Love Came Just in Time (7 page)

He blinked at her. “Oh.”

She sighed with exaggerated patience. “Are you with me now?”

“Indeed, we are sitting here together.”

She dropped her face to her hands and laughed. Miles couldn't help himself. He reached out and ran his hand over her hair. It was pleasingly soft to the touch. It was not so dark as his, and with somewhat of a reddish tint to it. It was hair he wished he could sink his hands into as he sank another part of himself—

“Good grief!” Abigail exclaimed, jerking back upright. “Can't you just concentrate on what I'm saying for five minutes?”

“I'd rather concentrate on kissing you, if it's all the same to you,” he offered.

“No,” she said, firmly. “I'm serious about this.”

And, suddenly, the truth struck him like a blow. He sat back and felt the blood leave his face. She was betrothed. How could he not have seen it before? Either that, or she was wed. She was no simpering maid who had to rely on her sire for every breath she took and every word to come out of her mouth. Abigail was far too sure of herself. She was likely of an age with his own score and four years, surely old enough to have been wed several years.

“Go ahead,” he said, flatly, “Tell me of him.”

“Who, Brett? How do you know about Brett?”

Damn. Knowing he had surmised correctly was no consolation.

“I assumed,” he said curtly.

He should have stayed at Artane. What in hell's name had possessed him to come here? To hold Abigail Moira Garrett in his arms and feel himself falling in love with her unruly hair and indomitable spirit? What had made him think she might even be free? What fool would let her go, once he had her?

And who had he been to think she might want him? Lord of his own hall though he might have been—but what a hall! The farmland surrounding his keep had lain fallow for years. The forests were likely thick with thieves. And it wasn't as if he could go to the continent to better his situation. There was most certainly no welcome for him in France, despite how generous Louis might be with his understanding. He had been accused of witchcraft. What would Abigail want with a husband of that ilk?

“—and when I lost my job, he broke up with me and took off. Next door, to be exact. To Bunny Ann Bartlett's apartment.”

But, oh, to have had the chance to try to win her. He looked at her and, to his surprise, felt himself longing for the chance like he'd longed for nothing else in years, save his knight's spurs. To hear his name come from those lush lips with the same tones of love as she used when speaking of her husband—

“—a total putz. He kept bottles of hairspray and mousse at my apartment for emergency touch-ups. There were times I had to take a putty knife to the bathroom floor just to get the stuff up—”

To be the one she gazed at with longing, to be the one she welcomed to her bed each night—

“—of course, I think it's because I wouldn't sleep with him. Garretts don't do that until after marriage, you know. So, he left me. Bunny probably hit the sheets with him the minute he walked through her door.”

Miles blinked. He realized he hadn't heard everything she'd said. And he'd understood even less.

“Bunny?” he asked.

“Brett's new girlfriend. They're getting married soon.”

“Your husband is marrying someone else?”

Abigail looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. “Husband! Are you kidding? I never would have married that creep! I only got engaged to him because I was so miserable after Sir Sweetums met his unhappy kitty end. I knew Brett never really wanted to marry me. He was just using me for my ultra hold mousse.”

Miles shook his head, feeling mightily confused. “Then you aren't wed?”

“Of course not!”

“Oh,” he said.

Then he understood.

“Aaahh,” he said, feeling himself start to smile. He couldn't help it. A feeling of relief started at his toes and worked its way upward until it settled on his mouth. “The saints be praised for that!”

Abigail leaned forward and felt his forehead. “You aren't feverish,” she muttered.

“Indeed, I am most certainly not,” he said, grasping her hand and hauling her onto his lap. He beamed at her. “And you are not wed.”

“Boy, nothing gets by you, does it?”

He ignored her mocking tone in favor of contemplating his next action. “I believe I've heard enough,” he announced. “I'm going to kiss you now.”

She eluded his lips and managed to slip out of his arms and plant herself back on her stool. Miles frowned.

“Perhaps I was unclear—” he began, reaching for her again.

“Miles!”

“What?” he said, feeling his frown settle into a scowl.

“You can't kiss me. You haven't heard what I have to tell you.”

“You aren't wed. What else could I possibly need to know?”

She clapped her hands on her knees, then rose with exaggerated care. “I am having a serious case of low blood sugar and you are
not
helping matters. I need something to eat. I don't suppose you have anything with chocolate in it, do you?”

“Chocolate?”

“Of course not,” she groaned and walked off toward the kitchen. “It's too early in time for chocolate.”

Miles followed after her grumbling self into his pitifully kept kitchen. He watched her rummage through the stores his father's men had unloaded onto one of the tables, and found himself wondering just what it was she had to tell him. Had she left her home without permission? There was her former fiancé to consider. The betrothal had been broken, obviously, but was that enough to have made her flee her home?

“Abigail,” he said, “perhaps then you should tell me of your sire. I will no doubt need to get word to him that you are well.” There, now he would have the entire tale.

She turned around with a loaf of bread in her hand. “You can't,” she said, softly. “He's dead.”

“Oh,” Miles said, quietly. “Forgive me.”

She smiled. “You couldn't have known.”

Miles moved to stand next to her. He broke off a hunk of bread. “Did he die well?”

“He fell off the side of a mountain. My mother fell off trying to catch him.”

“A glorious and astounding finish, as is right. I'm sorry, though, Abigail. You must miss them very much.”

She shrugged and chewed slowly.

“No other family? Uncles? Aunts? Siblings?”

She swallowed and looked up at him. “They're a bit too far away to contact.”

“Word can be sent.”

She shook her head.

He frowned. “The world is not that large, Abigail, and I have seen a great deal of it. Now where is this place you come from—Frozen Muff?”

“Freezing Bluff. It's in Michigan.”

That was surely no place he'd ever heard of, but he was loath to admit his ignorance.

“Scotland,” he guessed.

“Not even close.”

“Hmmm,” he said, frowning. “Where exactly is Freezing Bluff, if not in the north?”

Abigail set her bread aside. She took Miles's bread away from him and put it on the table, too. Then she looked up at him slowly.

“Where
isn't exactly the right question.” She paused for a goodly while, then looked at him soberly.
“When
is, though.”

He frowned. “What mean you by that?”

She clasped her hands behind her back. “I think you're right about Henry. He probably was king in 1238.”

“I see you've finally come to your senses—what mean you was? He still
is.”

“If you're living in 1238.”

“Which I am.” Saints, perhaps that swim
had
truly addled her wits.

“Which I wasn't—yesterday.”

Miles shook his head. “I don't understand.”

“Elizabeth is queen in my day.”

“Your day?”

“1996.”

“1996?” he whispered.

“The Year of Our Lord 1996,” Abby said, slowly and distinctly. “Seven hundred years in the future.”

Miles blinked. He looked at her head. No horns. He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. She looked perfectly sane. She felt perfectly normal.

“1996,” he repeated. The very numbers felt foreign on his tongue.

He looked at Abigail again. Was it possible? Could she have been living and breathing in another time one moment, then found herself alive in his time the next? Saints above, the thought left him with his head spinning.

Indeed, the entire room seemed to be spinning.

“Miles!”

He felt Abigail throw her arms around him. It didn't help. The stone of the kitchen floor came up to meet him. Abruptly.

“Oof,” he managed, as Abigail landed on his stomach.

“I saved your head,” she panted.

“My gratitude,” Miles said, realizing that indeed her fingers were between his head and the unyielding floor. “Truly.”

“I thought men from Artane didn't faint.”

Miles could only manage a grunt. Words were beyond him. He was lying on his kitchen floor with a woman sprawled over him who supposedly lived in a time well past when the world should have ended. With great effort, he flopped his arms around her and held on. She felt like a true woman. She spoke a bit strangely, and used words he had to puzzle out, but now knowing her background, he could understand it. Background ? Saints, her background was his foreground. Her past was his future. He groaned. He didn't spare much effort in doubting her. If he could believe he'd seen her cat walk
through
his hall door, he could believe this. But, by the saints, the very thought of it hurt his head.

And then the truth of the matter struck him with the force of a charging horse.

He couldn't keep her.

He groaned again, from deep within his soul. Merciful St. Christopher, he could not keep her! How could he, when she belonged in another time so completely foreign to his? She had a life there, a life that should be lived. How could he sentence her to a life at Speningethorpe? It wasn't even Artane, with its modern comforts, that he offered. His hall was no better than a stable. Surely she was used to luxuries he couldn't imagine. How could he rob her of that?

He pushed her gently away and struggled to sit up.

“I'll find a way to send you back,” he said, flatly. “Today.”

“What?”

“Back home!” he snapped, looking at her with a glare. “I'll find a way to get you back to your home. Damnation, Abigail, I'll do it as soon as I've caught my breath.”

“You'll send me back?” she asked.

Miles gritted his teeth. “Of course!” He lurched to his feet and grasped the table for support. “As bloody quick as I can!”

She was silent for several moments, long enough for him to catch his breath and regain his balance. His vision cleared just in time to see her expression of hurt change to one of anger. He hardly had time to unravel the mystery of that change when he was assaulted by a barrage of words.

“Oh, great!” she exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. “This is just great! You don't want me either!” She started to pace in front of him. “First it's my boss who gives me the old heave-ho, though I hated that job and his stupid cactus plants anyway. Then my landlord wants me out. Peter Pan takes a hike because I can't pay for his upkeep anymore. Hell's bells, not even the Social Security office wants anything to do with me! Just what's wrong with me, anyway?” She stopped, looked at him with another accusing glance, then poked him sharply in the chest. “You tell me that, Mr. I-just-barely-escaped-the-Inquisition knight from Spendingthorn.”

“Speningethorpe.”

“Whatever,” she snarled.

“Ah . . . ,” he began.

“Never mind,” she said, her eyes blazing. “I don't want you either. Your house is a mess. You don't even have a job. I'm
not
going to work my fingers to the bone to feed and clothe another boyfriend. Forget it. I'm finding my cat,” she said, sticking her nose up in the air, “and
going.”
She turned away from him smartly. “Sir Sweetums, get over here
right now!”

Miles watched with open mouth as she stomped from his kitchen. And, much as he hated to admit it, he hadn't understood a thing she'd said. Except for the part about the Inquisition.

Oh, and that she thought he didn't want her.

Which had to mean, and he congratulated himself on the ability to deduce this, that she wanted
him.

And while he was indulging in realizations, he realized that while she might have only come to want him recently, he'd wanted her from the moment he'd clapped eyes on her formerly fluffy self standing at his gates. Harpy or no, he had very much wanted to understand all there was to understand about Abigail Moira Garrett. He wanted it even more now. And if it meant keeping her in the glorious Year of Our Lord 1238, then so be it.

He stepped out into the great hall and watched as she hitched up her hose and stomped across the great hall, hollering for her bloody cat. What an enchanting woman. Hell, he didn't care if she was an enchant
ed
woman. He wanted her.

And Miles de Piaget always got what he wanted.

He would invite her to stay. Indeed, he would all but demand that she stay.

He strode forward. It took four long strides to catch up to her, another to position himself properly, and half another to sweep her squeaking self up into his arms. He looked down into her beautiful face and gave her his most lordly look. He knew it wasn't as convincing as his sire's, but since Abigail had nothing to compare it to, it would do.