As Time Goes By

Prologue

Somewhere in the Cotswolds

Present Day

Atall, distinguished gentleman of a respectable number of years strode purposefully down a finely laid stone street, his sword strapped to his back, his plaid properly covering his immaculately clean saffron shirt, and his mind bent on the work before him.

It promised to be a very long evening, indeed.

But if there were anything Ambrose MacLeod, laird of the clan MacLeod during the years of ridiculous English fashions that thankfully hadn’t migrated far north enough to trouble him—aye, if there were anything in the world that he didn’t fear, it was seeing to the goodly work he had set himself to, never mind the difficulties it presented from time to time.

He avoided locals and tourists alike until he arrived at his destination.

He paused at the doorway of the establishment he’d chosen for the night’s parley—The Squawking Duckling—and noted that there was a very handsome woman of a discreet number of respectable years who had paused to allow him to open the door for her.

He was slightly startled to realize she could see him, though she wouldn’t have been the first mortal to do so.

“Nice steel,” she remarked, glancing at the hilt of his sword that was obviously visible over his shoulder.

He put his hand over his heart and inclined his head. “And you, my lady, have a keen eye to appreciate it.”

She smiled. “Family tradition or starring role at an upcoming medieval faire?”

Ambrose opened the door for her, though moving anything from the physical world left him, as usual, somewhat breathless. “A bit of both.”

“Perhaps we’ll meet at one soon, then.”

“Fate should be so kind, my lady.”

The woman smiled, then preceded him into the pub and sought out her companions.

Ambrose imagined it would be best to make certain he was invisible to mortal eyes given how poorly he’d just done the same over the previous handful of moments.

A lovely woman with an appreciation for steel was a temptation, true, but one he absolutely couldn’t indulge at the moment. Another time, perhaps.

He made his way over to a small table in the corner of the pub, finding the decor that reflected four hundred years of drinking and brawling to be remarkably soothing.

Less soothing was the sight of his sweet sister’s husband, but one made do as the circumstances demanded.

He took off his sword, propped it up in the corner, then sat down with a grateful sigh.

He plucked a mug out of thin air, then indulged in a hearty, restorative quaff of the pub’s finest.

“That won’t help,” Fulbert remarked.

“Perhaps not,” Ambrose agreed, setting his mug down, “but I intend to be well-watered as we face our present quandary. What tidings do you have of our vict—er, our next undertakings?”

“Slippery as a pair of eels are those two lads.”

“At least we know where they’re laying their heads,” Ambrose pointed out.

“Something we’ve known for quite some time,” Fulbert countered, “though I’ll allow they’re difficult to contain given how often they’re off and doing.”

Ambrose decided there was no need to add that they could have at any time pinned down those two lads they were poised to favor with their guidance in matters of the heart.

Leaving the duo to attempt to sort their own situations out on their own for a bit had seemed only fair, but the time had come for more purposeful action.

“I would criticize me nevvys for flitting about so freely,” Fulbert added, “if they didn’t spend so much of their time aiding their kin in their romantic endeavors.”

“To the detriment of their own happily ever afters,” Ambrose said, “which is, as you well know, why we’re here tonight. What have you heard from our compatriots? Have they returned yet from—where was it?—Kansas?”

“Nebraska.”

“Is there a difference?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” Fulbert said with a frown. “The Colonies are a bit confusing now that there are so many of them.”

“We can only hope they’ve gone to the right spot, then.”

“You could have gone yourself.”

“Too much to see to here,” Ambrose said promptly. “There was nothing stopping you from taking your courage in hand and venturing across the Pond.”

“Are ye daft, man?” Fulbert exclaimed with a shudder. “What with the food, the wild landscapes full of dangerous creatures that crawl and slither, and the complete disregard for the Oxford comma? Nay, a shade must draw the line somewhere and there my line has been drawn.”

“You have descendants there—”

“I have enough here,” Fulbert said briskly. “John Drummond has passed enough of his afterlife haunting yon fruited plains and majestic purple peaks to perhaps have lost his unease over the same, but I’ve no desire to leave our damp, foggy isle to take my afterlife in my hands to attempt the same.”

“And Hugh?” Ambrose asked, suppressing his smile. “One must acknowledge his bravery in exploring other lands.”

“Hugh’s interests are limited to irritating Daughters of the American Revolution with his endless queries about lineages,” Fulbert said with a snort, “never mind acquiring ever more outlandish costume ideas.”

Ambrose couldn’t argue with that. If he’d seen Hugh McKinnon wearing yet another cartoon character’s ears atop his head, he would have likely stabbed him. Again.

“And here the two of them come,” Fulbert said grimly. “Blowing in like an ill wind.”

Ambrose looked up to find that such was indeed the case.

John Drummond, laird of his clan during a particularly tumultuous era, was marching forth with his usual disregard for both furnishings and mortals who stood in his way.

Ambrose suspected the shivers and quickly muffled shrieks left in his wake were two of the man’s particular delights, though, so he left him to his simple pleasures.

Hugh McKinnon, laird of his own flock of souls during an equally dodgy century, followed in the Drummond’s wake, juggling a disorganized armful of papers, pens, and other note-taking paraphernalia.

Ambrose watched his hapless colleague gain their table, then drop onto it long lists of the saints only knew what, several restaurant flyers, and what looked to be detailed topographical maps of locales Ambrose didn’t recognize.

“Maps now?” Ambrose asked with a frown.

“I heard tell,” Hugh said, casting himself down into his chair with a gusty sigh and unearthing his clipboard from the bottom of the pile, “that there was gold in them thar hills.”

Fulbert shuddered. Ambrose understood.

“Not that I need it,” Hugh continued, looking slightly defensive, “nor was there any to be found—hills or gold—where we were about our business, but I like to be prepared. ‘Tis always best to know what you’re stomping over whilst looking for descendants to rescue from their unwed state.”

Ambrose couldn’t argue with that, so he didn’t.

He instead swept his companions with a look that he was certain would alert them to the seriousness of the task that lay before them.

Hugh shifted uneasily, Fulbert rolled his eyes, and John Drummond snorted gustily enough to send a handful of Hugh’s maps fluttering to the floor.

Ambrose ignored those lesser distractions and prepared to set the battlefield properly—

Or perhaps not quite yet. The shrieks coming from various patrons of the pub, beginning nearest the door and continuing on and dissipating as if something untoward were coming their way, were impressive.

Ambrose leaned back in his chair and could do nothing but watch as a shade strode forth from a clutch of wheezing tourists to come to a purposeful halt in front of their table.

He was dressed in the style of those lads who’d popped over to the Colonies aboard that little ship that had set out from Plymouth several centuries earlier.

From his shiny black boots, past the white linen collar at his throat, all the way to his tall black hat perched precariously atop his head, he looked every inch the proud English gentleman who had likely endured trials and tribulations that would have caused a lesser man to bow under the pressure.

The feather from his hat fell into his eye, but he blew it away with a quick puff, doffed his hat, and inclined his head slightly.

“I am,” he announced, “Wrestling-with-Fornication Brewster, your servant.” He paused. “Perhaps not your servant, but I am here to oversee this business. Where is my chair?”

Ambrose looked at Fulbert who seemingly had not a single thing to say. The Drummond was burying his curses in his cup, and Hugh looked as if he were horribly torn by events he couldn’t bring himself to name.

“McKinnon,” Wrestling said, looking down his long, pointed nose, “if you want what I promised you, you’ll fetch me a proper perch.”

Hugh stood, pushed his chair over the newcomer’s way, then conjured up another one for himself. Ambrose could scarce believe what he’d just witnessed, but he feared that might be but a foretaste of what was to come. Hugh crouched down behind John Drummond and leaned in toward Ambrose.

“He knows where a Spanish galleon is languishing under one of the shining seas,” Hugh whispered from behind his clipboard. “I’m desperate to investigate the particulars.”

Ambrose suspected what their new friend knew and what he would be telling Hugh were two very different things, but he’d been wrong before.

He watched Hugh take his seat, perching on its edge nervously, then turned his attentions to their new addition.

There was no sense in not having all the aid they could given the complicated nature of their next venture, but Master Brewster was an unknown quantity. It would serve them to be cautious.

He lifted his mug in Wrestling’s direction. “Welcome,” he said politely. “Would you care to enlighten us as to your interest in this pressing concern of ours?”

Wrestling looked for a spot to set his hat, glared at Hugh’s enormous pile of papers, then simply set his elegant topper atop them without further comment.