Every Time with a Highlander (4 page)

Two words
, was it? Undine snorted. She could think of two particularly Anglo-Saxon words she could offer him.

She could hear the
swish
of the priest's habit behind her as they walked. She kept her gaze forward, on Bridgewater's proud back, refusing to dignify the smugness in the priest's eyes. She considered herself nearly fearless—she'd faced the wrath of men who'd heard fortunes that did not sit well with their egos, and the risk of death when gathering intelligence for the rebels—but she'd face all of it ten times over rather than bear the utter horror of having Bridgewater think of her as his wife. Damn the man—damn both of them.

The priest had surprised her. Her experience of churchmen did not allow for a man of such…well, full-bloodedness. Those she'd known had either been prigs, as in the case of the bishop; vainglorious maneuverers, as in the case of the archbishop; or kindhearted fools. Provocative dancing aside, there was something about the man himself that seemed unorthodox. Perhaps it was the piercing blue eyes or the touches of gray at his temples or the finely cut profile. He carried himself like a man of the world, which was not what she'd expected when she'd conjured a cleric unlicensed to perform a ceremony.

“What on earth was going on in there?” Bridgewater said under his breath, having slowed enough to allow her to reach him.

She stole a glance at the priest, who, despite Bridgewater's best efforts at subterfuge—which, admittedly, had not been particularly good—had overheard the question and was giving her a smile.

“I believe he has a suppurating testicle,” she said loudly. “Possibly two.”

Bridgewater winced and looked back himself. “He
told
you that?”

“One hardly needs to be told. Just look at the man.”

Bridgewater turned again, and on cue, the priest began to walk with a bowlegged gait worthy of one of the actors from his Bankside home.

Bridgewater shook his head. “He came with a message, did you say?”

“Aye. And when he gave it to the bishop, the bishop looked quite overcome.”

In Bridgewater's eyes, a silent calculation took place. “Bad news, do you think?” he asked after a beat.

“He didn't say.” Undine could now add the archbishop to the list of men Bridgewater was suspicious of, in league with, or both.

Bridgewater fell into a distracted silence. When they reached the doors of the chapel, he stopped. “Father…” He hesitated, hunting for a surname. “Er, I beg your pardon. I do not believe I have been given the honor of your name.”

“Father Kent.” The cleric made an abbreviated bow.

“Father Kent, I believe I too would like a few moments to cleanse my soul.”

Undine would've laughed had not the motivation behind Bridgewater's request been so transparent: he wanted to question the priest about the contents of the note he'd delivered to the bishop—a note that only existed in Undine's imagination—and he was willing to put off the wedding he'd been so eager for only a moment earlier to do it. She gave Kent a look in which she tried to convey a warning about the danger he'd be stepping into. She'd brought him here to help her, not to put the man in harm's way.

“John, I hardly think he is the man to hear you,” she said. “I mean no insult to you, Father,” she added with a small curtsy before turning back to Bridgewater. “You should wait for the return of the bishop, or even the archbishop. They would be the appropriate vessels for the confession of a nobleman, not this man.”

Bridgewater cupped her hand and kissed it. “Do you think the man who heard the confession of my beloved fiancée would not be appropriate for me? The man is an ascetic, aye, but that doesn't mean he can't help my contrition reach God. ‘Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven,' aye?”

“John, he is not quite—”

“I will hear you, sir,” Kent said flatly. “Let us adjourn to a quiet room to give you the privacy you need.”

She looked at Kent.
Don't do it. You don't know what you're getting into.

He blinked once, owl-like, acknowledging—and dismissing—her concern.

“Follow me,” Bridgewater said to the man and strode down the twisting hall.

Kent bowed to her, a deep-kneed bend as graceful as Undine had ever seen, and followed his host. Just before he disappeared from view, Kent did a quick turn, hips undulating, and gave Undine a nod.

Michael noticed Bridgewater's office had only one chair, the overstuffed one that sat behind the desk. Bridgewater immediately took possession of it. The man had little interest in indulging those who came to him on business, it seemed. And if Michael had any hope of finding evidence that refuted Undine's assertion that he was in the early eighteenth century, he didn't see it here. There were no power outlets, laptops, air-conditioning vents, or phones, and the only thing approaching a light fixture stunk of singed oil.

Bridgewater pushed aside a horn mug filled with quills, the only items on the desk save a silver-tooled knife and ink pot, and looked at Michael. “You'll pardon me, I hope, for telling you I have no desire to confess.”

Michael nodded, unmoved. “Most men feel that way.”

“No, what I mean is that I will not confess.”

Michael, who'd known exactly what Bridgewater had meant, said, “I see.” He fixed the nobleman with a look reserved for misbehaving actors. “Your feelings have changed in the last two minutes?”

“My feelings are unchanged. I brought you here because I require a tête-à-tête.”

“As you wish. The act of contrition comes in many forms.”

“I am not contrite,” Bridgewater said, voice rising. “I will not be confessing. I intend to ask
you
a few questions.”

“Ahhh.” Michael ducked his head knowingly and gave Bridgewater an embarrassed and slightly condescending smile.

“‘Ahhh'? What do you mean by ‘Ahhh'?”

“There are things that a man wonders about before his wedding night,” Michael replied.

Bridgewater's eyes bulged so far out of his head, Michael thought they might burst like water balloons.

“I would hardly be asking
you
if that were the case,” Bridgewater said.

“Why not?”

“You are unmarried, sir,” Bridgewater said hotly. “'Twould stretch the bounds of credulity to imagine you live as an ascetic
and
support a wife.”

Michael shifted. “I admit you're correct, though in fact I was married once and am, therefore, fully equipped to answer your questions. Do you love her?”

He'd surprised Bridgewater with the question.

“I-I…do.”

Michael found this disappointing, though he couldn't say why. He had no idea why he'd even asked the question. “I'm glad to hear it. She's an exemplary woman—and worthy of the title you'll bestow on her.” And she was. He might not like the imperiousness with which Bridgewater's fiancée conducted her business, but there was something eminently fitting about a woman like Undine being given a title, even if it was only Bridgewater's.

Bridgewater dug at the base of the mug with his thumb. “Did she…say anything about me?”

“She did. She was hesitant to say too much, of course, as befits a proper gentlewoman, but 'tis clear she admires you ardently.”

Bridgewater flushed, clearly pleased, the fool. He busied himself with the proper placement of the ink pot for a moment. “Then you really are a priest?”

“Oh, aye. What else would I be?”

“And you're an associate of Bishop Rothwell?”

Now we get down to business.
“I could hardly be a priest, sir, and not be His Grace's associate.”

“I understand he was…upset by the note you delivered.”

“I would not say ‘upset.' ‘Disconcerted' is perhaps a better description.” Michael hoped Rothwell didn't show up to prove him wrong.

Bridgewater tapped the desk. “'Twas personal then?”

“I was not privy to the contents.”

Bridgewater's flush deepened. “I only meant—”

“But if I were to guess,” Michael added with a conspiratorial wink, “I would say the matter was not entirely diocesan. You know the bishop.”

And this was where things got sticky. Michael didn't know what sort of subterfuge Bridgewater was a part of, or if the bishop, Michael's supposed boss, was in on it as well. Bridgewater might be hoping to discover something incriminating about the bishop because he and the bishop held opposing objectives and Bridgewater wanted to stop him. Or he might be hoping to discover something incriminating about the bishop because he and the bishop shared the
same
objective but Bridgewater questioned his loyalty to the cause.

“Whores?” Bridgewater suggested.

Michael shrugged coyly.

“Church funds?” Bridgewater lifted a prurient brow. “Not opium again?”

“All I can say is the note was delivered to me by a young urchin with a limp and it smelled heavily of perfume.”

Bridgewater savored this information like a child with a sweet. “I do hope the issue resolves itself satisfactorily for the bishop,” he said, “whatever it might be.”

“I do as well.”

“Well…” Bridgewater placed his palms on the desktop and stood. “I suppose we need to see about this wedding.”

Michael, who had only threatened to perform the ceremony as a reaction to Undine's infuriating demands, now had to consider what he was actually going to do. He couldn't
legally
marry the couple. Directors had godlike powers, it was true, but as far as he knew, they didn't extend to granting Church of England sacraments. On the other hand, it would serve Undine right to be bound for life to this egomaniacal asshole. She had no business plucking innocent people out of their lives whenever the mood suited her.

“There's no need to mention our conversation to my fiancée,” Bridgewater said. “Women are ill equipped to handle the subtleties of intrigue, and this one especially is too interested in the secrets of others for her own good.”

Michael frowned. “She's a spirited woman. There's no doubt about that.”

“I suspect a few applications of the back of my hand will free her of the affliction. One mustn't shrink from setting boundaries at the start of a marriage. It helps a wife find her footing.”

Michael ground to a halt. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘No'?”

“I mean I can't perform the ceremony—at least not at the present. I have a few concerns and require time to reflect upon them.”

“What concerns?”

“Nothing I can share with you at present.”

“Is it about Undine?” Bridgewater had the grace to look truly concerned, though it didn't soften Michael's heart to him much.

“It is. I want more time with her. I have some questions.”

Bridgewater was clearly unused to men beneath him making such demands, and his face betrayed his reluctance to accede. Michael wondered for an instant if he might find himself thrown into the nearest dungeon in chains—that is, if anything in Coldstream in 1706 would be grand enough to have a dungeon—or chains.

Looking grave, Bridgewater said, “It isn't because of, well, her past, is it? I mean if she's confessed, can she not be forgiven?”

Did he mean the fact of her being a witch? If so, Michael wanted to inform him that the status was certainly not limited to her past. But the look of embarrassment on the man's face suggested a condition less fear-inducing than mortifying.

“Aye, she can be forgiven,” Michael said. “And already has.”

Bridgewater's shoulders relaxed, and Michael smiled. How satisfying to wield the power of a god. Apparently he was rather good at it.

“I can grant you more time with her,” Bridgewater said, “but I must be able to marry her before morning.”

“Why is that?”

Bridgewater must have heard something unclerical in Michael's voice because his eyes instantly narrowed. Michael tried to look as uncunning as possible, which wasn't particularly hard for him as a man three centuries out of his time.

After a long moment, Bridgewater shook off whatever suspicion had come to him and said, “Because I care for her, of course. And I fear she'll change her mind. My solicitor is coming tomorrow, and it would be convenient for us to be able to get a few things signed and settled relative to the marriage as long as he's here, which I can't do if Undine is not my wife. But I admit that isn't the reason I sent for him. He must serve as a messenger for me on another matter.”

Michael bowed. “I will endeavor to keep my discussion with your fiancée short, and I would expect—”

A knock interrupted them, and Bridgewater made an irritated noise. “Aye?”

“'Tis Bishop Rothwell, sir,” a voice called, and Michael fought every instinct to pitch himself immediately out the window.

“What about him?” Bridgewater said warily.

“They've found his clothes at the edge of the woods, but there's no sign of him.”

Bridgewater met Michael's eyes. “I knew it.”

Michael took advantage of the general alarm being raised to break away unnoticed and return to the chapel. When he got there, the place was empty and he paused to think. He hadn't done much of that in the last few minutes. It had been easier to jump into the role of priest than live even for a moment as a man who'd been transported in time.

1706.

He blew air from his cheeks. It was impossible to believe and yet equally impossible to deny.

Outside the stained glass windows, he could hear the sounds of horses being called for and search parties being raised. The mere ordinariness of the moment's details—the flatness of the groom's vowels, the chip missing from a stone framing the window, the distant scent of baking bread—seemed to confirm this was real, not a fantasy.

Not even
my
dreams are this boring.

He began a slow walk around the perimeter of the chapel, partly to look for a hidden door that might take him back to the National Rose, partly to calm his rising panic. He never thought he'd be able to say he missed the actors there, but right then, he'd have happily given half his life savings to be forced to preside over a dispute about dressing room sizes or lead the hunt for a missing tin of throat lozenges.

How long had he been here? A quarter of an hour? A half? Did each extra minute reduce the chances of him finding his way home? Was the play continuing without him? Would he return to find no time had passed, that Paris was still onstage, waiting for his cue? Hell, would he be able to return at all?

Between the dizzying jolt of arriving in another time, Undine's demands, and trying to navigate Bridgewater's game of cat and mouse, he hadn't had time to contemplate the full extent of his plight. But now, in the silent chapel, he felt alone—very alone.

What did he even know about the eighteenth century? Let's see, there was Richard Brinsley Sheridan and his
The School for Scandal
, and Oliver Goldsmith and
She Stoops to Conquer
. Wait. No. Those were from the far more sophisticated end of the eighteenth century, the one that butted up to Jane Austen and Alexandre Dumas. Here, in 1706, they were barely past doublets and jerkins. In fact, in 1706 in Coldstream, they were barely past running each other through with swords. If he recalled his history properly, the last pitched battle between the English army and the Scottish clans didn't take place until 1746. And Coldstream, as Undine so picturesquely put it, straddled the bloody border.

A shiver went through him.

There's no point getting lost in the terrifyingly broad canvas
of history, Michael. Concentrate on what you do know.

Which is?

He considered. Undine: witch or naiad; blond and irritatingly beautiful caster of spells; woman with a past who wants no part of her fiancé, nobleman John Bridgewater. Bridgewater: imperious, self-centered, backward-thinking nobleman and army officer, whose only weak spot appeared to be—

Michael paused.

The bastard does seem to love her. Whatever she may think of him, he seems to love her.

He wanted to hate the man, but he found he couldn't. He actually felt a bit sorry for him. How was it that Bridgewater loved Undine when she so clearly didn't love him? Why, if she didn't want to marry him, had she accepted his proposal of marriage? And how on earth did a man like that ever come to court a woman like Undine?

Michael slouched against the cool stone of the wall. His tour had not uncovered a single hidden door, genie bottle, or DeLorean. If he was able to return, it wasn't going to be as easy as coming. And since he had no intention of living the rest of his life as an ascetic in the already-far-too-ascetic-for-his-taste eighteenth century, he needed to find the witch.

As he began toward the door, an odd shape on the side of the lectern caught his eye. He wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been looking for a secret door. He drew closer and saw it was two ovoid pieces of wood connected by twine hanging from a nail—rather like, well, a pair of testicles—a pair of testicles with a piece of paper wrapped around the top of one of them. When he picked them up, he saw that each piece had been painted to look like a monkey.

Don't we think we're funny?

He pulled it free and read it.

Come to the pump house. I need your help. Hurry.