Love Came Just In Time Part 12

"My mother obviously thinks nothing of my horseflesh," Miles grumbled. "She could have burned the whole b.l.o.o.d.y place down." "Your mother did this?" He smiled down at her and drew her into his arms. "She was freshly wed once too. She likes you very much, else she wouldn't have bothered. Come to think of it, I like you very much too." "How convenient," she said, smiling up at him. "I thought so," he said, lowering his mouth to hers. "Now, where were we before my family overran our wedding bed?" And as Miles made her his in that very chilly stable, Abby decided several things. One, central heating just wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Two, condemned heretics made mighty fine lovers.

And three, Sir Sweetums deserved a promotion!

Epilogue.

Sir Maximillian Sweetums reclined on a most comfortable cloud, contemplating his well-deserved repast. He brought a particularly plump Tender Vittle to his aristocratic nose and sniffed critically. Ah, the bouquet was excellent! He partook with relish.

"So, Boss, you finished up de job?"

Sir Sweetums was in such a fine mood, he didn't begrudge the bulldog his interruption of afternoon tea.

"Yes, dear Bruno, my task is finished. The Abigail is well settled."

"Yeah, Boss, but dose kids she's gonna get." The bulldog shuddered. "Yikes!"

"Never fear, Bruno. I'll be there to aid her when she needs it. And I'll have a care for her little ones. All

part of the job, you know."

Bruno struggled to scratch behind his ear. Once he managed to get his foot within range, he scratched

thoughtfully.

"Dese jobs, Boss. Uh, don't you need some help sometimes?"

"Indeed, Bruno, it is a most taxing venture," Sir Sweetums agreed. "Never a moment to sit idly by."

"Den, uh, Boss, I was wonderin', you know, when... uh-"

The bulldog was positively aquiver with nervousness. Sir Sweetums looked at his loyal companion and

felt compa.s.sion stir within his feline breast.

"Perhaps the next a.s.signment, dear boy. It looks to be quite a tangle to unravel."

"Golly, Boss, really? I really get to go dis time?"

Bruno leaped up in joy, lost his balance and fell through half a dozen clouds before he remembered how

it all worked.

Sir Sweetums sighed. It would be a very long unraveling indeed, with Bruno aboard.

"More cream, Boss?" Bruno bellowed happily from quite a distance. "Anything else I can get yous?"

"Perhaps something from a different galaxy, my friend," Sir Sweetums called.

Bruno bounded off enthusiastically. Sir Sweetums resettled himself to enjoy his peace and quiet. Yes,

indeed, how happy The Abigail and The Miles were together. Sir Sweetums basked in the glow of a task well finished. The tranquillity was, of course, destined to last only as long as it took The Abigail to produce a child or two.

Bruno was, unfortunately, very correct about the offspring. Yikes! was the word indeed.

But never fear, dear reader, never fear! Sir Sweetums knew that The Abigail and her dashing Sir Miles would weather any storm together and love each other more for the surviving of it. In time he would, as a member of the Guardian Feline a.s.sociation, have The Abigail's dark-haired, gray-eyed children to watch over. With any luck at all, they wouldn't inherit The Miles's propensity for sneezing at the slightest provocation. Sir Sweetums smiled.

It was indeed a wonderful afterlife!

The Three Wise Ghosts

Prologue.

The inn sat back well off of the main road, nestled cozily on the hillside amongst rosebushes, hollyhocks, and delphiniums which had long since turned their minds to sleep for the winter. It was a comfortable abode fashioned of st.u.r.dy stone walls and a heavy, timbered roof. Well-wrought leaded windows found themselves surrounded by thick branches of climbing roses and wisteria. Light spilled out from the windows, beckoning to the weary traveler to enter and join in a companionable quaff or two of ale before retiring to the comfort of one of several guest chambers. At the moment a thin stream of smoke wafted up into the darkened sky from one of the fireplaces, as if to indicate that the innkeeper was indeed at home with something tasty on the fire.

At the sight of the smoke, a tall, elderly man quickened his pace up the way. His feet skimmed heedlessly over the finely laid brick pathway that wound through the slumbering garden. He hardly noticed the richly appointed entryway with its heavy beamed ceiling. He paid no attention whatsoever to the long hallway with its walls covered by pictures of famous (and infamous) former guests. His crisply pleated kilt flowed gracefully around him and his great sword slapped against his thigh as he strode down the pa.s.sageway. There was trouble afoot. He could smell it from a hundred paces.

He came to an abrupt halt at the kitchen entrance. And then Ambrose MacLeod, Laird of the Clan MacLeod during the glorious sixteenth century, statesman of the most diplomatic proportions and thinker of deep, profound thoughts, stared at the sight that greeted his eyes, frowned a most severe frown, and wondered what in the blazes had ever possessed him to leave his beloved Highlands. Never mind that he had kin in the castle up the way who warranted looking after now and then. Never mind that the Boar's Head Inn boasted the most reputable and thorough hauntings on the isle-a distinction Ambrose had personally seen to at every opportunity. Those were things that could have sorted themselves out without him.

Nay, he decided as he observed the occupants of the kitchen, 'twas these two who had held him so long away from home. And d.a.m.n the lads both if they weren't a.s.sorted family, making it just that much harder to leave them to peaceably killing each other!

"And I say," the first said, "he spends far too much time fiddling over those infernal gadgets of his."

"Better that than flitting from place to place, never staying more than a few months," the second retorted.

"As she does."

"At least she has the imagination to do so."

"She's flighty," the second grumbled. "Changeable."

"At least she hazards a risk now and again. Unlike that stuffy, pebble-counting lad of yers!"

That final insult was delivered by the man on Ambrose's left. Ambrose looked at the ruddy-complected, red-haired former Laird of the Clan McKinnon (and Ambrose's cousin by way of several intermarriages), Hugh McKinnon. Hugh was done up handsomely in full dress, his kilt swinging about his knees as he bounced from one foot to the other, obviously anxious to inflict bodily harm on the man he faced.

And that man was Fulbert de Piaget, second son of the fourteenth Earl of Artane, and to Ambrose's continued astonishment, his own beloved sister's husband. Second son though he might have been, Fulbert carried himself with the complete arrogance of an Artane lad. Ambrose couldn't help but feel a faint admiration for that, especially considering the murkiness of Fulbert's claim to several other t.i.tles. Fulbert's finely embroidered doublet flapped about his legs as he gestured with his mug as he might have a sword.

"Pebble-counting!" Fulbert thundered, ale sloshing madly over the edge of his cup onto the floor. "I'll have you know me newy does a proper day's work!"

"As does she!"

"When she can remember her place of employment!"

The two glared at each other furiously for a long, highly charged moment, then they lunged, bellowing clan mottos and other such slogans appropriate to the moment.

"Oh, by the saints," Ambrose exclaimed, striding out into the chamber and interrupting the fisticuffs. "Now's not the time for quibbling over tiny faults. We've serious work to do!" He turned a dark look on his cousin. "Hugh, cease with this meaningless bickering."

Hugh wanted to do anything but that-that much was apparent by the white-knuckled grip he had on the hilt of his still-sheathed sword.

"Hugh," Ambrose warned.

Hugh scowled, then ducked his head and gave his polished boots a closer look. "As ye will, Ambrose," he muttered.

Ambrose turned to his brother-in-law. "Fulbert?"

Fulbert looked to be chewing on a word or two, but finally nodded briefly and sought comfort in his cup.

"Then 'tis settled," Ambrose said, pulling up a chair and settling into it. "Sit, lads, and let us speak one last time of our plans. The pair's set to arrive on the morrow."

"Ha," said Fulbert, pursing his lips. "We'll be fortunate indeed if she manages to find her way-"

Ambrose held out his hand to stop Hugh from throwing his chair rather ungently in Fulbert's direction.

"Actually, Fulbert," Ambrose said, turning to him, "your brother's son-albeit many times removed-was the one I was most concerned about. He was particularly difficult to convince."

"And how would you know?" Fulbert demanded. '"Twere me own sweet self that saw to getting him here. And I can't say as I blames him not wanting to come, what with all the important work he does." He cast a pointed look at Hugh. "Unlike that girl-"

"There's naught a thing wrong with me wee granddaughter," Hugh declared. He paused, looked faintly puzzled, then frowned. "I suppose I could consider her such."

"Indeed, you could, Cousin," Ambrose said, with a nod. "And, to be sure, there is naught amiss with her." He ignored Fulbert's snort. "Now, lads, let us turn our minds back to the good work set before us." He looked at his kinsman. "You saw to the other establishment, did you not?"

"Aye," Hugh said, with a smile. "No room at the inn, as it were. Not that it was all that difficult, it being the season and all."

Ambrose nodded in approval. "I've seen to it that there will be none but the two reservations available here for the holidays and given instructions to Mrs. Pruitt on who shall receive them. All we must do is wait for the morrow and then lend a hand where needed."

"I still say we should have planned something in particular," Fulbert grumbled. "Perhaps a reprise of my performance for that d.i.c.kens fellow."

Hugh snorted. " 'Twere bad fish he ate that gave him those foul dreams."

"Dreams? He b.l.o.o.d.y immortalized me Christmas visit in print!"

Ambrose suppressed the urge to throw his hands up in despair; it was a wonder he saw anything accomplished with these two underfoot. Even though the telling of tall tales went hand in hand with proper haunting, there was no time for such happy recollections now. If he allowed Fulbert any more room for speaking, they'd be listening to him boast till dawn.

"We're best served by seeking our rest," he said, rising. "We've a full fortnight ahead of us."

"But, wait, Ambrose," Hugh said, holding up his hand. "Ye never told us where ye went to find me wee one."

Those were memories Ambrose didn't care to discuss. After all, they had been surely the most traumatic events of his afterlife. He, Ambrose MacLeod, powerful laird of an even more powerful and n.o.ble clan, had taken his pride and courage in hand to do what no other laird (alive or otherwise) had done before him. His sires and grandsires who had pa.s.sed on before him had no doubt held their collective breaths until his task had been accomplished.

"Aye," Fulbert said, suddenly perking up. "Just where was it you went to fetch that fidgety, harebrained-" Ambrose cut him off by suddenly sitting back down. Why his sweet sister had chosen to marry an irascible Englishman, Ambrose would never know, but there it was. He took the mug Hugh handed him, and had a long swallow of ale, just to sh.o.r.e up his strength.

"Well," he began slowly, "it was a tad more difficult to track her down than I'd thought it would be."

Fulbert smirked. Hugh looked primed to say something nasty in return, so Ambrose quickly told the worst of it to distract them. "I began in a Colonial fast-food establishment," he announced. Both Fulbert and Hugh gaped at him, stunned into silence. Ambrose took a firmer grip on his cup. "Indeed, I was forced to venture into more than one." Gasps echoed in the kitchen. "Failing to find her there, I searched further and learned that she had taken other employment." He paused. "In a theme park."

Fulbert tossed back the remaining contents of his cup and lunged for the jug. Hugh went quite pale in the face. "Is there more?" Hugh asked, in trembling tones. "I beg ye, Ambrose, say us nay!" Indeed, there was more, and Ambrose was loath to give voice to the telling of it. He looked about the chamber, just to avoid the eyes of his companions. "I discovered," he admitted, his voice barely audible, "that she had been dressing up as a mouse." "By the saints, nay!" Hugh gasped. Fulbert made gurgling noises as he struggled to express himself. Finally he managed a word or two. "You!" he exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Ambrose. "After all these years of proper haunting...

consorting with cartoon characters! By the saints, Ambrose, what were you thinking!" "I did what was required," Ambrose said stiffly. "And once she was found, I paid a short visit to her brother. He was quite willing to send her off on an errand here and more than happy to believe a healthy case of indigestion had given him the idea." "Och, but the indignity of it all," Hugh breathed. "Traveling all the way to-" his voice trailed off meaningfully. No one could voice the word.

California.

And, worse yet, the southern region of it! Aye, 'twas enough to give any sensible shade the shakes.

" Tis just that," Fulbert said darkly, "which leads me to believe that perhaps the la.s.s is not quite-"

"The la.s.s?" Hugh interrupted indignantly. "No matter where she's been-" He swallowed audibly and then pressed on. "At least she possesses some spark of creativity. I'm less than certain about that lad of yers-"

Fulbert leaped to his feet, cast aside his cup and drew his sword. "I'll not have me newy slandered by a man in skirts!"

"Skirts!" Hugh gasped, hopping up from his chair and flinging aside his goblet also. He drew his sword with relish. "Outside, ye blasted Brit. I'll need room fer me swingin'."

Ambrose gave one last fleeting thought to the peace and comfort of his ancestral home in the Highlands before he thundered a command for the lads to cease. He shook his head in disgust. "By the saints," he said, "have you nothing better to do than fight with each other?"

Fulbert looked faintly surprised. "Actually Ambrose, 'tis fine enough sport for me-"

"Aye," Hugh agreed. "Pa.s.ses the time most pleasantly-"

Ambrose thrust out his arm and pointed to the door. "Begone, the both of you and leave me to my ale."

Fulbert opened his mouth to protest. Ambrose gave him the quelling look he'd given to more than one adversary over the course of his long and successful career. Fulbert shut his mouth with a snap and vanished from the kitchen. Hugh made Ambrose a quick bow and bolted as well.