One Magic Moment Read online

“He heard you in Edinburgh last year at the Festival.”

  John looked heavenward briefly, then back at Kenneth. “I was drunk.”

  Kenneth only smiled. “Were you?”

  “No,” John said shortly, “but I wish I had been. I absolutely wish I were now.”

  “But you aren’t, and I have a very lovely reproduction instrument in my office.” He smiled encouragingly. “One song, sung soberly.”

  “I only know one song.”

  Tess doubted that, but she didn’t suppose she should offer that observation.

  “Then play that one,” Kenneth said smoothly. “Five minutes of your time and I stop having to avoid his calls. Do it for me as thanks for all the lovely gigs I’ve gotten you over the years.”

  John dragged his hand through his hair. “Damn you.”

  Kenneth rubbed his hands together. “I’ll be right back.” He looked over his shoulder on his way out the door. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  John sent him a dark look, then put away his guitar and began to pace around the studio. He stopped at one point, then turned and looked into the booth.

  Tess was sure he couldn’t possibly see her. She was sitting so far back in the shadows that she could hardly see herself. But he didn’t look away. He didn’t smile, either. It was as if he stood on the edge of something he didn’t want to fall into but found himself without any choice.

  She understood. She’d felt that way when he’d held out his hand for her keys that morning.

  Kenneth was nothing short of relentless upon his return. Tess watched as he nudged and pestered and badgered until John was sitting down again with one mic pointed at the lute and another staring him in the face.

  “No need for perfection,” Kenneth said soothingly, backing out of the room carefully, as if he feared to break the spell he’d been weaving. “He knows what you can do.”

  John shot him a murderous look, but said nothing. He took a deep breath. In fact, he might have taken a couple of them. He sat there for an excruciatingly long time, as if he wrestled with things he couldn’t bring himself to face.

  Tess understood completely.

  He finally sighed, then tuned the lute as if he’d been doing it for the better part of his life.

  Tess would have closed her eyes, but she was afraid she might miss something. She felt time begin to layer itself over her, over John, over the whole place, as if his past was colliding with her future.

  She suspected that if anyone had touched her at that moment, she would have jumped out of her skin.

  Kenneth popped into the production room and almost tripped over her. “Sorry, love. Didn’t see you there. Guy, turn the tape on and leave it on. We’ll edit out the profanity later.”

  “He’s going to kill you,” Guy said mildly.

  “He won’t,” Kenneth said confidently. “Not today.”

  Tess wouldn’t have been so sure of that, but maybe Kenneth was better at ignoring the rather pointed and vile warm-up of curses John indulged in than she was. Kenneth and Guy only watched, unintimidated.

  John finally stopped, took another in that series of deep breaths, then was silent for a couple of minutes.

  Then he began to play.

  Tess lost her breath, then felt her eyes begin to burn when he began to sing. The love song, sung in flawless medieval French—and yes, she most definitely could pin down the accent—was absolutely breathtaking. It was no wonder the mysterious Dave wanted him on tape and Kenneth was willing to brave all kinds of abuse to get him there.

  And whatever else he was, John was a professional.

  Or at least he was until he had finished with his song and the final notes had died away. Then he stood up, shot Kenneth another look of promise and left the studio, no doubt to look for somewhere to stash the lute so he wouldn’t have to see it again. Kenneth killed the recording, flicked on the lights, then sat back in his chair and sighed in contentment. He looked at her.

  “Like that, did you?”

  Tess could only nod.

  “Couldn’t understand a word of it,” he admitted, “but he’s good, wherever he learned it.”

  She watched John return to the studio, retrieve his guitar, then look at her through the glass.

  “Let’s go,” he said shortly.

  Guy laughed wryly. “The kid has no manners, but a helluva voice.”

  Tess had to agree on both counts. She rose, thanked the men for the chair, then let Kenneth open the door for her. She realized only as she was standing in the lobby watching John study the calendar on his phone while Kenneth was pestering him for more time that she was having a hard time catching her breath.

  Who was he? And why in the hell was he in her time and not his family’s?

  She excused herself and looked for a loo to have a bit of privacy and see if she couldn’t get ahold of herself. She realized immediately that there was no hope for her; she looked every bit as shell-shocked as she felt. She pinched her cheeks, put on lip gloss, then put her shoulders back. She just had to get home. Maybe she could sneak past John and bolt for the nearest Tube station. Even if it took her until midnight to get back to Sedgwick, she would be better off than riding home with him. Then she could get on with that stellar plan of avoiding him like the plague.

  She never should have come to find him. It had been a colossal mistake. What had she been thinking?

  Well, she hadn’t been thinking, that’s what she’d been doing. She should have ripped up his card and run the other way.

  Which she would do the first chance she had.

  She walked back out into the lobby and eyed the exit. Unfortunately, she couldn’t get herself there. That probably came from the renewed weakness in her knees she suffered when she realized John was watching for her while he was talking to Kenneth.

  “Why don’t you just move to London?” Kenneth asked in exasperation. “I have more work than you could handle.”

  “I don’t like London.”

  Kenneth pursed his lips. “It’s no worse than that no-man’s-land you’re living in right now.”

  John only grunted at him.

  Kenneth threw up his hands in frustration. “There is no talking to you, is there?”

  John shot him a look. “I’m two hours from London, not eight. It’s the best I can do. And yes, I’m bloody grateful for all you’ve done for me. Now, will you stop with the nagging?”

  “Just don’t smash any fingers before Tuesday,” Kenneth warned. “Our little miss won’t do the day without you.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Her father’s very rich.”

  “I’ll be here with fingers intact,” John said with a gusty sigh.

  “Leave your girlfriend at home,” Kenneth suggested.

  “I’m not—” Tess began, only to realize John had uttered the same protest.

  Which was just as well. She pasted on her most polite smile, because she was nothing if not polite, and she certainly didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. She had every intention of getting as far away from John de Piaget as possible and it was obvious he felt the same way.

  All good, to her mind.

  She continued to be polite as he escorted her from the studio. She stopped on the sidewalk and smiled politely.

  “That was beautiful,” she said. “Thank you for letting me listen.”

  He shrugged. “It was nothing.”

  “I’ll pay you tomorrow for the rescue this morning,” she said, taking a step backward. “Have a safe drive back.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “What?”

  “Gotta go,” she said, backing up another step.

  “Don’t be daft,” he said with a frown. “I’ll drive you home.”

  “I can get there on my own.”

  “It’s ridiculous to take the train when I’m going the same way. I won’t kill you on the motorway if that’s what worries you.”

  Actually, that was the least of her worries. It was the thought of being in the same enclos
ed space with him for more than ten minutes that was about to give her hives. But before she could muster up the energy to run, she found herself shepherded in the direction of his car, then ushered into the passenger seat.

  She knew she was an idiot to allow it, but maybe her imagination had been running away with her. She latched on to that thought with the tenacity of a drowning woman. Perhaps there was nothing at all odd about sitting next to her brother-in-law’s brother. Her medieval brother-in-law’s brother.

  She tried to wrap her mind around that as he negotiated impossible afternoon London traffic. Even on a Wednesday, it was terrible. It reminded her of all the reasons she had been willing to live full time at Sedgwick.

  Though she was more tempted than usual to take up a standing offer to come back and tutor at Cambridge.

  “You play very well,” she ventured, at one point.

  “Thank you,” he said in a tone that said he didn’t want to discuss it further.

  She was happy to oblige. She decided abruptly that not only had she had enough conversation with him for the day, she’d had enough of watching him as well. She concentrated on the scenery, didn’t protest when he turned on the radio, listened for five minutes, then turned it off. She could understand. He played better than anything she’d heard and he was a far superior singer. She would have asked him why he didn’t make a career of it, but she supposed she already knew the answer. If he was burying himself in a tiny shop in an obscure village in the south of England, he obviously didn’t want any notoriety.

  And she didn’t care why not.

  Not at all.

  It was an excruciating ride back home. She was acutely aware of him sitting next to her, so close she could have reached out and touched him at any moment, but she wasn’t attracted to him, no, not at all. He was grouchy, taciturn, and bossy. She wasn’t altogether sure what she wanted in a man, but she had the feeling it would involve tweed. John de Piaget probably wouldn’t recognize tweed if it wrapped itself around his head and suffocated him.

  She’d never been gladder of anything than she was the sight of her castle rising up at the end of the road. She had her hand on the door latch before he had the car out of gear.

  “Wait,” he commanded. “I’ll get the door.”

  “I can get it myself.”

  He shot her a look. “Wait.”

  She thought she might have had enough. “I am not your girlfriend,” she said, doing her best not to grit her teeth, “so you have no right to boss me around.”

  “I don’t boss around my girlfriends,” he said evenly.

  “I hate to think what you do do with them,” she retorted.

  “I’ll get your door,” he repeated.

  She told him to stuff it. In not so many words. And not so politely.

  He got out of the car. She did, too, and decided that a hasty retreat to the castle was the best course of action.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she threw over her shoulder, then she bolted for her drawbridge. She made it to the barbican gate before she realized he was right behind her. If she’d been able to drop the portcullis—any of them, or perhaps all three together—she would have. The best she could do was spin around and hold her hand out to hold him off. “That’s far enough.”

  He leaned against the stone wall and nodded toward the courtyard. “I’ll watch you get inside, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “I couldn’t care less.”

  He only lifted an eyebrow and said nothing.

  She suppressed the urge to punch him. How was it a man she didn’t like and never wanted to see again—odd how she had to keep reminding herself of that—could consistently and relentlessly bring out the worst in her?

  Silence was golden, yes, that was the ticket. She nodded briskly to him, then turned on her heel and walked across her courtyard with as much dignity as she could muster. Fortunately, Peaches wasn’t there to open the door and ask questions. She got herself inside her great hall, avoided her office, then continued on right upstairs to her bedroom.

  If only the day could have ended there, she might have called it a wash. But no, she had to keep going until she had reached the roof. She stood just outside one of the guard towers and watched as taillights faded into the distance.

  She stood there for far longer than she should have, hearing the song he’d sung echoing in what was left of her tiny little mind. She knew the tune, of course, because she had her PhD in Medieval Political Thought. To round out her education, she’d studied quite a bit about the music of the time, and the dancing, and the rest of the gamut of artistic endeavors.

  Apparently John had, too.

  She took a deep breath, then turned and went inside. She wouldn’t see him again because he was obviously as unfond of her as she was of him, and that was a good thing.

  It was a very good thing, indeed.

  Chapter 6

  John stood in his garden with his sword in his hand, shaking with weariness, and wished for nothing so much as one of his brothers—preferably Robin—to grind him into the dust where he might not need think any longer. He didn’t want to think any more about medieval things, things that seemed to be hedging up his way everywhere he turned.

  Which made it a bit ironic that he was training—if that’s what it could be called—with a sword, but he was happy to ignore the irony.

  It was safer that way.

  He had, as it happened, been doing the safe thing for several years now. He had never used his sword out of doors, preferring to rent a large industrial space when he could and settle for karate or even the occasional stint in a gym when he couldn’t. One of the attractions of Grant’s place for him had been the cottage located behind the shop and a large, high-hedged garden behind that that bordered nothing but pastureland. He had absolute privacy given that his shop was on the edge of the village and there weren’t any second-floor flats anywhere in the vicinity.

  All of which had left him that morning rising before dawn and marching out to his very luxurious excuse for lists in an attempt to ignore things that bothered him.

  He dragged his sleeve across his forehead. What he needed, he had to admit, was something to train with besides dead air. Unbidden, and certainly unwelcome, came to mind the contents of Oliver’s note. Ian MacLeod didn’t advertise, which meant his school was either hideously expensive or terribly exclusive. John was betting on both, neither of which bothered him. He supposed it might be a bit of stretch to pit himself against a canny Scotsman, but it might be just the thing to cure his wee head of its ridiculous thoughts—of swords, and times not his own, and music that he had rattling around in his head that hadn’t been preserved by others over the years.

  And a certain dark-haired wench he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about.

  He turned back to less uncomfortable things, namely those MacLeods who seemed to have all manner of interesting tales following them. Now that he could allow himself to think a bit more on them, he remembered that he’d first heard of them, surprisingly enough, from the lad who had forged his passport and birth certificate and seemed not at all troubled by the fashioning of either. He’d advised John to seek them out if he needed anything, mentioning in passing that they had used his services now and again for the same sort of thing.

  John had immediately filed that away with a list of other things he’d never intended to think about again.

  Now, though, he was beginning to wonder if he’d been too hasty. It said much about his pitiful state of mind that he was riffling through the file of impossible minutiae. He could, with an unflinchingness that would have impressed even his father, safely say that he was losing it.

  And he knew, again, at just whose feet to lay the blame.

  But since thinking on unpleasant paranormal impossibilities was preferable to thinking about her, he’d readily turned to them. To go to Scotland, to venture into the Highlands where they would have once upon a time just as easily killed an Englishman as to look at him, was to acknowledg
e things about himself that he didn’t like to think on.

  Such as the fact that he had held a sword in his hand for hours a day for as long into his past as his memories stretched. And save for an impossible year when he had, with his brother, spent time at a castle half full of Scots, he had spent his life learning swordplay from his father, then having it polished by his elder brothers—no mean swordsmen themselves.

  Perhaps he would be better off finding a local dojo and working out there. At least there he wouldn’t be asked questions about his abilities with steel that would make him uncomfortable.

  He stabbed his sword into the ground, dragged his sleeve across his forehead again, then turned to go into the house for a drink. He froze when he realized he wasn’t alone.

  Doris Winston was leaning against the wall, watching him.

  He was flustered enough to swear, but he bit his tongue just in time. His mother would have been proud of him, but it did little for his level of comfort.

  “You said you would play for me,” she said, fumbling for her cane—which he was just certain was nothing more than a prop—and tapping it against the sidewalk. “Though I will beg pardon for intruding into your private garden.”

  “You weren’t,” he lied, because he’d been taught to be kind to old women. “I was just, ah, trying to keep from going to fat.”

  “Interesting way to do it.”

  “Isn’t it, though,” he muttered, half under his breath, starting across the garden so he could invite her in for tea and take her attention off things she didn’t need to be looking at.

  To say he was alarmed didn’t begin to describe his discomfort.

  “Don’t forget your sword, lad. Wouldn’t want it rusting in the rain.”

  John blew his hair out of his eyes, then turned and went to fetch his sword. He resheathed it, then rested it casually against his shoulder as if it were nothing more interesting than a rapier, not a medieval broadsword. It was, as it happened, his own sword, the sword he’d been given as a youth by his father. At least he hadn’t been using the one he’d received at his knighting, or the Claymore purchased in the Future and generally kept hidden in the back of his closet. And he hadn’t been fighting someone else. Doris could have seen much worse things than she likely had.