decided perhaps 'twas better to let that go. He took a deep breath. "If I had a life to give, I would protect her with it. As it is, I will do everything in my power to keep her safe." He glanced at Jennifer. "I will protect your youngest sister, as well."

The thought crossed his mind that it would have been passing convenient if he could have had some sort of change wrought upon him as he went through that time gate, a change that would have restored to him the life he lost through treachery.

He looked at Thomas. "I will do all within my power."

"I know you will."

Connor rose, bowed to Jennifer, nodded to the men remaining there, and left the kitchen. He wandered

through the dining room and took up a post in the entry way to wait for Victoria to finish her preparations for the day. If only a trip into the past might be that which would give him back an existence he could bear... He bowed his head. The saints pity him for wanting it so much.

Chapter 17.

Victoria stood in the inner bailey of the castle, faint from the surprisingly intense morning sunlight, and watched Hamlet progress from beginning to deathly end.

She sincerely hoped it wasn't an omen.

Michael's understudy was doing surprisingly well. It helped that he was even more handsome than Michael and that Cressida couldn't seem to keep her eyes off him. She descended quite happily into madness for him.

Fred was directing. He was not at all pleased by the turn of events, but he'd acquiesced, especially after she'd given him the choice of being in charge of the actors or being in charge of the costumes. He'd accepted her scribbled-on script with loud complaints, but he'd done it, and she couldn't have asked for more than that. But the fact that she was deserting her play in its perfect location two days before it was supposed to open was indicative of the way her life was going at present.

Not under her control.

She didn't want to say she was getting used to it. Resigned might have been a better word-resigned to the thought that in the morning she was going to be heading to Renaissance England, where her grandmother and Michael had supposedly gone. At least she had the proper costumes for the trip. Hopefully, none of the Elizabethans would get close enough to her to see the Velcro.

She sighed and walked away to go lean against the wall in the shade. She watched her cast and crew pack up. She'd made a bogus announcement about having to go to London and be interviewed by the authorities. Apparently, Michael had also been called away on important business. She hoped to be back in time for opening night. She had announced that she was assuming Michael would be back as well, which had caused his understudy (and Cressida) serious disappointment.

She was lying so often and so convincingly, she was starting to worry about herself.

There was a little paranormal kerfuffle over by the castle gates. Victoria watched Connor attempt to whip his troops into shape before he bellowed at them in disgust and strode across the bailey toward her.

He was, she had to admit, quite an impressive sight.

He would have made a magnificent Hamlet.

She nodded to herself firmly over that observation. After all, how could she be blamed for looking at the man as potential star material? It was what she did best.

But, generally, leading men did not leave her wishing desperately for something to drink to cure the sudden dryness of her mouth and inability to swallow normally.

Connor looked down at her with a frown. "Nervous?"

"Me?" she rasped. "Never. I'm always up for a challenge. Advance is my favorite word, followed closely by impossible, ill-advised, and insane. Does that do it for you?"

"Hmmm," was all he said.

Victoria was afraid to say anything else because if she opened her mouth again, she just might blurt out that she was growing far too accustomed to Connor's solid, dependable companionship. Her life was completely unraveling around her and apparently her North Star was a grumpy, medieval highland laird.

She shouldn't have been surprised.

"I suppose I can understand your unease," he continued conversationally. "The unknown is daunting. I was not unaccustomed to a feeling of apprehension each time I went into battle."

She looked at him and wondered how it was any group of Highlanders managed not to pee their kilts and run off the other way with their tails between their legs whenever Connor MacDougal walked onto the field.

"You?" she managed.

He paused. "Small amounts of apprehension, of course." "Imagine what everyone else was feeling." "Likely something akin to unease," he conceded. "In my case, I found that such discomfort forced me to take greater care than I might have otherwise. I imagine that your actors feel something like it before they perform. Or you, when the play is about to begin." "Somehow, what we're contemplating makes opening night look like a trip to the bathroom." He snorted. It sounded almost like a laugh. "I think you laughed," she said. "Never." "Connor, if I'm going to die in Renaissance England, I would like to see you smile once before I do." "You won't die if I can prevent it." "You're changing the subject." "Aye."

She sighed. "At least you're honest."

"If death is near, I will smile for you. But do not hold out much hope for that. We'll fetch your granny and be back in time for the curtain to part here."

"Michael, too," she reminded him.

He pursed his lips. "Aye, well, I suppose we'll need to look for him, as well. I daresay we'll find him

wherever we find our good Master Shakespeare, wouldn't you think? Or perhaps not. I suggest we first try the locales where overacting is appreciated."

She suspected he might be right. Unfortunately, she couldn't, in good conscience, leave Michael to his

performing stunts. She could only hope that the job would be done quickly and she would get back home with her runaways intact.

She didn't want to contemplate the alternative.

She spent the rest of the day trying not to think about what she was planning. By the time night had fallen, she had finished up her theater business and raided the costume shed for costumes that seemed appropriate for two lads journeying through sixteenth-century London. Connor was shown several alternatives, which he managed to recreate without trouble, though he did insist on changing his ghostly garb in private. The first time he came back into the sitting room in poufy trousers and a velvet doublet, Thomas almost choked to death.

"Something less conspicuous," Victoria suggested.

He glared at her, stomped from the room, then came back a moment or two later dressed in more conservative, guild-member gear. No poufs, less brocade, and fewer baubles. It actually suited him quite well.

"Perfect," she pronounced.

"What it does is make me your servant," he groused, gesturing to her finery.

"Not by much. I will trade you, if you like."

"Trade what for what?" her father asked as he walked into the sitting room. He swept them all with a

look. "Are you all fitting yourself in understudy roles?"

Victoria thought it best not to say anything.

Dinner dragged on far too long and she excused herself as soon as was polite. She didn't usually care

about being polite, but she thought that the less her actors were panicked about the upcoming events, the

better. All she needed was to have the whole gaggle of them taking flight. She used her parents' bathroom, bid them a good night, allowed her father to chalk her red eyes up to opening night stress, and kissed her mother good night.

Mary was unfooled. "I know what you're doing," she murmured.

Victoria would have stopped and gaped, but her mother continued to propel her across the room.

"Be careful," she said as she walked Victoria to the door.

Victoria paused in the doorway. "Have you been talking to Thomas?"

Helen shook her head. "Ambrose."

"Oh, Mom, not you, too."

Helen smiled. "It's in the blood, love. And I appreciate the sacrifice you're making for your granny."

"I'll be okay."

"Connor will see to it," Helen said confidently.

"Hmmm," was all Victoria could manage as she nodded, then walked away down the hall. She didn't

bother to ask how her mother knew what Connor might or might not be capable of. For all she knew,

her mother had been grilling him while Victoria had been working out the final production kinks. She continued to reflect on the complete improbability of the whole escapade until she reached the downstairs and had made her way to the library door.

Connor stood there, looking as real and corporeal as any man she'd ever seen. Maybe it would work.

Then again, since she was the one who had to turn the door handle to get them inside, maybe things would be a little dicey after all. She pulled her robe tighter around herself and sat down in front of the fire he made with a flick of his wrist.

"How do you do that?" she asked, marveling.

" 'Tis just my own artistic nature venting itself in the building of illusionary fires, the creation of

high-quality ghostly ale, and designing of incomparable imaginary gear for the Renaissance gentleman with less than he might like in his purse."

She laughed. "You've been consorting with actors for too long."

"I've become a windbag," he agreed, sitting down across from her. "I vow my men hardly knew what to

make of me this morning. My frowns have given way to too much verbiage. I'll need to remedy it eventually."

"I like it, actually. Especially when you go on in English and not Gaelic. My head hurts less that way." "I don't suppose you've the stomach for it tonight, do you?" he asked, tilting his head to look at her. "Or do you need a distraction from tomorrow's journey?"

She sighed and looked into the fire. "It just seems so impossible. I saw Jamie disappear, then I saw him come into the dining room several days later dressed in clothes that weren't his. I've sat in the kitchen with my ancestors and chatted about current events." She looked at him. "And then there is you. I sometimes wonder if I'm dreaming it all. And perhaps I don't need to tell you that I'm not one to waste much time dreaming."

He only stared back at her, solemn and silent.

"Don't you feel that way sometimes?" she asked wistfully.

"The last eight centuries have felt like a dream," he answered slowly. "But for me, I feel as if I have just

recently awakened."

And then he looked at her.

And she wasn't sure if she should be happy or devastated that he was a ghost.

"Shakespeare will do that to you," she managed.

He grunted at her, then looked into the fire. "I imagine he does many things, but this is a change he

cannot claim credit for." He looked at her then, started to say something, then shook his head. " 'Tis late, woman. You should be abed. Who knows when we will sleep next?"

"I'll try."

"I could sing."