Chapter 10 #3
She flinched a little which seemed odd, but perhaps she didn’t particularly care for them.
He couldn’t say the same about his own. He loved his father and adored his mother.
One of the things that had genuinely grieved him the most over the years had been not seeing them every day.
He supposed he would have gone off to find fame and fortune just the same if he’d remained in the thirteenth century, but still he missed them both.
“My mother’s coming for a flower show and my father has plans to spend as the same number of hours in the pub that he’s forced to in scholarly meetings about historical happenings.”
“A gardener and an historian?” Sam said. “How lovely.”
“It is,” she agreed. “They actually come to England every year, but this is the first year I’ve come along with them.
Well, they brought us all when I was seven, but that didn’t go very well so they left us home after that.
” She stopped in front of a lovely little chocolate-box cottage and nodded. “This is it.”
Sam approved of their taste in lodgings, if nothing else. He followed her through the front garden, then caught her hand before she put her key in the lock. He did that, as it happened, because the door was ajar.
He put his finger to his lips, had a wide-eyed look in response, then pointed to a little spot against the wall well out of the way. Harriet nodded, then took up the place he’d suggested.
He pushed the door open a bit more, heard nothing, then swung it wide.
When that resulted in neither shouts nor furniture tipping over, he looked inside, keeping the bulk of the wall between himself and the innards of the cottage.
At least it was late spring and he wasn’t fumbling around in the dark. He felt Harriet’s hand on his arm.
“I’m sure I locked it.”
“I’m sure you did,” he murmured. “Stay here and do not move.”
“All right,” she breathed.
He would have given much to have had Theo with him, but he made do.
A very quick investigation of the inside of the cottage revealed nothing that seemed out of place.
No windows were propped open, nothing broken, nothing tossed about in a fit of ruffian pique.
He turned on every light in the place, then returned to the door to find Harriet still where he’d left her.
He pulled her inside the cottage and shut the door behind them. It closed with a reassuring click.
“No bad guys inside,” he said soothingly, “and nothing seems out of place.” He looked over at the hearth and frowned thoughtfully. “Did they arrive early perhaps?”
“No,” she said uneasily, “those are just the trunks they sent ahead.”
He walked over to examine them a bit more closely, then looked at the beautiful faery who had come to hover next to him, looking as if her fondest wish was to immediately flutter off somewhere else. He studied her.
“Now you’re making me nervous.”
“Me?” she asked with an uneasy laugh. “Why me?”
“You’re acting very suspiciously,” he said. “How do I know these aren’t your trunks and you don’t have nefarious things hiding inside them? A dead body, red string, your missing black belt—”
“You know, I think we should probably just scoot back to the inn,” she said brightly. “We wouldn’t want to invade anyone’s privacy.”
He pursed his lips. “Are you picking these locks or am I?”
“We really should go—”
“Harriet, we should check,” he said, finding that once the words were out, he stood behind them fully. “The front door was open and you didn’t leave it that way. It doesn’t look as if anything has been taken, but we should at least know if anything has been added.”
“You’ve read too many of your brother’s books,” she muttered.
He smiled ruefully. “Quite possibly, but since you have as well, let’s proceed.”
She put her hand over her eyes. “Go ahead, but I can’t watch.”
He pulled the appropriate gear out of his wallet where he’d stowed it after his unfortunate boot-betrayal, then chose a trunk at random and opened it without delay. He took a step backward and stared at the clothing that had spilled out and now lay on the floor at his feet.
The items included but were not limited to a tall, conical hat, an elegantly embroidered gown, a medieval-looking tunic, a pair of tights, and, most alarming of all, a pair of curly toed slippers. Actually, there were two pairs of slippers, both with curly toes.
He looked at the largesse, then at Harriet. “Should I ask?”
She looked thoroughly uncomfortable. “I might have one more secret.”
“Confess, then,” he said doing his damndest to ignore the fact that he had one last, great whacking one himself.
“My parents,” she began, watching him as if she fully expected him to react badly, “are LARPers.”
He frowned. “They’re what?”
“LARPers,” she repeated. “Well, I’m actually not sure about the extent of their activities, but I do know that they dress up in medieval clothing.”
So do mine, was what he wanted to say but couldn’t, for obvious reasons.
“There’s more.”
“I can hardly wait to hear it,” he managed.
“I once walked in on them dressed in this medieval clothing, pretending to be lord and lady of the manor.”
Sam was heartily tempted to find a chair. The number of times he’d walked in on his parents—not just in their bedchamber but out in the open as well—also wearing medieval clothing and snogging like teenagers who hadn’t seen each other in months … He took a deep breath.
“You walked in on them?” he echoed. “I don’t think I want to know what they were doing.”
“Nothing embarrassing,” Harriet said quickly. “Well, my father was hoisting a sword and declaring his intention to go slay dragons, but they were fully dressed.” She paused. “He was wearing those curly toed shoes.”
Sam bent his head and rubbed the back of his neck. He realized he was having to fight a right jolly old laugh, but he was afraid once he started, he might not be able to stop. Of all the things for her parents to be involved in, it had to be medieval re-enactments?
“They’re just pretending,” Harriet continued. “Nothing more.”
He was equally certain his parents were not, but admitting that was to give the woman standing next to him an entirely new batch of items to add to her tally of things to avoid in England. He was surprised to find how much he didn’t want his name making an appearance on that list.
It was madness, of course. His brother would return, Harriet would meet him and fall under his spell, and then her parents would arrive to no doubt whisk her off on their adventures.
That was all to the good, of course, because after seeing that clothing there on the hearthrug, his common sense had returned with a roar. Harriet Brewster was lovely and fierce and he had the feeling it wouldn’t take more than a gentle push to find himself wallowing in very fond feelings for her.
Unfortunately, there was no hope for them because the one thing that absolutely could not happen was for his world and hers to come any closer than ships passing in the night. Friendly ships, perhaps, but in the end nothing more.
Damn it anyway.
He then made the mistake of looking at her, that gel with the lovely face framed by that untamed hair, and found himself reaching for the muzzle of his good sense and clamping a hand around it to stifle any more opinions.
What could it possibly hurt to just take a day or two and set all those things—his past, her present, whatever lay in the future—aside and enjoy a simple, pleasant supper in a pub where the paranormal happenings were confined to the occasional sightings of the local ghosts?
He could still see to sorting his business in Stratford, she could welcome her parents to their cottage, then they could finish up the conference and plot together ways to do Theo in. When it was time for her to go home, he would drive her to the bloody airport himself.
But until then, perhaps just a meal in a safe place.
Surely not even Father Time could begrudge them that.
Surely.