“I was thinking on a plane. In the twenty-first century.”
“Oh.” Ian laughed. “Yeah, that I’ll do. But it won’t be the same.”
“No,” Grey agreed. “It won’t.”
Which reminded him. “Do you think it was hard for Mom, when we visited as a family? It must have been,” he said, answering his own question.
“I’m sure we didn’t visit Hightower for that reason. Can you imagine what Hightower would be like without Uncle Ross or Clan MacKinnish? A bunch of tourists traipsing through what used to be Mom’s home, commenting on her old hairbrush?”
No, he couldn’t imagine it at all.
“Will I miss it?” Grey asked. “Yes, I will. I mean, look at that. It’s like a postcard.”
But it was more than the view, and they both knew it.
“I might toss my cell in the river when we get back.”
Grey laughed. “I know what you mean. On the other hand, I wake up in the middle of the night dreaming about birthday cake snowballs.”
“You don’t even like sweets.”
“I do when I can’t have them.”
Ian shoved the thought of shaved ice covered with condensed milk from his mind. No use dreaming about something you can’t have.
“I’ll miss it too,” he agreed, surprised it was true.
But he wouldn’t miss the cold.
“We should get back.” And yet, when he attempted to turn to do just that, Grey blocked him from leaving. “You didn’t ask me to come here to talk about scenery and snowballs. What’s up, Ian?”
Grey was right. But he changed his mind.
“Ian?”
A bird, Ian didn’t know what kind, swooped down so close to them his brother flinched.
“You kill a man, more than one actually, but are terrified of one wee bird?” he asked, using his best Scottish accent. Grey seemed to appreciate it. His laugh echoed into the valley, and as long as Ian lived, he’d not forget that sound. Or this moment.
If they got back safe and sound, he wouldn’t take even one second of time with his family for granted.
“It’s Màiri,” Grey guessed once his laughter finally dried up.
Well shit, of course it was Màiri. “Our brothers are embroiled in a plot against a king. They may or may not make it back alive, according to some of what you told me about medieval travel. So yeah, let’s worry about that and not my wife.”
Grey wouldn’t let it go. “That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it? She’s your wife. No getting around it.”
“Not for long.”
“Jesus,” Grey muttered. “You’re such a stubborn asshole.”
So much for their genuine brother-to-brother moment.
“Clearly you care about her. Give me one good reason not to stay married? Not to take her back to New Orleans?”
He could give Grey more than one, but he’d start with his brother’s statement.
“I care about her. Desire the hell out of her. But do I love her? Does she love me?” He couldn’t believe he was saying this shit out loud. “It’s a big deal, to take someone across seven hundred years. There’s no going back on that. And I’ve known her for exactly two weeks.”
