Connor's jeans fit. He was wearing work boots. He had somehow managed to stretch a T-shirt over his rather substantial chest.

"What does that say?" Iolanthe asked, holding her hand over her nose again.

"I'll tell you when he gets closer and I can see." To kill time, Victoria admired the shave and haircut he'd had. Nothing too drastic, just a trim. A little on the wild side, a little on the untamed side, a lot on the I'm-a-medieval-lord-dressing-up-like-a-modern-guy-to-humor-you side.

Then she managed to read his t-shirt.

"Does it truly say 'Kiss me, I'm Scottish'?" Iolanthe asked.

"I'm going to kill your husband."

"You may want to. I daresay there will be a line of wenches waiting to accept Connor's invitation."

Iolanthe smiled. "And I can say as much, even though I spent several centuries wanting to rid myself of

his irritating presence." "Like I said," Victoria wheezed, "he's mellowed." But Thomas had not. He was fighting his smile as he walked up the path with Connor. Victoria glared at him. "You're a jerk."

"Why?" he asked innocently. "Oh, the shirt? It was all we could find in his size."

"The hell it was."

Connor looked at her, his brow furrowed. "That tongue you speak," he said in Gaelic. "It sounds

familiar."

Iolanthe elbowed Victoria in the ribs and took hold of Thomas's hand. "I feel a little lie-down coming on, husband. Let us be away."

"But-whoa!"

Victoria wasn't sure if she was grateful or not for Iolanthe's sudden burst of strength. Thomas was

dragged into the inn, apparently against his will, though he promised a quick return if he was needed.

Victoria looked at Connor and was terribly tempted to ask him if he knew what his shirt said.

She didn't dare.

She might have been tempted to take him up on the offer.

And then she made the mistake of looking up at him. He was looking at her with what she could only assume was the same amount of, well, desire she was feeling.

She waited for him to take her into his arms. Indeed, she suspected she saw that very thought cross his mind. The intensity of his gaze intensified until Victoria was just certain he was going to haul her into his arms and profess something.

"Victoria," he said in a rough voice.

"Yes?" she said breathlessly.

"Um..." He flexed his fingers a time or two, started to reach for her another time or two, then cleared his

throat. He looked horribly tempted by something.

She could only hope it was by the thought of kissing her.

"Um..." he said again, looking about him quite desperately. "Ah, your sword. Aye, your sword! Where

is that thin sword of yours? I vow I should have looked at it more closely whilst you were in my hall."

She felt herself gaping at him and was powerless to assume any other more reasonable and attractive expression. "My sword?" "Aye. Will you not show it to me now?"

Sure, before I wedge the hilt between two sturdy rocks and fall on it.

"You wouldn't have two, would you?" he asked, his eyes alight suddenly with barely restrained excitement.

"Do you want to fight me?" she asked incredulously.

"Well," he said, drawing himself up, "not fight, precisely. But it might be pleasing to have a go with one of those blades. I suppose you might be able to demonstrate its use."

There she stood, drooling over him and wanting nothing more than to go on drooling for the whole of the afternoon, and all he could think about was swords!

She knew she shouldn't have been surprised.

Amazing, that she still was.

She sighed. "Let's go get a couple of them out of the shed. We'll find somewhere to use them." On you, if I'm lucky.

"Not in Mrs. Pruitt's garden," he warned, tramping along behind her. "I've already run afoul of her ire by trampling her blooms."

"And considering that she's willing to feed you," Victoria said, "I imagine you're not going to irritate her unnecessarily."

"Your Gaelic improves with each day that passes. I should speak with you more. I daresay I'm aiding you greatly."

Victoria nodded, but didn't dare say anything. Spend more time with him? Lose her heart all over again each time she saw him, when she knew that he fully intended to skedaddle back home the first chance he had?

Hamlet.

Perfect.

She was going to kill her brother.

She went to the shed and rummaged around until she came up with two theatrical rapiers. The last thing she needed was to have Connor impale her by accident. Wouldn't that be the ultimate in ironies: Connor mortal and she a ghost.

It wasn't at all amusing, so she quickly turned her thoughts away from that and swished her blade a time or two. Connor did the same. He seemed to find the sound quite lovely because he continued to cut the air with his blade. Victoria was very happy she hadn't given him the rapier she'd taken back in time with her. The thought of the clean, lethal whistle that one made, multiplied exponentially in Connor's capable hands, gave her the willies.

"En guarde," she said, assuming her best fencing pose.

Connor looked at her, baffled, then lunged, as well.

Apparently, he didn't realize his arms were quite a bit longer than hers until after it was too late.

The sword did collapse as it poked her in the ribs, but still, it winded her. She gasped and dropped her sword.

"Ach, by the saints, nay!" Connor cried and tossed his sword aside in horror. He dropped to his knees in front of her. "Victoria! Victoria!"

"Stop bellowing," she wheezed. He didn't seem to be paying any attention to her. He hauled her into his arms and clutched her to him, continuing to make noises of distress. And somehow, in spite of that distress or perhaps because of it, he managed to keep her clutched with one arm yet run his free hand over her hair, as if that very motion would restore her to good health.

What a dilemma.

Should she tell him she wasn't bleeding from a gaping wound, or should she just close her eyes and

enjoy it for as long as it lasted? She was trapped in Connor MacDougal's arms. It was, she could say with all honesty, better than she'd dared imagine it could be. There came a point, unfortunately, when she knew she would have to breathe again. She tried moving one of her arms, but Connor had that one pinned under his elbow. She tried moving the other arm, but it was mostly pinned as well, and all that happened was that she wound up patting the air. She tried to get Connor's attention by calling his name; his name came out as nothing more than a squeak. She looked around desperately for help.

Thomas stood at the kitchen door, regarding the little tableau with a smirk.

"Help," she mouthed.

Thomas put his hand to his ear. "What?"

"Help!" she squeaked. "Help, damn you!"

"Hey, MacDougal," Thomas called. "What's up?"

"I killed your sister!" Connor exclaimed in anguished tones.

"Nope," Thomas said. "It was a fake sword. But I think if you don't let go, you'll crush her to death."

Connor pulled back far enough to look down at Victoria with a frown. "Are you well?"

Her day of reckoning had come, and so soon...

She smiled weakly. "It hurt, but I'm not bleeding. Want to try again?"

He released her reluctantly, then looked her over. "What magic is this?" he asked. "A sword that does

not pierce?"

Victoria found that she could reach her sword without having to really lean over too far. That was very

handy; it left her with ample opportunity to practically recline in Connor's arms. Damn, he even smelled good. Where had Thomas taken him? She jammed the sword into the ground. It collapsed into itself. Connor gasped.

He set her aside without hesitation and reached for the sword. He poked it into the ground several times to the accompaniment of sounds of delight. He stood, tossed the sword up into the air, and watched as it fell, point down, into the dirt. He looked at Victoria.

"Well," he said finally, "this is something indeed." He caught sight of Thomas. "Have you seen this, Thomas? I daresay it removes some of the joy from a good brawl, but indeed, 'tis a very new and interesting contrivance." He went and fetched his rapier, then tossed it toward Thomas. "Shall we?"

Victoria stared, open-mouthed, as her brother and her erstwhile clutcher began to engage each other, commenting from time to time over the lack of sport there was in fighting with a sword that could not truly do damage.

"This will only hold my interest for a brief time," Connor warned. "Then I will need something more lethal."

"I understand completely."

Connor gestured toward Victoria. "You know, I think I have fond feelings for your sister."

"Do you?" Thomas asked.

"Damn me if I know why."

"I think I would feel the same way."

Victoria shot her brother a look he seemed to feel in spite of the fact that he refused to look at her.

"She is beautiful," Connor said. "And spirited. And rather handy with a blade." He looked over at her. "I never met a wench who could use a sword before. Is the Future so full of your kind of woman?"

"No," she said shortly, "it's not."

He grunted and turned back to her brother. "Did Mrs. Pruitt have something on the fire when you came out of the kitchen?"

"Yes," Victoria said loudly. "Probably a heavy frying pan."