Love Came Just In Time Part 8

Abby shrugged. "They usually took me there and left me. They never stayed." She smiled at him briefly.

"They always had other things to do."

Miles's chest tightened. He tried to pull her into his arms, but she wouldn't come.

"I was something of a surprise," she said, walking over to the kitchen hearth. "They had me after they'd

been married almost twenty years. They had never wanted children and it was too inconvenient to fit me into their lifestyle, I guess."

"Oh, Abigail," Miles said softly.

"Don't," she said, holding up her hand. "I didn't tell you so you could feel sorry for me. I've had a great

life. My grandparents were wonderful. I didn't need my mom and dad to make my life any better than it was."

He digested that for a few minutes. This obviously went deeper than that.

"So these Christma.s.sy items remind you of your grandparents?"

She shrugged. "I suppose. Or maybe I just want what they had."

Miles understood. His father worshipped his mother and she him. They had their disagreements, surely,

but there had never been a time that Miles had doubted their love for each other. Not that every household in England ran thusly. Most marriages were made to form alliances and were likely devoid of love. Miles knew his parents were something of an exception. Abigail obviously wanted such an exceptional marriage. Miles smiled to himself. And him right there to give it to her. Life was indeed miraculous.

"I want the whole enchilada," she was saying. "I want a husband who loves me. I want children. I want real Christmases with lights and a tree and my own family there around me. I want a fireplace."

Miles considered the last. 'Twas obvious improvements would have to be made to the hall.

"And while we're talking about marriage, let me be perfectly clear on this. I want a husband who will stick by me when things get rough, who won't bail at the first sign of trouble." She shot him a challenging look.

"Bail?"

"Leave. Run away."

"Ah, I see."

"So you do."

She had planted her hands on her waist again. Miles had the feeling she was gearing up for battle. He

was beginning to suspect he might be the enemy.

"Then you don't want a man who would run off when things became difficult," he offered, wanting to make sure he understood. "That's right, bucko." "Anything else?" She held up her hand and began using her fingers to tick off her items of importance. "He can't dress better than I do, he can't smell better than I do, and he has to have a job." "A job?" "An occupation. He can't just sit around the house watching TV all day and expect me to pay all the bills." Miles clasped his hands behind his back. "And?"

She was silent for a moment. "He has to love me," she said, quietly.

Well, that was done easily enough. Miles suspected he'd fallen in love with her the first time she'd begun to wheeze.

The occupation item was a problem. Miles leaned back against the worktable and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. He could build Speningethorpe up and turn it into a profitable estate, but would that be enough for Abigail? 'Twas certain he would have to do something with his hands so as not to appear idle. Perhaps he would send for his hounds. He'd bred them in his youth, as he'd managed to keep himself home until he was almost two-and-ten. Aye, there was always a market for a finely-trained hound.

And if hounds weren't substantial enough, he would look to horses.

His mother had a fine eye for horseflesh. When he took Abigail to Artane, he would seek his mother's opinion on the matter.

Miles considered Abigail's other items. It was certain he wasn't dressed better than she; he was wearing his oldest pair of hose. They were worn through at the knee, but better bare knees than a bare a.r.s.e, to his mind. He was quite certain she smelled far better than he did. She certainly would once he took to cleaning out the kennels.

All in all, he thought he just might suit.

He flashed her a brief smile and started toward the great hall. There was no time like the present to see the future accounted for. It was just barely midday. If he rode hard, he could be to Seakirk Abbey and back by dawn. The abbot would likely be there for the Christmas celebrations. Miles had no qualms about using whatever tactics were necessary to see the man on a horse heading north with him. No doubt his own reputation as a convicted heretic would serve him. His elder brothers had already spread the tale from one end of the isle to the other, embellishing it with each retelling. Miles had been livid at first, especially since they had found it to be such a fine jest. Now, he thought the blot on his past just might serve him well.

"Where are you going?"

The desperate tone of Abigail's voice made him pause. He looked at her as he threw his cloak around his shoulders and pulled on his gloves.

"I've things to see to."

Her jaw went slack. "Just like that?"

"Abigail, I've a task to see to-"

"I bare my soul to you," she said, sounding irritated, "and all you can do is walk away?"

"Abigail-"

"Great!" she exclaimed. "This is just great!"

He paused and considered. If he told her what he was about, heaven only knew what she would say.

She might say she thought he should take a swim in his moat. Worse yet, she might leave.

He couldn't bring himself to think about that. Only last night he had begun to realize just what he would be asking her to give up to remain with him.

He couldn't bear the thought of having her say him nay.

Aye, 'twas best he had the priest handy when he informed her of his intentions. Garretts never did things by halves, and neither did de Piagets.

"There's wood enough for the fire," he said, "so you shouldn't freeze-"

"It's about the s.e.x thing, isn't it," she demanded.

"Well, aye," he said, with a nod, "that's part of it, surely." He certainly wouldn't take her 'til he'd wed her and the sooner he'd wed her, the happier he would be.

"Ooohh," she said, grinding her teeth. She picked up a piece of wood and heaved it at him. "You're such a jerk!"

Miles ducked, his eyes wide. "Abigail-"

"Go," she shouted, pointing to the door. "Just leave if you're going!"

Miles thought it best to do just that, while he was still in one piece. And when Abigail reached for another heavy stick of wood, he did the most sensible thing he could think of.

He bolted for the door.

He'd barely pulled the hall door to when he heard the thump of wood striking it on the other side. So he'd left his dignity behind. He would smile as he told his children how difficult it had been to woo their mother. It would make a fine tale.

He was halfway to the stables before he realized in how precarious a situation he was leaving his lady. He couldn't allow her to remain in a keep with an unbarred door and no men to protect her.

He turned back to the hall and pushed on the door. There was no budging it. Abigail had obviously made use of the crossbeam. Well, perhaps that would do. He would make as much haste as possible. The sooner he was home, priest in tow, the better he would like it.

a.s.suming, however, he didn't have to break down his own door to get to his bride.

He smiled as he strode to the stables. What a fine life it promised to be!

Chapter Seven.

Abby threw another log onto the fire, then dragged her hand across her eyes.

"What a jerk," she said, with a snuffle against her sleeve. "He's no better than the rest of them."

She could hardly believe Miles had just walked out, leaving her behind to ponder the reasons for his hotfooted departure. Maybe her soul-baring had scared him. Abby scowled. Coward. And he'd flat-out admitted that part of it was the s.e.x thing. And after how readily he'd accepted it before, as if he would have been surprised by anything else! She scowled again. For all she knew, he'd just been toying with her.

Abby moved closer to the fire, with a muttered curse. It had been a very bad day. After Miles had left around noon, she'd spent the afternoon pacing and raging. Then she'd cried. When she'd tired of that, she had retreated to Miles's chair. She'd been sitting there since dusk, cursing both his inadequate bonfire and the day she'd landed in his moat. After slandering his hall and his person to her satisfaction, she'd simply sat and pondered life and its mysteries, shaking her head. Her grandmother had always shaken her head a lot. Abby was beginning to understand why.

Miles's actions baffled her. She had been prepared for him to lose it when she'd told him where and when she'd come from. But when she had told him her tiny little dream of home and hearth to call her own, not only had he not given her dream the proper respect and attention it deserved, he'd walked out on her. And on Christmas Eve, of all times! Tonight was the night to have people around her who cared for her. All she had was an empty castle. She had no Christmas tree, no twinkling lights, and no presents. h.e.l.l's bells, she didn't even have any fruitcake to worry about disposing of!

But that wasn't the worst of it. Much as she didn't want to admit it, what she didn't have was what she wanted the most.

Miles.

She'd always wondered if there were such a thing as meeting a person and knowing immediately he was the Right One. She'd never experienced it before. She was very familiar with attraction to the Wrong One. She would meet a man, think he was handsome, then ten minutes later start making excuses for his glaring flaws. But no amount of fiddling had ever turned any of those men into the Right One.

With Miles, it had been completely different. One minute she'd been chewing him out for not having indoor plumbing, the next she'd been comparing him to her Ideal Man requirements and finding nothing lacking. Until today. Running out on her was a big check mark on the Red Flag side of the list. If he didn't love her enough to stay, he just wouldn't do.

Besides, what did she want with primitive old medieval England anyway? No running water, no phone, and no History Channel on cable. h.e.l.l, she was living the History Channel.

She needed modern comforts. Hot showers. Soap that came pre-wrapped and contained moisturizers with long, scientific names. Craft stores, where she could buy makings for Christmas decorations. Good grief, even simple things like flipping a switch for lights, indoor plumbing, central heat... the Mini Mart!

Well, time was awastin'. She jumped to her feet purposefully and headed toward the door. She'd just go home. There wasn't anything there for her either, but at least she'd be miserable in comfort. It was definitely a step up from being miserable in a drafty old castle that was ratty even by medieval standards!

She put her shoulder under the crossbeam and gave it a shove over to her left. It took several tries, but finally she managed to slide it far enough to one side that all it took was a good push upward to tip it out of the remaining bracket. She took hold of the iron door ring and started to pull.

"Meow."

Abby paused, then shook her head. "That's not going to work this time. I'm late for my date with the moat." "I say, old girl, meow!" Abby whirled around, fully expecting to see someone behind her. She was alone. This was way too spooky. She took a few hesitant steps out into the middle of the room, searching the shadows. Then she squeaked in surprise. Sir Sweetums sat on the bottom step of Miles's circular stairway. He swished his tail impatiently, then turned and disappeared upward into the shadows. "I'm going to regret this," Abby muttered under her breath. She crossed the room, then climbed up the circular stairs. She waited until her eyes had adjusted fully.

The moon was full, which helped. But one of these days Miles was really going to have to do something about a roof over this part of his castle- "Really, my dear, you are the most stubborn of women."

Abby shrieked and jumped back. All she succeeded in doing was smacking herself smartly against the stone of the stairwell.

"Who's there?" she said, her voice warbling like a bird's.

'"Tis I," a cultured voice said from the darkness. "Your beloved Sir Sweetums."

Against her better judgment, Abby strained to see into the shadowy hallway across from her. What she

really needed to be doing was getting up and looking for a weapon, not peering into the shadows to catch a glimpse of a ghostly cat who seemed to be having delusions of conversation. Maybe that big cleaver in the kitchen would be protection enough.

And then, before she could gather her limbs together and move, Sir Sweetums himself appeared across the gaping hole that separated the stairwell from what should have been, and likely would be again, a hallway leading to bedrooms.

Abby sank down onto a step and gaped at him in amazement. "Sir Sweetums?" she managed.

"But of course," he said, giving his paw a delicate lick and skimming said paw alongside his nose. He finished with his ablutions and looked at her. "Who else?"

"Ooooh," Abby said, clutching the rock on either side of her. "I've really lost it this time. Garretts aren't supposed to hallucinate!"

"No hallucination, dearest Abigail," Sir Sweetums said placidly. "Just me, come to bring you to your