"Make do," Ambrose suggested. "Think on why you're doing this and let us be about it."

Victoria snuck away before she could hear any more of Connor's grumbles. She walked back to the library without encountering either Mrs. Pruitt or Dr. Morris. She sat down in one of the chairs in front of the fire and closed her eyes briefly.

Was it possible that three days ago she had been in another world with no running water and no toilets but really great theater? And now, there she was, in her sister's comfortable inn, safe and well-fed.

With theater going on in the kitchen.

Amazing.

Now, if she could just assure herself of good theater at Thorpewold. Michael's understudy was doing a great job, but Victoria couldn't help but chafe at the fact that Michael was lying uselessly upstairs, when he should have been doing his job up at the castle. She had contracted to pay him for a certain number of performances. If he couldn't be bothered to show up, she wouldn't be bothered to pay him.

Or, at least she thought she wouldn't be bothered. She could hardly bear to think about what Bernie the Bard-maker would do if she dared.

She contemplated this for several more minutes until she heard a discreet knock on the front door. Well, at least she would have one distraction removed for a while. What would happen when Michael was more himself was another thing to worry about, but later, when she had to.

She sighed. Michael would need hand-holding, and though she was tempted to relegate that job to Mrs. Pruitt, she was half afraid to do so, lest Michael find himself with more injuries than he'd started with.

She rose and went to make certain her star would survive his medical attention.

Chapter 23.

In my heart there was a kind of fighting that would not let me sleep...

Connor had finished the rest of his lines in the last scene, but those were the words that haunted him as he listened to the rest of his little band of players do their final bits. There was truth in what Shakespeare had written, just as Ambrose had said. But of late, in his heart, there was very little fighting indeed.

Longing was what had taken the fighting's place.

He sat down at the table and conjured up the final page of Shakespeare's play of life and death. He was, quite frankly, surprised by how many of the words he could read. Apparently his time in the inn's kitchen with Ambrose hadn't been time wasted. If nothing else, he was beginning to read things that pleased him.

It did little to assuage the sorry condition of his poor heart, but perhaps he should have been grateful for what he did have instead of longing for what he didn't.

Hugh and Fulbert sat down at the table with hefty tankards of ale and began discussing the strengths and weaknesses of their performances.

"Nay, you were not so bad," Fulbert conceded to Hugh. "You have that annoying, cloying superiority that so suits Polonius."

Hugh's ale sloshed over the side of his mug with the force of him slamming it down. "I beg your pardon!

I was playing the part-and quite well, I'd say."

"And I say you don't need to act," Fulbert said, shoving aside his own ale and glaring at Hugh. "And I say as well that if you tell me once more how it is I'm to play Claudius, I will draw my sword and teach you a thing or two about kingly executions!"

Hugh leaped to his feet, his chair crashing down behind him. "Draw your sword and let us see who has more nobility in their breeding!"

"Outside," Ambrose barked.

Hugh stopped in middraw and looked at Fulbert. "I suppose the garden will suit."

Fulbert shrugged and had one last gulp of ale. "Well enough, as usual." He gestured politely to the door.

"After you."

"Nay, you."

"I insist."

"I wouldn't dream-"

"Go!" Ambrose bellowed.

Hugh and Fulbert went. Connor sighed and put his book away. He fussed with his own ale for several minutes before he looked at Ambrose.

"Why did you choose me?"

Ambrose blinked. "Choose you? You mean to play Hamlet in our little company?"

"Nay," Connor said impatiently. "Why did you choose me for Victoria?"

Ambrose smiled faintly. "Well, she needed a man equal to her in ferocity and determination. 'Twas a certainty no man with those qualities existed in Manhattan. You were the obvious choice."

Connor glared at him. "Damn you."

"Damn me?" Ambrose asked in surprise. "Why?"

"Because you've thrown us together and now look where we are!"

"You weren't without choice," Ambrose said placidly. "Neither was Victoria."

"She hasn't made a choice."

"Hasn't she?" Ambrose shrugged. "I daresay you shouldn't decide that until you've asked her."

Connor would have drawn his sword and taken Ambrose to task, but he was too sick at heart. "She has made no choice," he said flatly. "I daresay what she feels for me is... friendship." By the saints, even saying the word made him want to grind his teeth. "Unfortunately, that is not the case for me."

"Well," Ambrose said, "what are you going to do about that?"

"I daresay stabbing you repeatedly each and every day for a few centuries might keep me occupied."

Ambrose laughed. "As entertaining as that might be for you, perhaps you should consider other

alternatives. I wouldn't discredit Victoria's feelings-or your own. Why don't you take yourself off to the keep and see if you can't discover a way to make both your lives tolerable. Woo her. Befriend her. Make her life better than it was when she came here with only Michael Fellini to love."

"The saints preserve her," Connor said grimly. He rose and looked at Ambrose with a scowl. "You and your matches. Have you never considered that some of them might be attempted where they should not be?"

"Aye."

Connor folded his arms over his chest. "But you've no apology to offer?"

Ambrose looked up at him, untroubled. "Are you worse off than you were at the beginning of the

summer? Have you not made friendships that you did not have before? Have you not found a purpose to your days that did not exist before Victoria came?"

"I am still lacking a bloody captain," Connor grumbled.

"Aye, well, there isn't a man alive or dead equal to that duty, so perhaps that is not a good way to measure your success."

Connor pursed his lips. It was the best way to disguise the fact that he couldn't deny that Ambrose was right. He had formed a friendship with Victoria's granny. He had passed the occasional moment in less-than-unpleasant conversation with Thomas McKinnon. He had even found comrades in the Boar's Head Trio-a thing he never would have suspected could be possible. He had learned to read. He had discovered that there was a world that existed outside himself and his fury over his own life cut short.

And he had met Victoria.

For that alone, he would be forever indebted to the shade before him.

He grunted. "I'm off to the keep. I have things to see to before the sun rises."

Ambrose raised his cup. "Until sunset, then."

Connor left the kitchen before he did the unthinkable and thanked Ambrose for his bloody interference.

He walked up to the keep in predawn calm, surprisingly light of heart and step. His life, such as it was,

could have been worse. It had been worse. He hoped it wouldn't get worse than it had been. He walked into the keep just as the sky was beginning to lighten. There was no activity in the inner bailey. Well, except for the man up on the stage, striding about, reciting his lines with vigor.

Connor swallowed his surprise and walked over to the stage to look up at Roderick St. Claire, who was dressed in a rather finely made costume and seemed to be perfectly comfortable exhibiting his acting talents, which were not unworthy.

Roderick paused, then turned and bowed. "My laird."

"What are you doing?"

"Playing Laertes," Roderick said, straightening. "How do you find it?"

"Surprisingly good," Connor said honestly. "I would not be unhappy to be in the same production with

you."

Roderick stumbled backward in apparent shock. It took him several moments to regain his feet, and

during that time Connor wondered if he had been that unpleasant to be around for all those centuries.

He suspected that he had been.

Roderick straightened his clothing. "Unfortunately for me, I've no connections with any who might be in

this business of acting. I would be content with even a few suggestions from one who might know her...

er... his business."

Connor considered. He considered quite a few things, actually.

He wanted to woo Victoria, the saints pity him. Roderick wanted to meet Victoria. Roderick, in spite of his flounces, was a man of his time and well-versed in the wooing practices of Victorian England. Surely those would translate well enough into modern times.

Perhaps Ambrose's suggestions weren't without merit after all.

"I'll introduce you to Victoria McKinnon," Connor offered suddenly, before he thought better of it.

Roderick smiled, looking as delighted as Connor had ever seen him. "Would you? Would you indeed?

Why, that is simply capital of you, old man." "If you give me wooing ideas." Roderick gaped for a moment, then shut his mouth with a snap. "Of course. Yes, yes, of course I will.

Immediately." He sat down on the edge of the stage. "Let us discuss where you've been in regards to

women, shall we?" Connor's first instinct was to draw his sword and let it tell the tale, but he did want a few answers out of the fop, so he ignored the insult to his dignity. He hopped up on the stage next to his Victorian compatriot and decided to do his best to answer the question honestly.

"Women?" he mused. "In truth, I've no experience with wooing them."

"But you were married."

"Aye, but there was no need to woo her."