay my thoughts are as they should be. You know, I worry about those two defenseless women being out on their own. Indeed, I think that perhaps I should forgo the pleasures of the sword and accompany them on their outing-"

"I'll go." Connor heard the words come out of his mouth and could not for the life of him think of where they had come from. "I'll go?" he repeated experimentally.

"I don't know," Ambrose said doubtfully. "It isn't as if you have any fond feelings for either of the two. Who's to say that if something untoward happened, you wouldn't leave them to a terrible fate..."

Connor drew himself up. "I am quite fond of them both," he said stiffly. "And if nothing else, my honor would demand that I do what was needful."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed," Connor said. "Allow me to take a moment to let my sword speak for me and argue that point."

"As you will," Ambrose agreed.

Connor found the stage to be a rather handy place to fight. There were boxes stacked here and there, and thrones for Hamlet's mother and uncle, and even a handy coffin that had been pushed aside until it was needed. Connor leaped about the stage, bounding off various props with relish. It had been centuries since he had felt so at home, or so much himself. Aye, this was the kind of fighting for him, where a daring lad had all manner of natural outcroppings to use for better leverage.

"Oh, look, there they go," Ambrose said, pointing suddenly at the front gates. "Oh, and there is Fellini, trailing after them, as well." He turned back to Connor. "But we'll leave them to their fate, I suppose. This is more manly labor here..."

Connor stopped in mid-lunge, pulled back, then resheathed his sword with a mighty thrust. "Perhaps you see it as such, but I do not. What kind of man is it who leaves women to protect themselves when there is breath left in him to heft a sword in their defense?"

He expected to see Ambrose bristle. Instead, the man hastily covered a cough with his hand.

"Too true," Ambrose said quickly. "I admire you for your convictions. Best be off, then, and see to your charges."

Connor frowned fiercely, but that seemingly did not impress the former laird of the clan MacLeod. Then again, those MacLeods were a feisty lot, so perhaps it took quite a bit for Ambrose to take notice.

And then another thought occurred to him. Did Ambrose want him to go watch over Victoria and her grandmother?

Did it matter?

Connor decided that it did not. Truth was truth and the truth of the matter was he was the better warrior. If those two women were to be looked after, 'twas best he be the one to do it.

"Until midnight then, in the kitchen as usual," Ambrose said, resheathing his own sword. "I have a new reader or two." "Ach, by the saints," Connor groaned, "no more tales of those American bairns. If I must read any more about the adventures of Dick, Jane, and that bloody hound Spot-"

"Nay, these are proper Scottish tales. Bloodshed. Mayhem. Victory and glory for Highlanders."

"Then I will be there," Connor said as he jumped off the stage and strode out the front gates.

He followed the little party to a handy spot in a farmer's field. Victoria and Mary lugged the basket while

Fellini strode about artistically, no doubt studying his surroundings for things to use in his portrayal of Hamlet. Connor was hard-pressed not to draw his sword and indulge in a portrayal of an irritated Highland laird.

He didn't, only because he couldn't decide who he should use his sword on first: Victoria because she was staring at Fellini in fascination, or Fellini, just for general purposes. So he made himself comfortable in the shade of a nearby grove of trees and watched the goings on with disgust. Mary ate, but did not seem to enjoy her food. And how could she, with all that overacting going on right there before her.

Victoria didn't eat either, but that was because she was too busy gaping at Fellini and hanging on his every word. Connor was tempted to tell her to tuck in properly to her bangers and mash and tell Fellini to go to hell, but 'twas none of his affair, so he kept his suggestions to himself.

Fellini managed to ingest all the rest of their food, yet keep up a steady stream of conversation that left Connor struggling to stay awake. By the saints, the man was irritating in the extreme. Fellini finally dabbed at his lips with a bit of white cloth, then rose. "Victoria," he said imperiously, "come with me. I have things to discuss with you."