"Did he kiss her?"

"Do you care?"

"Only in that I'm relieved I never succumbed," she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

"I might have had to do him damage, otherwise," Connor said pleasantly. He looked at her and knew

she fretted. "There will be other theaters, Victoria, 'Tis not this one that holds the magic; it is you who brings magic to stage."

"I want to believe that."

"You should," he said firmly. "We will find another place." She nodded and fell silent. Connor allowed her peace-such as could be found in Manhattan. He looked about them as they walked, marveling that so much of humanity could dwell within such a small space, yet still manage to live their lives in relative contentment. Och, aye, there was the occasional bad apple, but that was to be expected. What manly man could go about his labors without the odd comment now and then? And what wench worth her salt could avoid a colorful pronouncement when vexed overmuch?

Connor had worried once or twice on the plane flight over if he would manage to live in Victoria's city without longing for the countryside. Of course, he'd wondered several things on that flight over, when he'd seen the earth below from a vantage point he never would have dreamed of during his lifetime. But Manhattan pleased him well for the time being. He supposed it was possible that they wouldn't be there forever.

They certainly wouldn't be there if Victoria could not find a site for her plays.

"We have to meet Fred in ten minutes," Victoria said. "You'll like the restaurant."

"I'll have a hot dog for dessert."

"Of course you will."

The interview with Fred was pleasant. Fred vowed to get to the bottom of the conundrum. Apparently,

he knew a guy. What that meant, Connor couldn't have said, but Victoria seemed to be satisfied. All Connor knew was that Fred shared his dislike of Michael Fellini and his affection for Victoria McKinnon, and for that Connor approved of him heartily.

The afternoon was passed most satisfactorily, plotting Fellini's demise with Fred. Then he and Victoria retired to her small house. It was little more than a box with a window, but Connor found it to his liking. Then again, perhaps it was that he found the company to his liking.

In the end, what pleased him the most was the fact that Victoria was his and that she welcomed him into her arms and into her bed.

That took up a goodly part of the afternoon quite satisfactorily.

Connor considered over supper, then thought some more as they ventured out into the evening to take in a play on Broadway. It was a musical and Connor enjoyed it, though he was not overly impressed with the acting.

Victoria was better.

But he hesitated to tell her so. She would have to come to the conclusion on her own. Perhaps a return to Thorpewold now and again wouldn't be unthinkable. After all, Thomas had gifted it to Victoria as a wedding present-not that he'd needed to. Connor would have purchased it, but the damned stubborn man had refused. Connor had accepted it, more willingly than he normally would have, simply for Victoria's sake.

Aye, they could open their own theater there and likely make a goodly living doing so. Not that they needed the gold, but he suspected they would both go a little mad not doing something constructive. Bairns would hopefully come in time and then their lives would change again, but for the moment, he was content to watch Victoria tread the boards where she could.

"You're thinking," she said, tilting her head back to look at him from where she rested in his arms.

"I was thinking of your Ophelia," he said with a smile. "I would like to see you do something else."

"I've thought about it," she admitted, "but I don't know how. Then again, if Bernie the Bardmaker has made it so I have no actors left, maybe I will be happily without a choice."

"But until then," he said purposefully.

Aye, they would keep themselves busy somehow.

Chapter 39.

Victoria could hardly believe she was engaging in her current activity, but all signs pointed to the fact that she was puttering. She never puttered, preferring to take on things that required the full use of all her mental faculties. It was amazing what losing her venue, losing her actors, and losing her reputation all in a single week had done to her.

She stopped in front of the window and stared outside. All in all, it had been a very good month. She'd gotten married, she'd had a wonderful honeymoon, and she was currently delighting in each day that brought her new hours to spend with Connor. Of course, the fly in the ointment had been Bernie the Bardmaker, who had managed to make it so no one wanted to work for her. She hadn't been surprised.

She hadn't been happy, either.

Contemplating the potential for Michael's theatrical demise with Fred had taken up the better part of the past week, but now she was left with the tatters of her theater career and no needle and thread with which to mend it.

She looked down the street and found herself smiling in spite of it all. Connor was coming home from a brief trip to the local deli. She had frisked him for lethal weapons on his way out, so she hadn't really worried that he would get into trouble, but with Connor, you just never knew.

He bounded up the steps and into her apartment. "My lady," he said with a low bow. He straightened and presented her with his spoils. "Turkey and swiss on rye, hold the mayo and do some business with the mustard."

She laughed. "You're sounding very modern today, my laird."

"Och, nay," he said with a smile. " 'Tis just my line I practiced for the man at the deli. He glowered at me so the other day when I attempted to converse in a normal fashion that I felt I had to humor him. He makes bloody good sandwiches and I didn't want to anger-"

The phone rang. Victoria was so surprised she jumped. It had been days since the phone had rung in that businesslike, not-family-on-the-other-end kind of way. She looked at Connor briefly.

"I have a feeling about this," she said slowly.

"Fate?" he asked, unearthing his treasures from the deli sack.

"Indigestion, probably," she muttered as she walked over and picked it up. "Hello?"

"Victoria?"

She frowned. Not family, not Bernie, not Fred with news about a hemorrhoidal flare-up for Michael.

"Yes," she said slowly. "This is Victoria."

"Stuart Goldberg here."

Victoria choked. She didn't mean to, but she was caught so off guard she couldn't stop herself. Stuart Goldberg was her arch-enemy, her nemesis, the man who had made a career of poaching her best actors for his productions, which were far closer to Broadway than hers were. It took her a moment or two to be able to speak. "Stuart," she wheezed. "How lovely to hear from you. What do you want?"

He laughed easily. "Always to the point, aren't you?"

"Really, is there any subtlety left between us?" she managed. "Unfortunately, I can't provide you with any sport today. My stable is quite empty."

"Sport?" he echoed. "What a quaint term."

"I've been in Scotland for the summer. It rubbed off on me."

"Yeah, that's what I heard."

Victoria waited. Stuart seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time to gather his thoughts. "Well?"

she prompted. "Well," he said slowly, "this is the deal. I'm doing the Scottish play." She pursed her lips. "How nice for you." "Well, it was until three days ago when I lost my queen. I think you know her: Cressida Blankenship." "She bailed on you?" "Yes, damn her to hell. And get this: She's signed on to do Twelfth Night with Michael Fellini." Victoria considered furiously. She didn't know anyone who was doing Twelfth Night. Well, she didn't know anyone doing it that Bernie would consider up to Michael's standards. "He's acting in it?" she said.

"For whom?"

"He's not acting, he's directing."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not. I have no sense of humor."

"Well," Victoria said, somehow not very surprised by anything she was hearing. Michael had wanted to direct. Now he had his chance. "That's good for him, but it leaves you in sort of a bind, doesn't it?"

"Try not to enjoy it so much," Stuart said dryly. "Can't help it." "Try harder. And listen to this: The word is Fellini's going to be directing it at Tempest in a Teapot." Victoria looked at Connor. "Michael's doing Twelfth Night at Tempest in a Teapot? How interesting." Connor stopped in midmunch of his sandwich and looked at her with one raised eyebrow. "Ha," he said in a garbled tone.

"I never thought you'd let go of the reins of that stage," Stuart continued.

"I didn't. It was leased out from under me."

"Yes, I heard that, as well. I wonder how Fellini got ahold of it?"

"His ultracharming personality," Victoria said sourly. "How else?"

"Either that, or he's really brushed up on his yoga poses." She laughed out loud in spite of herself. "I suppose so." "Anyway, this is the thing," Stuart continued. "I need a queen for my show." "Good luck." He paused. "I heard you acted, once upon a time." Victoria looked at Connor. "You heard I acted?" He put his sandwich down and brought a chair over for her. She felt her way down into it. "I also heard that Cressida walked out on your Hamlet in England and you filled in." Victoria closed her eyes briefly. "That's true." "I also heard you were terrific." She looked around frantically for a paper bag. Damn. Not a one in sight. She forced herself to take three slow, even breaths. "Ah," she began, "you heard I was terrific."

"Victoria, stop repeating everything I say. You're driving me nuts."

Victoria took three more slow, even breaths. "Who'd you hear all that from, Stu?"

"Marv Jones."

She had to put her head between her knees. She took the phone with her, though. No sense in missing

out on any of this conversation. "The New York Pillar's theater critic?"

"Yeah. Apparently he went in disguise to your closing night. He talked the Pillar into footing his travelbecause he promised he would write something really nasty about you." "Unsurprising," Victoria mumbled. "I agree. He's been gunning for me for years. But didn't you read his column? It came out a couple of weeks later." Victoria sat up slowly and waited until the stars swimming in front of her eyes dissipated. "Um," she said faintly, "I was a little busy after the run." Busy grinding herself into the ground at Jamie's boot camp, then subsequently popping in and out of medieval Scotland. She was somewhat relieved she hadn't known the potential for career damage she was running afoul of. "His column," she said weakly. "How bad was it?" "Bad? Victoria, aren't you listening to me? The man said you were terrific. He gushed. He couldn't find enough positive adjectives to describe your performance. I think he even used luminous and you know he never uses that word unless it's describing his own prose."

"He said I was luminous," she repeated, stunned.

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it, either. So, are you interested?"

"Am I interested in what?"

He made a sound of impatience. "Aren't you over your jet lag yet? I need a queen!"

Victoria looked at Connor. "You need a queen? For the Scottish play?"

Connor began to smile.

"Victoria," Stu said sternly, "you're worrying me."

"I'll be better tomorrow," Victoria said promptly. "Sure, I'd love to play the queen."

"There's something else."

She could hardly wait. "What?"

"Marv said your Hamlet was, damn, what was his word..."

Victoria's hands felt very clammy. "I wouldn't presume to guess what he called my Hamlet."

"Perfect. He said he was perfect."

"Perfect?" Victoria echoed. "He said the actor playing Hamlet was perfect?"

"I told you, he was gushy."

Victoria looked at Connor. "He said Hamlet was perfect."

Connor, who had been sitting with his ankle propped up on his opposite knee and his hands casually clasped behind his head, dropped both feet to the ground, and leaned forward to gape at her.

She understood completely.

She cleared her throat. "That's interesting, Stu. And I have to admit, I thought the same thing."

"Well, I've been trying to find the guy, but there aren't any Connor MacDougals in Scotland. Well, there are, but they don't act."

Victoria looked at Connor. "You've been trying to find this Connor MacDougal."