They were a perfect match.
He had an easy temperament, much like hers, and their friendship had endured the breakup of their clans’ alliance. She and Ambrose had just one hurdle: their fathers despised each other.
“What did he say?”
Ambrose tried to smile. “He did not toss me from the room.”
“As I should do now?” a deep voice asked.
Màiri sighed, not even attempting to disguise the sound. Of course her father would have discovered Ambrose was here. The man knew everything. How had she thought it might be possible for them to steal a few moments alone? Slowly, she turned toward the door. Ambrose was already standing as if her father were his commander in battle.
“Ambrose has done nothing wrong.”
The argument sounded tired, even to her own ears.
Her father didn’t move. Filling the doorway with his frame, he stood immobile, attempting to intimidate poor Ambrose. Fortunately, her friend knew him well and did not react.
“Where is Alana?” Her father did not sound pleased.
She was tempted to ask if his curiosity had more to do with her and Ambrose being alone together, or if he wished to know for his own purposes. Màiri had long suspected their feelings for each other extended past the typical relationship between a master and servant, but all of her attempts to unite them had come to naught.
“I came straight to the solar when I heard Ambrose had arrived,” she lied. Although Alana could handle her father easily enough without help, she had no wish to be at the center of an argument between them. “Father, please. Ambrose was just . . .”
She wasn’t certain about how to finish.
“Leaving.” Her father was never at a loss for words.
“Aye,” Ambrose agreed, walking toward the door. “I was leaving.”
She pleaded with her eyes for him to stand up to her father, to refuse to leave until they finished their conversation. But Ambrose would never do that. He claimed disagreeing with her father was no way to win his respect.
When her father stood aside, Ambrose nodded his fare-thee-well, clearly uncomfortable with having to navigate the burly laird.
Màiri had no such qualms.
“You could have allowed him to stay,” she snapped. “He just arrived.”
Her father cared as much for Ambrose’s feelings as he did for troubadours. Or his neighbors.
Very little.
“Ah, mhuirnín . . .”
“No. I am not your darling, not at this moment.”
She loved her father dearly. Understood his hurt, his anger. But that did not mean she was prepared to forgive him for refusing to consider her feelings.
“Pardon me, Father.”
Attempting to ignore the look of hurt on his face, Màiri pushed past him to retreat to her chamber. Another afternoon of crocheting, one that could have been spent in pleasant conversation with the man she loved.
And if it was not the type of love troubadours sang of, so be it. She was determined Ambrose would become her husband one day, with or without her father’s approval.
3
Ian had beenright to be terrified.
Hurtling through time felt sort of like waking up with a raging hangover and finding yourself on a Tilt-a-Whirl all at once. At least he’d been prepared for it. How the hell had Rhys, or his mother for that matter, managed? Even though he’d expected it to be uncomfortable, the force of it made the shuttle launch experience at Kennedy Space Center feel like a horse and buggy ride.
