Chapter 33
The
fire crackled exuberantly in the hearth, spreading warmth and good cheer.
A candle or two added to the ambience, to the feeling of tranquility, to the overall sense of peace in the room.
The floor was strewn with soft bits of straw that smelled—well, they smelled, but perhaps a girl couldn’t ask for anything else in the Middle Ages.
Madelyn knelt next to Patrick MacLeod and was grateful for a fire, clean clothes, and a marginally clean floor to kneel on.
The clean clothes she would have to thank Iolanthe for when next they met.
The dress was a handful of inches too short, but at least it covered everything else it was supposed to.
It would have to do because she’d had her clothes consigned to the fire.
It had seemed the safest thing to do, given their condition and the very modern tags and fasteners attached to them.
A good, hot fire had seemed the best way to take care of that problem.
The hot fire was something she could thank Malcolm for later. After a month of being chilled to the bone, its warmth was absolutely heavenly.
She was also quite thankful that she was even marginally capable of kneeling. Her body was healing in a remarkable fashion, though she supposed it would take her several more days to feel fully herself.
Briefly, she stole a look at Patrick to see how he was taking it all.
The firelight flickered over his handsome features, cast his dark hair into deeper shadows, caressed the backs of his scarred hands.
His shirt was a bit frayed at the cuffs and his plaid a bit worn as well, but it covered broad shoulders and strong arms. He looked not unhappy to be where he was, doing what he was doing.
Indeed, he was listening to the priest with a completely serene expression on his face.
A priest who was standing—and she had to use that term loosely—in front of them and coming close to knocking her flat with his breath alone.
She paused.
At least Patrick hadn’t had to likewise strengthen himself by ingesting vast quantities of alcohol.
She could be grateful for small favors, she supposed.
So she looked down at her fingers interlaced with Patrick’s and marveled, gratefully, at the complete improbability of what she was going through at the moment.
Marriage.
To a man who didn’t look at all disappointed by the turn of events.
Oh, he’d protested, in a token fashion, to Malcolm’s strong-arming him. He’d gone to the makeshift altar—a bench placed on the cleanest bit of floor Robert the piper could find—dragging his heels.
But he’d knelt without hesitation after having helped her to do the same with the utmost gentleness, and he’d taken her hand with the same kind of care, given her a smile that said he actually didn’t mind in the slightest, then paid complete attention to the man who stood in front of them, pontificating quite nicely in Latin.
Well, in somewhat slurred Latin.
Slurred, but intelligible.
Now, if she just hadn’t been able to understand what he was saying, she would have been fine.
“Oh, for the days of repairing to the pub,” the good friar said, closing his eyes briefly and looking quite solemn, “for a pint of the local brewer’s finest—and that after a hard day perfecting my craft in the wind and driving rain.
Who would have thought I would have had to leave it behind me to come dwell in a place where links describe naught but the makings of a good, strong chain? ”
Madelyn hardly dared look at Patrick. His hand around hers was warm and comforting. He seemed not to be bothered by the fact that the man proceeded to describe in gory detail the last golf tournament he’d played—and lost. For herself, she could only stare at the priest in complete astonishment.
The man was twenty-first century. She would have bet her life on it.
But given his numerous references to his bookie, she wondered if she shouldn’t bet her life on his being a priest.
And if he wasn’t, who was marrying her?
The priest who might or might not be a priest continued with the service, seemingly dragging himself back to the usual text with a herculean effort.
Well, at least he knew the service. And his Latin was quite good, when he managed to shake himself back to coherence long enough to articulate it.
When it was her turn, she nodded and said “aye.”
When it was his turn, Patrick nodded and said “aye.”
The priest sighed deeply. “Never found myself anyone to love in my day”—he slid Grudach a brief look, then turned back to them—“but that shouldn’t stop you two from enjoying yourselves.”
Grudach? Madelyn filed that away for future reference.
“Kiss her, man,” the priest said, “and hurry. Before she changes her mind.”
Patrick seemed to understand that. Maybe he just figured it was the thing to do.
Madelyn thought about pointing out to him that he’d been married by someone who might or might not have the authority to do what he’d just claimed to do, but she found herself distracted quite thoroughly by the feeling of Patrick MacLeod’s mouth on hers.
Good grief. If this was what being married to him entailed, she wasn’t sure she would survive it.
The kissing went on for quite some time. She was pathetically grateful she was kneeling so she didn’t have to humiliate herself by having her knees buckle underneath her.
Then, quite suddenly, Patrick was pulled to his feet and presented with a hefty cup of wine.
She would have been treated in like manner had Patrick not bellowed for her handlers to take their hands off her.
He put his cup down on the bench, then very carefully helped her to her feet, found her a chair near the fire, and put her just as carefully into it.
Then
he took up his wine and submitted to a quite thorough round of backslapping and congratulating.
She was allowed to remain in her seat, which she desperately needed after what she’d just listened to.
She sipped her wine as she watched the good friar move among his flock, dispensing blessings and other things in Latin.
He finally settled onto a bench near the fire and held court with those who eschewed drink for something of a higher nature.
Angus, whose conscience was undoubtedly pricking him for having dumped her in the dungeon right off, had approached for some sort of instructive conversation.
He was obviously not one to give up his drink, though, because he’d brought a jug of something in his hands.
That was good enough for the good father.
He held out his cup and began to hold forth, in Latin, as if he distilled something which was of great import on Angus’s sorry soul.
“You see,” he began, “I’m a man lost in time.”
Madelyn felt her jaw slide south. She retrieved it with an effort.
“You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I was once a powerful vicar. In the late twentieth century.”
Angus looked confused. Madelyn was relieved. At least she was legally wed.
“Well, perhaps powerful isn’t exactly the case. I made money enough for my needs. But it was, as you might imagine, my illicit pleasure that was my downfall.”
Angus listened with rapt attention. Madelyn did as well.
“I told my parish that I was off north to visit the poor.”
Angus nodded wisely.
“But,” the priest said, leaning in close, “I wasn’t.”
“Ah,” said Angus.
Madelyn leaned forward as well.
“I came for the purpose of a bloody brilliant bit of golf.” Madelyn wondered if a few golf courses in Scotland should be drawing red dots on their maps as well.
She looked at the vicar and wondered if he was happy with his lot, or if he wanted to go home.
Not that she could promise him anything, of course.
But imagine, to be stuck back in time with no knowledge of how you’d gotten there, nor any idea of how to get home.
Should she tell him?
If she did, would she have to discuss with Patrick the contents of their marriage contract, which had included a lengthy reminiscence about the pleasures of modern life, modern sporting events, and modern food. Would he consider that a less than proper ceremony?
Did she care?
Yes, she did. Very much.
And who should appear at that moment to further exacerbate her dilemma but its major component, Patrick MacLeod himself. He held out his hand.
“Food?” he asked.
She was starting to understand his fondness for it. “Always,” she said.
He very carefully helped her up, then put his arm around her and helped her hobble over to the high table where the wedding feast soon ensued.
It was a very interesting evening. Robert the piper could not play, but he turned out to have a very beautiful voice.
Madelyn managed to enjoy things up to the point when she realized that if she had to sit much longer, she was going to cry.
And at the precise moment when she knew she could bear it no longer, Patrick took her hand and spoke to Malcolm.
“My lady tires,” he said. “Is there a place—”
“Grudach’s chamber,” Malcolm said without hesitation.
“Father!”
He silenced her with a single look, then looked at Patrick. “My daughter will be pleased to let you have the very luxurious chamber that she doesn’t deserve.”
“Not that they’ll use it properly,” Angus guffawed. “The wench can hardly walk, much less . . . ah . . .”
Madelyn only caught the remnant of the look Patrick had sent Angus. Angus shut up immediately and found the contents of his bowl before him to be quite fascinating.
“Thank you, my laird,” Patrick said. “We’ll make good use of it.”
“I daresay you will,” Malcolm said with a booming laugh. “Leave something left of her, lad. I’ve a few questions to put to her regarding that foul bit of refuse leading the Fergusson clan.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Patrick said dryly.
Madelyn found herself soon swept up into his arms and carried up the stairs. She had no idea what he planned, but if anyone was asking her opinion, she didn’t particularly feel like having a wedding night when she wasn’t sure she could even get herself to the bathroom without help.
He opened the door, went inside, then shut the door with his foot. Then he looked down at her with a smile. “Alone, at last.”
She wondered if she looked as green as she felt.
She must have because he only laughed at her and carried her over to the bed. He laid her down, took off Iolanthe’s shoes that were only marginally too small, then covered her with a blanket. He smiled.
“Sleep. You need it.”
She stared up at him in surprise. “Really?”
“Madelyn, I’m not a barbarian.”
“I wasn’t worried about that. You were, after all, the one who was urged to that makeshift altar by the point of a sword.”
“I was not.” He leaned over her with his hands on either side of her head.
She felt a little faint.
All right, so she felt a lot faint.
“You weren’t?”
“I didn’t need a sword in my back,” he said with a small smile.
“Didn’t you?”
“Nay, Madelyn,” he said quietly, “I did not. You?”
She shook her head slowly. “Me neither.”
He stared at her for a moment or two in silence, then cleared his throat. “We should talk, perhaps,” he said softly. “There are things we must discuss.”
Her heart sank. “Patrick—”
He leaned down and kissed her. Gently. Sweetly.
Thoroughly.
Then he lifted his head. “Later,” he said. “We’ll talk later.” She took a deep breath. “All right.”
“You should rest. There’s time for talk in the future.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Rest right next to you and dream of Lilt and scones with clotted cream.”
“You are a complicated man.”
He laughed and straightened. He then walked around the side of the bed nearest the door. He removed his sword, pulled the knife out of his boot, then lay down next to her. He rolled toward her and carefully put his arm around her. “Can you bear the weight?”
She looked into fathomless green eyes and thought she might be able to bear a great many things if he were next to her.
“I can,” she answered.
“Then take your rest, love.”
“You’ll keep watch?”
“Aye. I’ll not fail you again.”
“Patrick—”
He shook his head. “I have in the past, but I won’t in the future. Now, sleep in peace and safety. I think I can guarantee you no more trips into Malcolm’s pit.”
Madelyn was tempted to give Bentley a passing thought, but the thought passed before she could hold on to it. He deserved what he was getting. They could probably get him out eventually anyway, later. When they went home.
Which was sounding less appealing by the heartbeat. Where would she be back in the future? Probably not on a mattress made from unidentifiable substances with Patrick MacLeod breathing softly in her ear and stroking her hand fitfully as he fell asleep.
Then again, maybe she would.
She was after all, according to an inebriated refugee from the twentieth century, his wife.
She sighed deeply, happily, and closed her eyes with a smile.