"You've said that before."

"Hmmm," he said, frowning. "At my hall. It was awful then." He paused. "It hasn't improved here.

You've a Sassenach tinge to it."

"I was late in learning it."

"You're a McKinnon. You should have been speaking it from birth."

"I know. Sometimes things don't go as you plan."

He grunted. "Indeed, that is truth." He looked at her. "Your parents taught you ill, then."

No, you can blame James MacLeod, she thought sourly. Well, she probably couldn't in good conscience blame Jamie. He had done his best. She had done her best. That she could understand half of what Connor was saying and manage to make herself partway understood after little more than a couple of months spent at the task was nothing short of a miracle.

He looked around him. "Where am I? Where is here?" he asked. "Heaven?"

"Not even close."

"Faery?"

"Not there, either."

"Damnation."

She smiled, trying to make it an unassuming and friendly smile. "I'm thinking you must be hungry."

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. "Aye, I am. Is your hall nearby, or is this crumbling wreck all you have?"

"This is my brother's hall," she said. "There is an inn down the road."

"To the inn, then," he instructed. "But make haste. I want to be home before the sun sets. This is not at all what I had expected when I stepped into the fairy ring near my home."

"I'll just bet," she muttered under her breath.

Connor set off. It was all she could do not to take his hand. It was even harder not to cry. Ambrose had warned her. Thomas had warned her. Hell, even Iolanthe had warned her.

He won't remember you, they had said as she went through MacLeod boot camp. He won't remember you at first. Give him time. Don't pressure him.

"Don't bean him over the head with a rock to bring sense back," she grumbled.

"Eh?" Connor said, frowning down at her.

"Nothing," she said, smiling in her most undemanding manner. She pointed down the path toward the road. "Food is that way."

He grunted and walked with her.

And he hummed depressing battle dirges as he went.

She almost wept.

They reached the inn soon enough, mostly because Connor was using his long legs to their best advantage. Victoria gasped for breath as he came to a sudden halt. Good grief, she'd been through Jamie and Ian's training course, managed to survive medieval Scotland and get home again, yet a little run from the castle was leaving her in this kind of shape?

She supposed it might have something to do with a mild case of shock.

She took a sideways glance at Connor. He was staring at the inn with his mouth hanging open and his eyes huge in his face. He turned to her, astonished.

"This is a familiar place."

"Is it?"

His eyes narrowed. "Did you bring me here?"

"To the inn or to the Future?" she asked.

"The Future. Nay, this inn." He frowned. "Both."

"No, I didn't. You came yourself, remember?"

Blessed, wonderful, baffled man.

He gestured imperiously. "I've dreamed this."

"Do you dream often?"

He corrected her Gaelic automatically, then gestured to the path. "Aye, I do, but we won't speak of that." He drew his sword with a soft hiss. "You go first. I will follow."

"Do not stab me," she instructed firmly. That, at least, was one phrase she had practiced to perfection.

His frown lightened just the slightest bit. "I will not. I might need you to ransom to the fairies to let me go home."

"We're not in Faery."

"So you say, but I have my doubts." He looked at her. "Aye, I think I am beginning to rethink this all.

Consider your beauty. You claim to be a McKinnon, but no McKinnon I've ever met could possibly have produced a wench as fetching as you. Ergo, you must be a fairy." "Um, sure," she said, and for the first time, she wondered if this had been such a good idea. Never mind that he'd just called her fetching enough to be a fairy. And then he put his hand on her back and gave her just the slightest of nudges forward.

It almost brought her to her knees.

She took a deep breath and went ahead of him. She walked to the door and opened it. Then she looked over her shoulder.

"Are you coming?" He hung back. "I do not care to admit weakness, but this place gives me pause." "It's haunted," she said easily, "but the ghosts are away. It's just the innkeeper inside and she's a very good cook."

He looked at her assessingly. "You look as if you possess all your wits, yet you spout madness."

She wasn't going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole. At least not yet. "You should eat. You'll feel

better after you do."

"Will it be poisoned?"

"I'll taste everything for you first."

"Sporting of you."

"I do what I can for the cause."

He lifted one eyebrow and almost smiled.

She almost wept.

But before she made a bigger fool of herself than she had already, she walked through the door. She

could feel him following her. Mrs. Pruitt came out of the dining room, wiping her hands on her apron. She smiled.

"Mistress Victoria," she said. "Laird MacDougal."

"Does she ken me?" he exclaimed. "How comes this wonder?"

Mrs. Pruitt frowned. "I'm well acquainted with all the inhabitants hereabouts, be they corporeal or not-"

"Mrs. Pruitt," Victoria interrupted politely, "is there anything to eat? We're a little on the hungry side."

Mrs. Pruitt frowned, then shrugged. "Of course, lass. Come on, and I'll make ye something." Victoria nodded for Connor to follow her. He hesitated. She turned to see what had stopped him. He was staring, frozen in place, at the library door. He looked at it for a brief eternity, then drew his hand over his eyes and shook his head. "Now I'm going daft," he muttered. Victoria pretended not to notice. She led him through the dining room and pulled out a chair for him in the kitchen. She sat next to him and had to clasp her hands together on the table to keep them from reaching for him. Mrs. Pruitt whipped up eggs, fried tomatoes and potatoes, sausage, and the obligatory cold toast. It smelled heavenly. Connor's stomach growled.

"In a minute, Mistress Victoria," Mrs. Pruitt said with a brief laugh. "I'm hurrying."

Victoria cleared her throat. "Could we have two plates, Mrs. Pruitt?"

Mrs. Pruitt turned around, her spatula in hand, and frowned. "Why two?"

"One for Laird MacDougal, as well."

"What does he need with a plate? Beggin' yer pardon, my laird."

Connor's frown was equally puzzled. "How will I eat without food, good woman?"

"Well, for obvious reasons," Mrs. Pruitt said, frowning more deeply.

Victoria wanted to head off this discussion before it really picked up steam and ended up with Mrs.

Pruitt poking Connor to convince him that he really wasn't corporeal. She cleared her throat. "Humor

him, if you could, Mrs. Pruitt." "Yer stint on the boards has had a deleterious effect on yer wits, lass," Mrs. Pruitt said disapprovingly, but she obligingly prepared two plates. She set the second down in front of Connor with a heavy sigh. "The things I do..."

Connor picked up the fork, looked at it with a frown, then shrugged and used it for its intended purpose.

Mrs. Pruitt gaped.

Connor chewed.

Mrs. Pruitt's eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped to the ground.

"What is it with you wenches here in Faery?" Connor asked through a mouthful of egg and tomato. "Fine

victuals, though, even if her constitution is passing weak." Victoria rose and went to bring Mrs. Pruitt back to her senses. The stalwart innkeeper's eyelids fluttered, then she sat up with a squeak. She peeked over the edge of the table.

"He's eating," she whispered loudly.

"That he is," Victoria agreed.

"But..."

"I know," Victoria said.

"Ye didn't..."

"That, too."

Mrs. Pruitt looked at her. "Did he come today, then?"

"Apparently."

"Is he real?"

"He's eating, isn't he?"

Mrs. Pruitt rose and gaped at Connor until he frowned so fiercely that she shut her mouth and looked at