He retrieved his sword, took one last look at Mistress McKinnon, and left the chamber. He found the doors strange and difficult. It would have been so much easier to have merely walked through them.

He froze. Was he losing his wits as well, then? Since when could a man walk through doors?

He shook his head and made his way down the passageway to the garderobe. To call it that was to truly minimize its splendor. He opened the door, pushed the switch down to kindle the lights, and merely stared in fascination at the luxury that greeted his eyes.

Never mind that said luxury was displayed mostly in pink.

He looked first at the lights. He was not as troubled by them this morning as he had been the night before. Victoria had assured him they were a Future marvel and not small fairies trapped inside little glass bulbs-fairies who had displeased their queen and were paying a heavy price. He walked over to the lights and stared up at them. Nay, no creatures inside; just strings and such.

He looked at the mirror and that brought him face to face with... himself. He looked at his unshaven face, examined his jaw, looked deeply into his own eyes, and inspected his hair. He wondered, absently, why his late wife had found him so much less appealing than the Frenchman.

He paused and considered. The Frenchman had possessed a certain, well, je ne sais quois. And even Connor could admit that the Frenchman had, before his timely and well-deserved end, sported not unhandsome French features and a fine French form. Surely by now that Gallic form was beginning to rot, but perhaps that was a pleasant eventuality, to be examined at a later time.

Nay, Morag had never found him to be pleasing and he'd been a fool to wed with her. She had come unwillingly to his bed, borne him children begrudgingly, and eagerly sought any excuse to flee his arms and his keep. He was well rid of her.

His bairns were another tale entirely. But as the very thought of them made his eyes look suspiciously moist, he turned his attentions to something else. He took his knife and shaved, feeling a bit more in control of his emotions by the time he finished. He explored the marvels of the sink, but stopped short of taking it apart. He'd done that to the shower the night before and found himself facing a very annoyed yet still slack-jawed Mrs. Pruitt, whom he had apparently awoken with his cursing. Today, he knew better. He purloined a pink towel of uncommon softness, stripped, and stepped into a shower made for a man much smaller than he. But it was a miracle of cleanliness and he indulged in it happily. Mrs. Pruitt had been willing to explain many things during the middle of the night when sleep had eluded him and he'd been itching to explore the garderobe. She'd shown him how the shower worked, explained again what did and did not go down the toilet-but in less patient tones than Victoria had used, to be sure. She had left him with a selection of things in bottles that smelled and bid him briskly to keep his cursing to a minimum before she had retreated to her quarters and left him to his experiments.

He dried himself off and looked at his clothes. Well, those could do with a bit of a wash. He picked them up with one hand, took his towel in the other, and left the bathroom in search of a washerwoman. He strode out into the entry way. A man and a woman stood there, corralling a handful of small lassies. The woman took a single look at him and shrieked.

Connor shrieked as well, then gasped that such an unmanly sound of surprise should come from him.

"Laird MacDougal!" Mrs. Pruitt exclaimed.

He turned to look at her. "Aye?"

More shrieks ensued from behind him.

Mrs. Pruitt gestured impatiently to his nether regions. "Cover yerself, if ye please!"

Lowlander Gaelic, he thought with a patient sigh. But he did as she bid, realizing that he should have

thought of it himself. He handed his clothes to her.

"Wash these," he instructed.

And with that, he turned about and nodded to the inn's new guests, who were gaping at him with truly

unwarranted consternation.

"My apologies," he said politely. "I'm new here in the Future."

They looked at him blankly, as if they couldn't understand a word he said. He looked at the little girls,

three of them, who were standing all in a row. The smallest one smiled.

Well, those certainly didn't look like Faery children. Perhaps Victoria was telling him the truth. Stranger things had no doubt happened than for a man to find himself in the Future.

No matter. He would be home soon enough. Yet, for now, he couldn't deny that he was intrigued by the

chance to do a bit more exploring.

He knocked before he entered the library. Victoria wasn't there. He felt his heart lurch, but he quickly remedied that. By the saints, it wasn't as if he cared about the wench...

A vision of her washed over him: Victoria with her hair undone, sitting in that chair before a fire, looking at him with tears in her eyes and pleading with him to... to...

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Connor turned around and saw her standing at the door. He realized then that he was halfway across the room. He managed a formal nod.

"The fault is mine," he said. "I was... I seem to be having these, well, waking dreams." He paused and looked at her. "I've no other way to describe it."

"Waking dreams," she repeated. "How interesting."

He frowned. "Do you think me daft?"

"No," she said. "But you do need some clothes."

He looked down at his pink towel, then back up at her. "I frightened the guests."

"Were you wearing the towel?"

"Not at first."

She laughed.

And Connor was tempted to find somewhere he could sit.

By the saints, the wench was breathtaking. He felt his way down into his chair before the hearth and looked at her. Her hair was loose. She was wearing those strange blue trews he had seen her in...

In his dreams.

He shook his head sharply, but the image did not cease to place itself upon her person. He blinked a time or two, then surrendered. If his poor fogged brain wished to believe that he had dreamed her, he would not fight it.

Blue trews and a white tunic with buttons down the front. Ah, buttons. He'd heard tell of them. He would have to examine them later, when he thought he could get close enough to look without hauling her into his arms and kissing her senseless.

He felt his jaw slide down. By the saints, where had that come from?

"Laird MacDougal?" she asked. "Are you unwell?"

"Connor," he said, hearing the name come out of his mouth and no longer wondering why it was he had no control over his life. He never allowed anyone to use his given name. It had taken him years to unbend enough to let his wife use it. He had been, he supposed thoughtfully, a bit of a bastard now and then. "Connor," she said slowly. "May I call you that?" "May I call you Victoria?" She smiled again and it smote him to the heart. "I would like that." "As would I." He felt his head for fever. None. Perhaps the shower had been too much for him. He would settle for a bath the next time and use fewer of those soaps that smelled of fruit. "My brother probably has clothes upstairs. Do you want to come look?" "Of course." "They might be too small, but we can try." "As you will. Anything will improve upon this pink wrap." "I doubt that," she said with another smile, but led him to the door just the same. And so he found himself following Mistress Victoria McKinnon up the stairs and down the passageway to a very, very fine chamber filled with furniture the likes of which he had never before seen. It belonged in a palace with a king placing his royal arse upon it. He put his own less-than-royal behind on the bed and bounced a time or two just because, apparently, he was allowed to.

Victoria laughed at him again.

He thought there might be quite a few things he would do to hear that laugh.

"Fancy, isn't it?" she asked, stroking one of the bedposts.

"Aye, very."

"It's sixteenth century."

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Made during the time when Elizabeth Tudor was queen." She looked at him. "Four hundred years ago."

She paused. "She had no children so James the Sixth of Scotland became both James of Scotland and

England." He listened and wished desperately for a drink. A strong one. " 'Tis good that a Scot sat on the English throne," he managed.

"There is a great deal of history you might find interesting."

"History?"

"Things that have happened from the time you were laird until, well, the present day. But clothes first." She turned and rummaged about in an armoire. She came up with some clothes and handed them to him. "Here. I think you can figure it out."

Figure it out was beyond his experience, but he gathered the gist of it. He looked at the clothes in his hands. Blue trews, the same as Victoria wore...

Ah, buttons! Connor looked at the ones on the shirt with pleasure. He experimented with them for several minutes, then looked up to thank Victoria, but she was gone and the door was closed. Connor put the shirt and the long-legged trews aside, then stared at what was left.

Undergarments, he supposed. He put the things on his feet and drew up the short trews where he supposed they should go. Next came the long-legged... He paused and stared off into space.

Jeans.

The word came to him out of that same place from where his dreams were wont to ooze. He shrugged. Jeans they would be. He pulled them up, fastened the buttons as if he'd been doing the like his whole life, then applied himself to the shirt. It was bested in the same quick fashion. Then he sought out a polished glass.

He frowned. The shirt did not reach where he supposed it should on his wrists, and strained across his chest. The jeans came above his ankles, which did not trouble him, but they were passing tight and he wondered if he might actually be able to sit without damaging important parts of himself.

Well, he would stand until his own clothing was clean. Satisfied that he would not terrify the locals, he opened the door and stepped into the passageway.

And he stopped still.

Victoria stood there, several paces away, leaning back against the wall, her head bowed, her hair swept over her shoulder and cascading before her face. She lifted her head and turned to look at him.

He staggered. Damned uneven doorways. Who had built the bloody inn so poorly?

She was staring at him as if she'd never seen a man before. He scowled.

"Have I dressed myself amiss?"

She shook her head silently, still staring at him in shock. Or perhaps it wasn't shock.

Lust? Lust was not undesirable. Admiration? Not as complimentary as lust, but it would do in a pinch.

She quickly whipped her hair back into some kind of horse's tail and looked at him with a decidedly

pleasant look.

He frowned. What was she hiding?

"Breakfast?"

"What do you conceal?" he demanded.

She blinked. "Conceal?"

"Hide, woman. You hide your thoughts. I demand you cease with that and tell me honestly what you

think."

"Oh," she said, but she made little sound doing it. She smiled uneasily. "I was just thinking that it is a pity

you have to return home so soon."

"Because I have dressed in your Future clothes?"

She seemed to give that some thought, then shook her head. "I will miss seeing my time through your

eyes," she said finally.

"Your eyes are leaking."

"Allergies."

"Allergies?"