Every Time with a Highlander (10 page)

“A wee dram” seemed like just the thing to Michael, though he had some misgivings about the man whose hand lay on his shoulder, guiding him through the door. He
did
have red hair, which Undine had indicated one of the two people would possess, but he was also quite imposing, being several inches taller than Michael, and he sported a short sword as well as an expression that suggested trying to run would be fruitless.

“Are you a Scot?” the man asked.

“You dinna think I sound like one?” Michael said, feigning amusement.

“A Scot, aye. A Scot from 1706, nae.”

The hairs on Michael's neck lifted. “That's an odd thing to say.”

The corner of the man's mouth rose. “And I've hardly begun.” He led Michael into the tavern and closed the door behind him.

Michael blinked, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. The place was small and dingy. Four tables filled it. All were empty except for the one at which sat four men in kilts disagreeing loudly about a horse. Another man, also in a kilt, sat on a settee in the corner, drinking from a mug. A small fire burned in the hearth at the side of the room, heating a cast-iron pot from which the potent scents of garlic and onion rose. Saliva poured into Michael's mouth, and he took a step closer to see what it held. He hadn't eaten since…well, since two poached eggs on toast at breakfast, which was starting to seem like more than three hundred years ago.

“What do you say to a wee dram
and
whatever's in that—” Michael stopped. The red-haired man had disappeared, evidently through a curtained doorway to the side.

Michael sighed. He had a few quid in the trousers he'd left at the whorehouse, not that they'd get him anything here except probably burned at the stake. He wondered if he could wash dishes for his supper—if, in fact, they washed dishes at all in this place. The wooden trenchers on the table in front of the arguing men did not appear to be shining examples of household fastidiousness.

The man across the room adjusted the settee with a meaningful squeak, caught Michael's eye, and gestured to the space beside him.

Michael realized then that the man's hair was brown. He looked at the swinging curtains through which the red-haired man had passed and back at the man with the brown hair. It was certainly
possible
they were the couple to whom Undine had referred, Michael thought. Homosexuality hadn't just sprung up in the twentieth century, like jazz or fondue. It had been around for as long as there had been people. Just because he
personally
wasn't aware of gay culture in Scotland in the seventeen hundreds didn't mean it didn't exist. If one was going to use Michael's knowledge of a subject as a requirement for that subject's existence, one might as well be willing to say good-bye to lace tatting,
Battlestar Galactica
fan fic, and the entire field of neurobiology.

Michael made his way toward the table, hoping he was reading the man's signal correctly, especially as the man seemed to have lost interest in him, staring instead into the depths of his mug.

“Er, may I join you?”

“Could you have made your approach any less subtle? Maybe carried a flaming torch or something.” The man—a Scot too—downed the last of his drink.

“I beg your pardon,” Michael said, lowering his voice and dropping onto the settee beside him. “I, er, didn't think they were paying attention.”

“They're not. But the woman in the scullery is.”

Michael swung around. The scullery—at least what he could see of it—appeared to be deserted. “I'm not sure how I could have approached with more subtlety. I mean, I just sort of walked over, usual gait and all that.”

The man grunted, his disappointment undiminished.

“Undine told me to—” Michael clapped a hand over his mouth. “Am I allowed to say her name?”

“Too late now. Where did you see her?”

“Just now. At the whorehouse. Er, not in the way you're imagining,” he added quickly, seeing the man's expression. “I mean, I don't know what you were imagining or if you were imagining anything, but it was just as a friend—an acquaintance, really. She took me there—I mean, brought me there. She said you'd help me… You and your, er, friend.”

“My friend?”

“I don't know what you call him. The man I came in with. Your friend.”

“What sort of help do you need?” the man asked.

“Let's start with a name, shall we?”

His brows knit. “You need a name?”

“No, I meant
your
name. What is it? I'm Michael Kent.” He held out his hand. He'd decided to keep his Scots accent as a precaution.

“We generally don't use names,” the man said, giving him a quick shake. “But you can call me Gerard. If I were you, I wouldn't mention Undine again.”

“Fine.” Michael was finding it harder to maintain a sense of anxiety about a tiny tavern inhabited by four drunks and two gay guys in the middle of effing Coldstream. “She said you could hide me.”

“We can. Ship or wagon?”

“No, no. Here. In Coldstream.”

“There's nothing here.”

“Well, that's going to make your job harder, isn't it?” Michael laughed, but the man didn't. “I think she meant in your place.”

“What's happening in your place?” The red-haired man had reemerged with two mugs and a stone bottle. He handed a mug to Michael, grabbed a chair from the closest table, and moved it over.

“Sorry,” Michael said, getting up. “Would you prefer to sit next to him?”

The red-haired man frowned. “Um…nope.” He uncorked the bottle and poured something brown in Michael's mug, refilled Gerard's, and poured some in his own. “
Sláinte
.”

Michael sat back down and drank. Whiskey, and a good one—strong and peaty, with bright notes of grass and orange peel.

“An acquaintance the three of us have in common suggested I could put him up for the night,” Gerard said, addressing the red-haired man.

“It's going to be a wee bit crowded, no?”

Michael turned to the red-haired man. “I hope you dinna mind.”

The man blew a puff of air from his lips. “Not a bloody bit. You're the one who's going to be uncomfortable.”

Michael, midsip, choked. “I am?”

“I wouldna want to be the one on that thing,” the red-haired man said. “'Tis big enough, mind ye, unlike some, but try to turn or move on it, and it feels like you're impaled on a stockade fence.”

“It's not that bad,” Gerard said, adding to Michael, who was beginning to feel dizzy, “Trust me. You won't even notice. Duncan likes to complain.”

“Duncan?” Michael said, finding his voice again.

“Aye, that's me.” The red-haired man extended his hand.

Michael shook it heartily. “You're Lady Kerr's fiancé.”

“I am.”

“Then you're not…” Michael's forefinger flicked back and forth between the two men.

Duncan frowned. “Not what?”

“Er, sleeping at Gerard's place tonight?”

“God no,” Duncan said. “I'd rather sleep on the floor than on that mattress. In any case, her ladyship and I are off to see Chieftain Hay as soon as she finishes the last of her correspondence.” He added to Gerard in a meaningful tone, “Undine summoned him. He's one of us.”

“Wait,” Michael said. “‘One of us'? What does that mean?”

“Seriously?” Gerard said, brightening. “How are the Mets doing?” His Scots accent had evaporated.

“You're
American
?” Michael said, aghast.

“That's more surprising than being from the future?” Gerard laughed and turned to Duncan. “What is it with you people?”

He was from the twenty-first century
too
? Was anyone here who they seemed to be? Michael struggled to get his bearings. “Are you American like him?” he asked Duncan.

“Scot,” Duncan said soberly.

Gerard said, “And he's got the least-believable accent of all. What about you, Kent? I thought I heard a little Brit there.”

Michael was too flustered to know what accent he was doing anymore. “How did you two get here?”

Duncan stretched his legs. “Let's say Undine is not the most careful of spell casters.”

“I was lifted out of a bloody performance,” Michael said.

“A battle reenactment for me,” Duncan said.

Gerard shook his head. “For me, it was a damned fine glass of whiskey. Of course, to be fair,” he said, holding up his mug, “you never really know where a damned fine glass of whiskey is going to take you.”

“How long have you been here?” Michael asked. They gave the impression of having been in 1706 for quite a while, and he was starting to worry his interlude would be turning into something more permanent.

Duncan looked at Gerard, and they both smiled. “Long enough to know we're staying,” Duncan said.

“You can't leave?” Michael said, feeling his worry grow.

“Oh, aye,” Duncan said. “There may be some jiggering to it. But if you decide you want to go, Undine can generally get around to making it happen.”

“Generally?”

“She hasn't lost one yet.” Duncan refilled the mugs.

Michael relaxed a bit. He wouldn't mind saying good-bye to the National Rose, but that pub in Barcelona was another matter.

Gerard scratched his cheek. “So you're a musician? An actor? You look sort of familiar.”

“Actually—”

“Abby said Undine called him to take Bridgewater's confession,” Duncan said.

Gerard's eyes widened. “You're a
clergyman
?”

“You were right before,” Michael said. “I'm an actor… Well, I used to be. I've been a director the last fifteen years.”

“
Trevor Quince
!” Gerard said. “That's it. You're that old wizard guy, what's-his-name, in those movies!”

“Orlando Brashnettle. And thank you.”

“Well, well, well, a famous actor in our midst.”

“Not very famous. And not in your midst for long, I hope.”

“Do you?” Duncan, who seemed to be the more contemplative of the two, regarded Michael with curiosity. “I wouldn't have guessed so, seeing you watch that carriage pull away.”

“Why would Undine call an actor to take Bridgewater's confession?” Gerard looked at Duncan, confused.

“She thought she was calling a priest,” Michael said. It seemed Undine hadn't told any of her friends about the wedding ceremony.
Odd.

Duncan pulled his stool closer. “What did Bridgewater tell you?”

Michael swirled the mug absently. Bridgewater's feelings for Undine were a source of displeasure for him. “Not much. He loves her.”

“Prick,” Gerard said. “As far as I'm concerned, he deserves exactly what he gets.”

Michael didn't disagree, but his attention had moved to the men who'd been arguing about the horse. They'd exchanged looks a moment earlier and fallen unnaturally quiet.

“If you ask me”—Gerard went on, and Michael lifted his finger to alert him and leaned his head toward the table. Duncan's hand drifted instantly to his sword, and Gerard, who had stopped talking, cleared his throat and went on in perfect Scots—“Queen Anne can kiss my hairy arse.”

As Tybalt, Michael had stabbed Mercutio. As Cyrano, he'd fought a duel with Valvert. As Macduff, he'd killed Macbeth. As a director, he'd even stepped on Henry Higgins's foot hard enough to make him limp for a week after he'd heard him call Eliza Doolittle a bitch. But the last time he'd actually confronted someone with the purpose of doing him true bodily harm was in first form, when Robbie MacNair had taken the seat next to Tamsin Grey in art class, when Robbie
had known for a fact
Michael was the one in love with her, as he'd just confessed as much to Robbie over his ham sandwich at lunch. Michael had thrown a killer punch, but Robbie had had the last laugh, shoving the table so hard that it overturned, and Michael had had to go through the rest of the day with a chipped tooth, blue paint in his hair, and a shirt that looked embarrassingly like one of Jackson Pollock's canvases.

The closest of the men at the table had a pistol at his hip, but none of the others had weapons that Michael could see. Duncan had a sword, Gerard had a knife in his belt, and Michael had a lady's handkerchief. They were at a numerical and ballistic disadvantage, but they had one small, soon-to-expire advantage: the three of them knew something was about to happen before their adversaries knew they knew.

Michael jumped to his feet. “
You're
a fucking hairy arsehole,” he said to Gerard in his best imitation of a belligerent, drunk Englishman. “Queen Anne wouldn't wipe her arse with the likes of you or any of your filthy countrymen.”

Gerard snorted. “Aye, but only because she's too fat to wipe.”

Michael grabbed Gerard by the shirt and dragged him to his feet. “Apologize, you ball-faced turd.”

Michael pulled a beautiful stage punch that brushed Gerard's cheek but made a meaty noise against his shoulder. Fortunately for all of them, Gerard's shock at this passed easily for a post-punch daze. To Michael's great relief, Gerard turned out to be a fast learner. He threw a roundhouse that grazed Michael's chin just as Michael snapped his head back. Michael's
oof
was worthy of an Olivier.

He spun in a dizzying circle, milking every millisecond for its dramatic richness, while the four men stared, slack jawed, waiting for him to land.

Duncan, who had leapt to his feet as the first punch was thrown, made his way surreptitiously around the men.

But, like the way a spinning top sometimes does just before it falls, Michael found new balance, slowed, and came to rest in a fighting stance. He grabbed Gerard, whispered “Tuck and roll,” and shoved him toward the men. Gerard landed on his side on the table, sending mugs flying in every direction. The table crashed to the ground, knocking three of the men to the floor with it. The fourth, the one with the gun, stood up, disgusted to have been doused with ale. He shook the foam off his arms, and as he wiped his face on his sleeve, Duncan slipped the pistol out of its holster and tossed it lightly to Michael, who promptly hid it in the waistband of his breeks.