Love Came Just in Time (29 page)

Jane looked at him carefully. “That's a very good question. How did you come across the sea?”

Ian closed his eyes and she watched him swallow very hard. It seemed to take him a moment or two to regain control of himself before he opened his eyes and looked at her.

“I live in Scotland,” he managed. “How I came to be across that vast sea, I know not. But I must go home.” He looked bleakly at the map. “I must go home.”

There was a wealth of longing in those words and in spite of herself, Jane was moved. She recognized the feeling. She wanted to go home, wanted it more than anything, but home wasn't a return ticket to Indiana. She loved her family, but they were solid, dependable people with solid, dependable dreams. Jane, despite her solid, dependable name had never been one of them, never shared in their dreams. They wanted accountants and bankers; Jane wanted a sheep farm, a spinning wheel, and dyes in vibrant, breath-stealing colors. Her dream home was a little house in the Scottish Highlands where she could weave in peace and never again look at a bridal gown, never again be bound by white and ecru, never again wear black unless someone had died.

Home. In a place she'd never dreamed of.

And with a person she'd never expected.

“I have to go home,” Ian repeated.

She nodded. “I understand.”

“Can you help me?”

She took a deep breath. “I can. In fact, let's start now. We'll call information and see if we can't get your cousin on the phone.”

“The phone?”

She picked up the cordless and handed it to him. He was giving it the same look of intense interest he'd given the toaster, so she took it away from him.

And she couldn't help but wish he'd look at her that way. Maybe women hadn't changed enough since the Middle Ages for her to be all that much of a novelty.

She shook her head as she went to look for the phone book. “Maybe I'm the one who needs the asylum,” she muttered under her breath. “I'm starting to believe him!”

Within moments, she was sitting next to him on the couch, connecting with international information. She asked for a listing for James MacLeod in the Highlands.

“There are scores,” the operator said with asperity. “Can you be a bit more specific?”

Jane put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Can you be more specific? A specific town?”

Ian peered at the map. “Well, ‘tis a half se'nnight's journey from MacAllister's keep, but less from the Fergusson's. We've a forest nearby and the mountains are behind us.”

He traced the map with his finger and as he did so, Jane made a decision.

“Thanks,” she said to the operator and hung up the phone before she could change her mind. What she contemplated was possibly the stupidest thing she'd ever contemplated, but she was tired of her safe existence. Here she had the perfect opportunity to pick up and do something, well, colorful. There was every reason not to, but none of those reasons was appealing, so she ignored them. She looked at Ian. “We'll just fly over and you can get there by landmarks. You can do that, can't you?”

“Easily. But this flying . . .”

“In a plane. You'll love it.”

“I will repay you—”

She held up her hand and cut him off. She didn't want to talk about money. It wasn't why she was doing it.

“I will,” he insisted. “It isn't proper that you spend what you've earned on a stranger.”

“We'll deal with that later.”

He looked at her, then shook his head. “The journey will be very long. Your work—”

“I hate my work,” she said, then shut her mouth when she realized what she'd said. Hate was a strong word. She took a deep breath. “It really won't take very long and I have some vacation time coming up anyway.”

“I couldn't—”

“Please.” She hadn't meant to say it, but it slipped out of her mouth just as surprisingly as had the other things. “I would very much like to see Scotland,” she amended. “I hear it's beautiful.”

Ian took her hand and squeezed it. “You're very kind, Jane Fergusson. You have my gratitude.”

She would have rather had his unrestrained passion, but gratitude wasn't a bad start.

“How about a movie?” she asked, pulling her hand away before she did something stupid, like leave it in his. “We'll do popcorn, too.”

“A Future tradition?”

With the way he said Future, she couldn't help but capitalize it in her mind. Whatever Ian's mental state, he certainly was enthusiastic about everything she suggested.

“Definitely,” she answered him. “Maybe we'll do ice cream later.” She'd already put her foot to the slippery slope of breaking out of her normal routine. Might as well go for the full trip.

Her only hope was that she had some heart left for beating in her chest once Ian was safely delivered home.

 

 

THREE HOURS LATER, Jane huddled in her bed, wondering if she shouldn't have chosen a romantic comedy instead of an alien thriller. A tap on her door almost left her clinging to the ceiling.

“What?” she croaked.

The door opened a crack. “Jane, might I perchance sleep up here with you? On the floor, even.”

More of Ian inched through her door, clad in boxers and dragging a blanket behind him.

“Well . . .” she began.

“I saw an alien in the garderobe.”

She might have argued with him, but she was almost certain she'd seen the same thing in her closet.

“All right,” she said slowly.
I am insane,
she thought. An unknown quality coming to sleep on the floor next to her bed. It would be just her luck to wake up throttled, or worse. She wasn't sure what anyone else might think would be worse than a throttling, but she could come up with a few things.

“A peaceful rest to you, my lady,” came the deep whisper from beside her bed.

My lady.
Well, how could you not feel just a little more relaxed with that kind of talk coming your way?

Jane closed her eyes, sighed, and then another thought occurred to her.

“Ian?”

“Aye.”

“Do you have a passport?”

“Passporrrt?” he echoed in a sleepy burr.

“You know, papers to get you through customs and all?”

“Future customs,” he murmured, smacking his lips a time or two. “Must learn those right away.”

“Did you leave it at home?”

Her only answer was a snore. Besides, she thought, if he'd entered the country through the normal channels, surely he would have had it on him when he'd arrived in New York.

In Miss Witherspoon's salon, wearing filthy rags and spearing bags of munchies on the end of a sword.

She sighed. Wonderful. What she had was a wacko without the necessary documents to deposit him back on home soil. Why couldn't she have had a cousin in some illegal kind of import-export business?

Then again, there was Frank at Miss Witherspoon's. He dressed like an aging urchin, bathed with the regularity of an eighteenth-century chimney sweep, and always had the faint hint of cannabis clinging to him. If anyone might know where to come up with a passport for Ian, Frank would. It was something to hope for. She closed her eyes and to her surprise, immediately and quite peacefully drifted off to sleep.

And she dreamed of Scotland.

IAN SAT BEHIND a strangely fashioned table in what Jane called her broom closet at Miss Whitherspoon's workplace and marveled at the fineness of the fabric surrounding him. It was all white, of course, but the variety and the beauty of it was truly a wonder. He picked up the Future weapon Jane had originally faced him with and saw that its jaws opened and closed with great precision. He reached for a swath of fabric to try it out upon. He hadn't but begun to close the teeth when he heard a screech that fair sent him scampering for cover.

“Stop!”

Ian stopped in mid-closing and looked up to find Jane teetering at the doorway.

“Don't cut that,” she said, reaching out and taking the weapon from him. “Come with me. Frank wants to take your picture.”

Ian followed her obediently through the empty hallways. Frank, he understood, would provide him with the necessary things he would need to return to Scotland. He wasn't exactly sure why he had come to New York in the first place, but he suspected there was something quite magical about the city that drew seekers of all kinds.

Or wackos, as he heard Jane occasionally mutter under her breath.

Within moments, courtesy of another claustrophobic ride in the elevator, Ian faced a small black box and was subsequently reeling from the shock of having a bright light explode in his eyes. He looked at Jane and blinked several times until his eyes cleared. He sincerely hoped whatever Frank intended to do for him was worth what he'd just faced.

“He can do this thing?” Ian asked her, rubbing his eyes.

“I know a guy,” Frank said, busily attending to the torture device he'd just used on Ian.

“He knows a guy,” Jane said, taking Ian by the arm and pulling him from the chamber. “Now to go beg for some vacation time,” she said with a sigh. “This should be fun.”

With the way she said it, Ian wasn't sure
fun
was something he wanted to be involved in. He put his shoulders back and tried to look his most confident. He didn't want to get in Jane's way as she negotiated for temporary freedom from her employer. It was more of a sacrifice than he was truly willing for her to make, but she seemed determined to come with him. And, if the truth were to be told, he wasn't sure he could get himself to Scotland of the Future without her.

Or, strangely enough, that he even wanted to.

He was almost certain it wasn't just misplaced gratitude, though he had enough of that and to spare. How he ever could have survived his arrival in the Future without Jane having been there, he surely didn't know. She had fed him, clothed him, and given him a place to lay his head. There was much to be said for that.

And then he quite suddenly lost track of all his thoughts as the elevator doors opened, he stepped into the passageway, and his rather starved libido caught an eyeful of the women who had suddenly filled Miss Witherspoon's place of commerce.

Too skinny by half, most of them, but passing beautiful. Tall, willowy, in all colors and shapes. Ian could only gape at them, stunned mainly by the looks they were giving him, looks that said they would be more than willing to engage in whatever activity he might suggest. He knew the look. He'd seen it before and he'd certainly taken advantage of it before.

“Models,” Jane threw over her shoulder as she plunged into the midst of them. “They wear the bridal gowns for the customers.”

Brides? He could hardly believe it, for none of them looked nervous enough to be contemplating their first night with a man. Just as well. Ian was acutely aware of the last virgin he'd tutored and where that evening's instruction had landed him. It was far better to indulge in one of these. Or several.

His conscience gave him a sharp poke, reminding him that at one point in the Fergusson's dungeon he'd made a last-minute plea for forbearance based on the promise of pledging to one woman.

He looked at Jane as she parted the way before him. She was dressed all in black again and Ian wondered if that was so she would fade when compared to the other creatures circling him like carrion birds dressed in white. Her hair was confined the same way he'd seen it at first, all bunched at the back of her head with a handful of sticks poking from it. They were pencils he knew now, but they still looked odd to him. She was almost as tall as the other women but not nearly as slender, though her shape was a fine one.

One woman.

Or the score he currently waded through.

Jane, or a variety of delicacies he thought he just might want to sample.

He felt a smack on his backside and he yelped as the hand lingered. Ian couldn't tell who had done it, but there were several standing about him who looked capable of such an intimate gesture. Jane turned around and frowned at the lot of them.

“Down, girls. He's out of your league.”

One of the women snorted. “As if he's in yours, Janey.”

It was at that point that Ian began to suspect that beneath all the beauty and seductiveness might lie less-than-nice souls. He also cared not for the quickly hidden flinch he'd seen Jane display. These women knew nothing of her and yet she allowed them to wound her? Ian stepped up to Jane's side and took her hand.

“Let us be off,” he said, casting the disparaging woman a look of disapproval. Jane didn't pull her hand away, but Ian felt her fingers fluttering nervously. It was as if he'd caught a butterfly. It was not the hand that would take liberties with an unknown man's backside.

“Models,” Jane muttered with distaste. “They're very dangerous.”

“So I see,” Ian said, rubbing his abused backside with his free hand.

“And what we're going to face is even more dangerous. We're almost there.” She looked up at him. “Try to look helpless and pathetic. We're going for the mercy vote.”

As you will
Ian had planned to say, but before he could get the words out, the door to Miss Witherspoon's office had been opened and he'd gotten a complete eyeful of Miss Witherspoon.

“Oh,” Jane said, sounding less than pleased. She pulled Ian behind her into Miss Witherspoon's private chamber. “Where is she?”

“Out,” the vision purred, coming to her feet from behind the impressively large table, revealing impressively large proportions herself.