My Heart Stood Still Lynn Kurland (some good books to read TXT) 📖

her shoulders was damnably distracting. And when he took her hand and led her downstairs, all she could do was follow like an obedient pup. And when she found herself all tucked up in the finest bed she had ever enjoyed in the whole of her life, she almost began to feel guilty about him sleeping rolled up on the floor in a blanket.

"Thomas ..." she began.

"Don't worry, my lady," he said, sounding as if he smiled. "I've slept in worse. At least the floor isn't moving."

"Did you pass a night or two in my father's pit?"

"Yes," he said with a half laugh. "I take it Malcolm isn't known for his hospitality?".

"He isn't," she agreed, then found that sleep was overtaking her with a relentlessness she couldn't avoid. "Good night, Thomas."

"Good night, Iolanthe," he whispered.

She was almost asleep when she realized what he'd said.

Her eyes flew open.

Damn the man, who was he?

Chapter 34

Thomas leaned back on his elbows and looked at the beach in front of him. It seemed like a pretty normal afternoon, actually. He was sitting on a blanket that was covered with sand from being walked on too often. He had the remains of a picnic in a basket next to him along with a bottle of very fine drink that had turned out to be wine made from a berry he couldn't and didn't particularly care to identify. He was obviously being blessed for good behavior because, despite it being close to the middle of November, the sun was shining overhead, clouds billowed in a particularly cheerful manner, and he had just woken up from a peaceful nap.

To the sight of a medieval Highland woman cavorting in the water like an especially undignified eight-year-old.

Ah, such was life in the Middle Ages. He watched Iolanthe play on the shore and wondered if he could really get used to the lack of toilet paper, satellite dishes, and ice cubes.

Then again, there had been an appalling lack of ice cubes in twenty-first-century Britain as well, so maybe that last item wasn't anything to consider.

Not that they were living a particularly deprived life. Bathroom amenities aside, Artane was a pretty luxurious place. Three square meals a day, which were perfectly tasty as long as you didn't question the age of the meat. He was big on sauces anyway, so it didn't bother him.

The nightly entertainment was great, and he thought with enough practice he just might learn a few dance steps while he was there. His medieval French was coming along quite nicely, and he'd even ventured out in the lists each day and returned at noon with his pride and his body intact.

He and Iolanthe had been clothed in sumptuous fabrics and bedecked with several baubles that probably each would have fed a handful of peasants for a handful of years. They had peace and quiet. They had time for loitering on the beach with the only question being what they would have for lunch. It had been blissful.

But as pleasant as all those things were, they weren't what made him seriously consider staying.

It was the woman collecting shells near the water.

Of course, the previous week hadn't been all smooth sailing. He'd gone to sleep that first night kicking himself for having used her name. He hadn't meant to. It had just slipped out. He'd been very surprised she hadn't leaped from the bed and demanded all her answers right then and there.

Of course, waking the next day to find her sitting comfortably on a stool not two feet from him, pointing the business end of Duncan's knife at him had certainly come as no surprise. He'd tried to deny having said what he'd said, then ended up promising her all the answers she could have wanted if she would just come walk on the beach with him. And while she was considering that, he'd asked her just what it was he was supposed to call her.

Her look of utter discomfort had been so familiar, he'd almost smiled. In the end, she had told him he was a very bad liar, expressed her amazement that he'd been able to concoct a story that had bought them food and shelter for as long as they wanted it, and then defiantly given him her name as if she couldn't spit it out fast enough for public consumption.

Given that he knew what it had cost her, he received it with what he'd hoped was an appropriate amount of reverence.

And he hadn't used it very much at first. Watching the woman he loved fondle a knife hilt while looking at him purposefully was more unsettling than he ever would have imagined it could be.

The beach had been, fortunately, a stroke of genius. Just walking along it had changed her somehow. She hadn't asked him any questions, and he hadn't given her any answers. He still suspected that she thought he was out of his mind, but after a week of spending her afternoons on the shore, she didn't throw that at him with any venom—and with less and less seriousness.

She laughed more.

He could hardly believe it was the same woman he'd known six hundred years in the future, yet he couldn't deny it.

He sat up as he realized she was running toward him. She was carrying heaven knew what in her skirts that she'd hiked up. Apparently, she didn't mind wandering around in her slip, and to be honest, neither did he. The first time he'd teased her about it, she'd looked at him archly and asked him if he'd never seen a woman's legs before. When he'd squirmed instead of answering, she'd merely tossed her head and wandered off to gather more things in her skirts.

She came to a teetering halt before him, knelt, and dumped out handfuls of shells.

"Look at them," she panted. "Bonny, aye?"

"Magnificent," he agreed.

"Ach, ye wee lecher, look at the shells," she chided.

"Oh," he said, sitting up and looking down. "Yes. They're nice, too."

She shoved them aside