Till There Was You Read online

  In stumbled a gentleman of advanced years and very salty tongue, looking equal parts dazed and annoyed. He made his way over to the fire, then looked at them and took their measure.

  “England,” he said with distaste. “Thought I’d left the damp behind for good.”

  Ambrose fashioned another chair, then leaned over and handed the newcomer a mug of ale. “Please, sit and be comfortable. If I might inquire who—”

  “You might, or you might not,” the man said, taking his drink and sitting down with a grunt. “No need to introduce yourselves. I’ve been favored with all manner of tales concerning your exploits all the way here.” He shot Fulbert a look. “I’m not accustomed to associating with Brits—”

  Ambrose put his hand out and stopped Fulbert from drawing an as-yet-nonexistent sword. He couldn’t stop Fulbert’s growl, but he supposed their new addition deserved what he got. Ambrose sat back slowly and wondered if Fulbert had it aright. Perhaps they had made an error in bringing in someone new.

  He revisited his reasons, just to see where a flaw might have been found. They had as their victim—er, subject, rather—a man who was not unused to things of a paranormal nature. He was also, as it happened, not unused to things of a dating nature. Ambrose had lost count over the years of the women the lad had squired about. Short ones, tall ones, plump ones, far-too-skinny ones, beautiful ones, not-so-beautiful ones. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been a lassie to suit. Ambrose had decided that ’twas past time to take matters into his own hands.

  The only trouble was that the soul in question was powerfully stubborn and wouldn’t be sent in the direction of a truly fine match without a goodly nudge. Hence the thought of bringing in fresh blood, as it were, to potentially convince the recalcitrant descendant that ancestors on both sides of the family were very interested in seeing him well settled.

  Ambrose put on his most charming smile. “We all must associate at times where we’re less than eager, but we endure it as best we may. Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling us a bit about yourself ... ?”

  The newcomer looked around with a resigned air, then fortified himself with a hefty swig of ale. “Drummond,” he said. “Laird John Drummond, if we’re to be exact—”

  “Drummond?” Ambrose interrupted in surprise. He looked at Hugh, startled. “I thought we were looking for a Mackintosh.”

  “Depends on what part of the tree ye’d be wantin’ to sit in,” Hugh said darkly. “He was the best I could find. And he didn’t want to be found.”

  “Why should I?” John Drummond demanded. “There I was, happily dividin’ my time between a very nice perch atop the Space Needle and, when the rain vexed me overmuch, lurking belowdecks in the Underground—”

  “In Seattle?” Ambrose asked.

  Laird Drummond shot him a look. “I thought a bit of distance was needful after my own brother murdered me in my own bed!”

  Ambrose looked at Hugh, who only shrugged helplessly.

  “As I said,” the Drummond continued with a scowl, “there I was, minding my own afterlife affairs, when I was accosted—simply accosted, I tell ye!—by that red-haired madman, who waved a clipboard at me and almost stabbed me in the eye with a pencil—”

  “I did not almost stab ye,” Hugh said hotly.

  “You certainly did!”

  “Did not!”

  “Did, too!”

  Ambrose broke in before swords could be drawn. “Whatever the particulars might be, you’re here and we’re glad of your company.”

  “The McKinnon said there’d be bloodshed.” The Drummond shot Ambrose a look. “’Tis the only reason I came.”

  Ambrose sent Hugh a look that had him shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Well,” Hugh said defensively, “there might be.”

  Ambrose wasn’t completely certain Hugh didn’t have that aright, but he thought it best not to say as much. He turned back to their new addition. “I can’t guarantee there won’t be a bit, but in this venture we’ll try to keep it to a minimum. The noble task laid before us is of a different nature than a full-on battle, though no less exciting.”

  Drummond leaned forward, his ears perking up. “Are we moving the border again? Southward this time? I’m a Highlander myself and I’ve generally no use for those feeble Lowlanders, but if work can be done for Scotland’s glory, then count me in.”

  Fulbert set his cup on the floor, then looked at Ambrose expectantly. “Aye, what specifically are we doing, Ambrose? War? Mayhem? Foul deeds wrought in the middle of the night? Do tell.”

  Ambrose ignored him. It was either that or pull the dirk free of his boot and stab Fulbert through the heart. The thought had occurred to him before, true, but he resisted it now as admirably as he had for the past four hundred years.

  “Our business is of a more, shall we say, timeless nature.”

  The Drummond’s eyebrows went up immediately. “The abolition of taxes on whisky?”

  Even Hugh made approving noises about that.

  “Nay,” Ambrose began slowly.

  “Death?” the Drummond asked, looking no less enthusiastic. “You know, death and taxes are the only two things that are final.” He shot Fulbert a look. “An American said that.”

  Fulbert only rolled his eyes.

  “Nay, not death, either,” Ambrose said.

  “But there is nothing else—”

  “Love, man,” Fulbert exclaimed. “We’re speaking of love!”

  The Drummond recoiled as if he’d been bitten. “Love?”

  “Aye,” Ambrose said. “Our task is to shepherd a certain lad in the proper direction, then see to any additional details—if there are any of those sorts of details—after that proper direction has been taken.”

  The Drummond looked at the three of them as if they’d suddenly announced they were carrying the plague. “You three are matchmakers?”

  “I’m not,” Fulbert said, holding up his hands quickly. “I’m the Voice of Reason.”

  Hugh shot Fulbert a glare. “Ye’re as deep into this as we are, ye bloody Brit.”

  Fulbert started to balk, then shrugged, picked up his cup, and applied himself to its contents.

  Ambrose applied the full potency of his most convincing look on the Drummond. “We have taken it upon ourselves, as guardians of our respective lines, to assure that those lines are continued on in the best fashion possible. No matter the danger, or the delicacy required, we press on, boldly going where no shade has gone before—”

  “Aye, straight to Bedlam,” Fulbert whispered loudly.

  Ambrose glared at him, then turned back to their temporary helper. “We can see to this on our own, of course, but we thought that since we are looking at a particularly difficult case, we wouldn’t spurn aid from a new source. And so I asked Hugh to take his life in his hands and cross the Pond with the hope of finding an American ancestor willing to cast his lot in with us and give our charge the appropriate nudge if necessary.”

  The Drummond was speechless.

  “And who is the lad again?” Fulbert asked, looking at Ambrose over the top of his cup. “I forgot.”

  “Zachary Smith,” Ambrose said, sending him a warning look.

  “Isn’t he James MacLeod’s doorman?”

  “He isn‘t, which you well know,” Ambrose said shortly. “He’s the lady of the keep’s brother, her youngest, though he is a score and eleven himself.”

  Fulbert sighed. “I do know what it is not to be the eldest. A burden, that’s what it is.”

  “He seems to have borne it fairly well,” Ambrose said, “and he’s made a great success of himself.” He turned to John Drummond. “You would be proud of him. He started university very young and had his degrees by a score and two. He’s had quite a successful career over here where his particular feel for old structures has come in useful. Not only that, he’s full of proper Scottish virtues that he no doubt inherited from ancestors hailing from north of the border.”

  Fulbert grunted, but said
nothing.

  “But I don’t think he wants to wed,” Hugh ventured. “You know, Ambrose, he’s dated scores of women and not found a one to love.”

  “He’s looking in the wrong place,” Ambrose said firmly. “’Tis our job to make certain he looks in the right place.”

  “And where would that be?” the Drummond asked with a snort. “In a nunnery? In a pub? Surely not here in England?”

  “He could do worse,” Fulbert said, throwing the other man a dark look.

  “I’m not certain he could,” the Drummond said archly.

  Fulbert growled.

  The Drummond rubbed his hands together and suddenly a very snazzy purple gym bag materialized at his feet. He drew forth an eminently authentic-looking dirk and flipped it into the air a time or two, catching it expertly each time.

  “I think I might have a bit to say about where this lad begins his search,” the Drummond said pointedly, “seeing that he’s my descendant.”

  Fulbert looked down his nose at the blade. “And I think I’ll be offering my opinion quite loudly until I see a bit of steel that impresses me.”

  The Drummond flipped the knife back up into the air, then stood and caught it as it fell back to earth in the shape of a mighty Claymore.

  Fulbert stood and twitched aside his velvet cape to reveal a very lethal-looking sword bearing a handful of large jewels in the hilt. “Outside, then. We’ll settle this before young Zachary arrives and is forced to watch me humiliate his wee grandpa. Hugh, care to come learn by observation?”

  “Aye, if ye mean learn what not to do.”

  Insults ensued, mingled with grumbles, slurs, and other mottos and slogans appropriate to the significance of the moment. Ambrose watched the trio troop across the floor flexing limbs and tongues equally.

  He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps it had been a mistake after all to bring in someone new. It wasn’t as if he, Fulbert, and Hugh didn’t have a vested interest in Zachary’s happiness. Zachary was brother-in-law to a MacLeod, and he had certainly spent enough time in Scotland to have earned a place in the clan.

  Still, when embarking on a difficult quest, it helped to have family about.

  “Damn you, McKinnon, if you poke me one more time with that bloody pencil—”

  Their voices faded, to be replaced in good time with the reassuring sound of steel against steel. Ambrose turned back to his contemplation of the fire. Aye, family was a fine thing indeed to have about. But better still was finding a love that would outlast both death and taxes.

  And given the difficulty of the match he intended to make, he supposed he might be wise to bet on the last two.

  Chapter 1

  JUST OUTSIDE LONDON, ENGLAND WINTER, PRESENT DAY

  Zachary William Smith lay on his back, stared up into the flat gray sky, and came to a conclusion.

  He was finished with doors.

  Answering them, knocking on them, being shoved back through them, and subsequently rolling down the stairs away from them; it was time to give them up altogether.

  In fact, it was past time to give up quite a few things. He shifted to escape a bit of sharp gravel digging into the spot just inside his shoulder blade, then settled his head a bit more comfortably to consider what those things might be.

  Architectural drawings sailed suddenly over his head and fluttered to the ground behind him. Change jobs was obviously going to be first on the list.

  Well, perhaps finish up with current unreasonable client was closer to the mark. He had already parted company with his former employer on very good terms, and the next chapter in his life was waiting for him up the road that afternoon—assuming he could get there before he found himself tossed in the local jail for assaulting the man who had just shoved him down the stairs.

  “I wanted the addition paneled,” a voice bellowed, “not papered in zinnias!”

  Zachary sat up and looked at the originator of that shout. A man stood at the top of the steps, glaring as if everything wrong in his life could be laid at Zachary’s feet. Zachary winced as he rubbed a spot on his lower back where he hadn’t been able to avoid an encounter with an unpleasantly large piece of drive-way, then heaved himself up. He gathered up the blueprints out of habit—no sense in having them ruined by any potential sleet—and wondered if three sheets of architectural renderings were sufficient to bear up under the strain of being shoved down an obnoxious client’s throat or if they would require additional underpinnings.

  It was tempting to find out.

  But he was nothing if not self-disciplined, so he walked over to his car, tossed the plans into the front seat, then closed the door. He brushed himself off, then walked back over to look up at Michael Smythe-Gordon, Viscount Franbury, the one who thought nothing of pushing innocent architects down half a dozen very nicely preserved Regency-era stairs. Zachary supposed he was fortunate he was so light on his feet or else he wouldn’t have been back up on them so quickly.

  His lordship was a very unattractive shade of red. In fact, the red was now deepening into an alarming shade of something Zachary supposed might have been called crimson. Or maybe vermilion. Whatever it was, it seemed like Franbury might be on the verge of a stroke. Obviously, the polite thing to do would be to head off the tantrum at the pass.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and propped a booted foot up on one of Franbury’s very well-maintained steps. “I told you before, Michael, that I’m an architect, not an interior decorator.”

  “You’re responsible for all phases of construction, from beginning to end,” Franbury said in a garbled tone. “And that includes the decorating!”

  “No,” Zachary said firmly, “it doesn’t.”

  “Your firm—”

  “Our firm’s contract states very specifically what I am and am not responsible for, and hanging wallpaper isn’t on the list.”

  “I didn’t want wallpaper!”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” Zachary conceded, “but that isn’t my problem. The Lambeth Group always stands ready to recommend talented, reputable interior designers, which, if you’ll remember, we did for you. You will also perhaps remember that you were uninterested in our suggestions.”

  “Candy Selzter is a fine decorator,” Franbury said stiffly.

  Zachary supposed it would be impolite to point out that the BBC had fired the dazzling Miss Selzter from her job as the assistant’s assistant of a very cheesy DIY show because she couldn’t tell chartreuse from candy-apple red. In Michael’s case, she had probably misread panel as petunia and decided that zinnias would be more showy.

  “You know, I didn’t want you for this job,” Franbury said stiffly. “I was convinced to take you on by one whose judgment I never should have trusted.”

  Zachary sighed, then looked to Michael’s left and came to his second unavoidable decision of the day.

  Give up women.

  It was bad enough when they were just hard on his heart. Given that the lady Beatrice Smythe-Gordon had joined in the shoving along with her brother, Zachary began to suspect they were hard on his body as well. Yes, swearing off women for a few years was probably a very wise thing to do. Especially titled ones in expensive cashmere sweaters, plaid skirts, and very smart boots.

  He supposed he wouldn’t have to work very hard to avoid dating nobility. The fact that he’d even spoken to Michael’s sister could probably be considered something of a miracle. He’d first seen her at a party he hadn’t wanted to be at but had attended just the same as a favor to his sister-in-law. He’d flirted with Beatrice much like a man might flirt with a Lamborghini—by walking past the showroom window a time or two, lusting after but never intending to buy.

  He’d been surprised that his first words to her had included a dinner invitation. He’d been even more surprised to listen to her accept.

  It had taken approximately six minutes into an overpriced salad to realize that Beatrice wasn’t an airhead; she was profoundly nasty and quite cunning. And she liked him very much
, though he hadn’t had a clue why. He’d spent the next month trying to very gracefully extricate himself from the pseudo relationship—unfortunately only after she’d succeeded in talking him into taking over her brother’s little project from the third set of architects he’d fired.

  He had agreed to do the work in direct violation of his first rule of survival, which was never to mix business with pleasure. He never dated clients, he never met with clients’ wives alone, and he never designed anything for anyone for free unless it was for family where he was sure any differences in opinions on the execution of the plans could be settled over swords.

  Unfortunately, he’d been too stupid to take his own advice, all of which left him where he was, standing at the feet of a very lovely manor, still short of his very reasonable fee, and wondering if Beatrice had actually broken something when she’d punched him before she and Michael both had shoved him back out the door. He wiggled his jaw a time or two and was rather relieved to find it still worked. The woman had an impressive right hook.

  “I never want to see you again!” Beatrice screeched, stomping her trendy little boots, then spinning on her heel and stalking back into the house.

  Zachary didn’t bother to tell her the feeling was mutual. He was too busy watching Michael and wondering what the man intended to do next. His hands were very busy clenching and unclenching, but at least they were empty. That was reassuring.

  “This is retaliation,” Michael said through gritted teeth. “Retaliation for Bea dropping you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Michael,” Zachary said shortly. “This has nothing to do with her and you know it. You approved the plans. You watched me go the extra mile for you time and time again. What you chose to do with the inside of your new addition—”

  “I didn’t want flowers!”

  “Panel over them.”

  “I’ll see you ruined,” Michael said hotly. “Completely.”

  “Go ahead and try,” Zachary said, before he thought better of it.

  Franbury’s features hardened. “You don’t want to start a war with me.”