"She needs an escort. Apparently, you're it."

"You know," Connor said conversationally, "I can wield a knife from your world. It would make quite a

large hole in your chest." "Then you'd have to deal with Iolanthe, Victoria, and Fellini. I'd go wait for Vic and stay out of harm's way if I were you."

Connor snorted. "You have a reprieve, not a stay."

Thomas made him a little bow. "Good of you. Now, I'll go find a doctor. Let's leave the heap out here

until we absolutely can't any longer. I don't think he'll get too sunburned. It is England, after all."

Connor left him to it. He made Jennifer a low bow, thanked her for her company, thanked Jamie for his

kind words, bestowed a hearty glare on Thomas, then walked around the side of the inn, where he could wait for Victoria in peace. The saints preserve him. He could attempt to fool her kin, but there was no fooling his heart. He was lost...

Chapter 22.

What a difference a day made.

Or two, or maybe three. Victoria yawned as she opened the library door and peered into the darkened entryway. She was having the same feeling of jet lag she'd had on her initial arrival in England. Maybe time-traveling was harder on a person than advertised. Jamie never looked anything but perky and well-rested, but she suspected that there wasn't much that slowed him down. And he probably had spent his time in Elizabethan England frowning away bad guys instead of trying to corral a feverish, whining nutcase. And a bombastic, feverish nutcase at that.

And speaking of that nutcase, Michael Fellini was upstairs recuperating. Bombastically, if anyone cared. It was enough to drive all sensible guests from the inn. The exodus had already begun the day before. Jamie had left for Scotland, no doubt anxious to be back home amid the heather instead of on the border amid the chaos. Victoria's parents and her grandmother had gone with him to take in the sights. Thomas and Iolanthe hadn't ventured that far. They'd gone on a little sightseeing trip to Artane, a castle on the coast. They seemed to have been unusually eager to see it-and for Iolanthe and her pregnant self, that was saying something. Victoria had wanted to get to the bottom of it, but she'd had her hands so full keeping Michael under control that she hadn't been able to investigate as she would have liked. Jennifer had taken a train south to London, no doubt to regale Megan with all sorts of tales Megan would immediately and completely believe without question.

That those tales might be true was really beyond the scope of the argument at present.

Whatever the case, it left Victoria all alone in the inn, and for the first time in her life she wished she

weren't. Alone, that is. Alone with ghosts. Alone with ghosts that were most definitely not going to

become anything but ghosts in the foreseeable future.

She paused. Perhaps she wasn't as alone as she thought. Yes, there he went again. The lunatic upstairs to whom someone had mistakenly given a little servants' bell.

"Doesn't anyone down there hear me?" a faint, though surprisingly strong voice called plaintively.

Victoria jumped at a movement to her left. There, in the gloom, hovered Mrs. Pruitt's face, lit frombelow by a single weak light, like something out of a spooky movie. "I think," Mrs. Pruitt said in a low voice, "that I might have to stab meself an actor." "I didn't give him the bloody bell," Victoria pointed out. "Dr. Morris told me to," Mrs. Pruitt said. She paused. "I'm finding the good doctor less attractive by the ring." She considered that for a moment or two longer. "Distressing, as I found him quite to me taste a few days ago."

"I thought you were sweet on Ambrose," Victoria said.

"I'm hedging me bets," Mrs. Pruitt said.

Then she smiled.

It wasn't a pretty sight in the glow of the flashlight.

"I might," she continued, "just have to call the good doctor and have him sedate the patient. For his own good." She patted her hair self-consciously. "How do I look?"

"Ravishing," Victoria said promptly. "Even better if you can get Michael to shut up. He's ruining everyone's sleep."

"I'll call the doctor," Mrs. Pruitt said, pulling a mobile phone out of her pocket and heading upstairs with it. Victoria wondered briefly if she intended to bean Michael with the phone, or phone the good doctor and let him do the honors. She stood in the middle of the entryway and listened closely.

The door opened.

Complaints wafted downward.

There was a screech cut artistically short.

Apparently Mrs. Pruitt was wielding her cell phone with great success. Victoria had no complaints. In

fact, she was sick of complaints, and considering that's all she'd had from Michael for the last indeterminate amount of time, she was happy to have him silenced for a bit. Ignoring the fact that a Kathy Bates Misery moment might be taking place upstairs, she moved toward the kitchen for a little something to help her sleep.

She walked through the dining room and paused at the sound of low voices coming from the kitchen. She didn't hear any cursing or the loud, declarative type of thing that bespoke insults being delivered between Highlanders or between Highlander and late medieval Englishman, so she assumed it was safe to enter.

But as she stood at the door, she heard the strains of something far more interesting than threats of bodily harm. " 'My hour is almost come, when I to sulphurous and tormenting flames must render up myself," Ambrose quoted.

" 'Alas! poor ghost,'" said Connor sympathetically.

Victoria felt her jaw slide a little south. Ambrose and Connor, reading lines?

" 'Pity me not,'" Ambrose said, " 'but lend thy serious hearing to what I shall unfold.'"

" 'Speak, I am bound to hear.'" Connor snorted. "And that, my laird, is the first and last time you shall

hear me beg to hear you blather on at length without interruption."

"My good Connor," said Ambrose, "I am only repeating the lines of the play."

"At least you are not bleating them like that pitiful excuse for a ghost Victoria finds herself saddled with. I

vow, if he bellows adieu once more in that groaning fashion, I will clout him over the head with a dirk myself!"

"Then I thank you, lad, for the compliment on my acting. Let us continue, shall we?"

"Aye," Connor said, "but let us make haste in this run-through. The night will not last forever and I wish Victoria to have no idea that I waste my time thusly."

There was silence for quite a lengthy period of time. Victoria wondered if she'd made a noise to alert them to her presence, or if Connor was pausing to count all the reasons why spending his night practicing Shakespeare was less useful than grinding guardsmen into the dust. "Connor, my lad," Ambrose said slowly, "this is not a waste of time. You've learned a goodly number of Hamlet's lines-a not unworthy accomplishment. You'll find that it will aid you in learning to read them.

And there is more to a full, rich life than the ability to best any soul on the field." "I daresay," Connor said with a snort. "I daresay," Ambrose countered. "Young William Shakespeare was full of large, profound thoughts." "And many bawdy ones." "A happy marriage of both. Soon, you will be able to read all his plays yourself. Time spent with great thinkers is never wasted. Consider what a connoisseur of human nature he was. How much time you will save when you can label a man a Rosencrantz, or an Iago, or a MacBeth and be done with them." Then Ambrose made a dismissive noise. "But what am I lecturing you for? You have a keen eye and a mighty intellect, else you would not have learned so many lines already. Victoria will be impressed."

There was another pregnant pause.

"Think you?"

"A man who can quote Shakespeare is always in fashion."

"In court circles, perhaps, but not on a windswept moor. But I am not above learning a thing or two if it

will aid me in my reading. Let us continue."

Victoria backed away, then backed into something solid. She turned around and screamed.

Mrs. Pruitt stood there, flashlight under her chin again.

"Only me," she whispered.

The lights went on in the dining room and Victoria whirled around to find Connor, Ambrose, Hugh, and

Fulbert in a little cluster at the kitchen door.

"Oh," Mrs. Pruitt purred.

Ambrose disappeared.

"Why does he do that?" Mrs. Pruitt asked.

Victoria turned around and gave her a fake smile. "Maybe he thinks you've transferred your affections to

Dr. Morris. You know those Highland lairds."

"I would certainly be happy to." She sighed and clicked off her flashlight. "And now look; there go the

other ones. Perhaps they've not the spine to face a mature woman with a mind of her own."

"I'm sure that's probably it. What did Dr. Morris say?"

"He's on his way." Mrs. Pruitt patted her hair. "I'm off to do me curls."

"Still hedging your bets?" Victoria asked.

"Och, aye, lass."

Victoria watched her turn and make tracks out of the dining room. Then she went back to see if anyone

was left in the kitchen. The stove was lit, the lights were on, and the four ghosts in question sat around the table, playing cards. Interesting. "A good game?" she asked. "Quite," Ambrose said. "It passes the time pleasantly between sword fights." Victoria looked at Connor. "You're chummy with these three." "I'm regaling them with tales of Elizabeth's London." Connor said, stroking his throat gingerly as if he feared his lie might get stuck there. "Quite interesting." "I'll bet. Mrs. Pruitt's off to wait for the doctor to come and sedate Michael."

"How lovely," Ambrose said. "He is rather ruining our game with his endless complaining."

"Well, you boys don't lose your shirts gambling here," Victoria said, backing out of the kitchen. "Good night."

"Good night," came the rather casual chorus.

Victoria hadn't been a damned good actress herself without good reason. She made noises as if she walked across the room when in reality she remained by the door.

"Lose our shirts?" Fulbert huffed. "What the devil does that mean?"

"Nothing personal," Ambrose said. "A term from the Old West. Apparently Victoria doesn't want us

gaming overmuch. Now, let us put away our ruse and be about our true work. Connor, where werewe?" "The ghost was on the verge of describing his own murder. I do not like this part, by the way." "You're not reciting the lines," Ambrose said pointedly, "you're just listening." "I'm not all that fond of listening to this part," Connor grumbled.