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

Thomas had to do was call him when he was ready to act. Thomas had taken down Jamie's number dutifully, though he suspected he could have pried the same out of Ambrose without much difficulty.

Not that he would have had to. He could have called it to mind at any time, given that it was indelibly burned into his mind.

He'd spent a final pair of days at his office, closing up shop. It wasn't as if he hadn't done it a time or two before. And it wasn't as if he wasn't doing it with the satisfaction of knowing that Jake had gouged Arthur Davidson thoroughly. Jake had been unapologetically good-humored about his actions, presented Thomas with a bill for his exorbitant fee, then offered to tag along just in case Thomas found himself in other legal difficulties in the near future. Thomas had been tempted, just in case getting himself back to medieval Scotland would include getting himself free of an enemy's dungeon. He suspected that Jake could get them out of even that.

His long-time partner in crime had settled for several months in the south of France, invited Thomas to take him back on board for the next business venture, then skipped out of the office with the carefree expression of a man who had just made a good deal of money and enjoyed doing so.

Not that Thomas hadn't felt the same way. Tiffany had cost her father a bundle, and Thomas couldn't help but feel somewhat repaid for that alone.

After finishing up what needed to be done, he'd headed toward the airport. Along with his gear, he'd carried an envelope with a magazine article in it that Alexander Smith had left for him at the front desk of his hotel.

An article on remembering the future.

He'd been riveted to it the moment he'd begun reading. He'd read it in the cab on the way to the airport and reread it as he'd made his way to check-in. He'd thought about calling Iolanthe on his cell phone to tell her what he'd learned, then thought better of it. With as quickly as he planned to be home, there was no sense in possibly letting his plans slip before he had her in the same room to tell her about them. He'd found everything he needed to solve their untenable situation. Thinking about it had been all-consuming.

Which was why, likely enough, he hadn't noticed Samantha Spade following him at an indiscreet distance until he'd been standing in the British Air ticket line.

It was then that he realized he'd seen her several times before. New York was full of interesting characters. He'd just assumed she was another one of them.

Losing her in the airport had seemed improbable, so he'd merely pretended he hadn't seen her. He'd picked up his ticket, boarded the plane, then hung out near the cabin doors to see if she got on. He'd been almost sure she wouldn't, mostly because of her lack of luggage. So she would know he'd gone to London. England was a very big place, and it would take her a long time to track him down. Hopefully, by then he would have done his bit of time-traveling, rescued Iolanthe, and settled down happily in some century or other. Tiffany was nothing but an annoyance that would hopefully remain on yonder beckoning shores.

He heaved himself from the car, retrieved his suitcase, and entered the inn. Mrs. Pruitt gave him a cursory glance.

"You're home," she noted.

"Finally."

"Hrmph," Mrs. P. said. "Business go well?"

"Had to sell my company. But it cost them."

"Well done, then," she said approvingly. "Best be about your business here. You'll note there've been some changes made."

He could hardly wait to find out what those were. Had Connor MacDougal taken over the keep? Had Iolanthe departed for locations unknown?

He threw his gear into his room, dragged a hand through his hair, and left at what others might have called a dead run. He called it a quick trot. He was out of shape, anyway. Too much time in a boardroom was hazardous to one's bum. A little healthy jog up to the castle was just the ticket for him.

He slowed once he was within sight of Thorpewold, then he came to a halt in front of the barbican. At least there were no protestors.

Nor were there any ghosts.

He wandered inside the gates. The bailey was empty, and he wondered, with a brief flash of panic, if he might have imagined the past couple of months. Ghosts and all.

Then he heard a chorus of manly laughter and a few hearty curses coming from the tower, and the tension dropped off him like scales. Who needed New York with its hearty deli sandwiches, its world-class entertainment, and its mouthy cabbies? He had a keep full of ghosts who'd taught him to curse in Gaelic while he pounded nails into floorboards.

Life was good.

He walked across the bailey and up the steps. A pair of Highlanders guarded the door to his office, which stood ajar. They looked ready to alert the occupants of the room, but he shook his head quickly.

"Let me just look," he whispered.

"As ye will, my laird," whispered one of the men. The other one nodded with a wide smile.

Well, perhaps my laird was pushing things, but Thomas couldn't help but feel somewhat flattered by the title. He was tempted to let it go to his head, but he suspected Iolanthe would soon disabuse him of any delusions of grandeur he might have had.

He went to the doorway and listened. He could hear Iolanthe talking but couldn't make out what she was saying. So he leaned in the slightest bit and looked around the Highlanders who were standing at the door blocking his view.

He could hardly believe his eyes.

Iolanthe was sitting in his chair, reading aloud.

All right, if all he had seen was her with a book being held up in front of her by two struggling Scots, he would have been surprised. What