He flipped on the light, no longer worried about waking Isobeille. What he saw made him wince. The flowers he’d bought for Isobeille lay wilted and crushed just inside the door, along with his belt and the scattered buttons from his shirt. The roast she had lovingly prepared for him sat burned and dried atop the stove, forgotten.
He hoped upon hope that Isobeille had not come back to the apartment tonight; that she had just elected to stay with Mrs. Anderson, because he didn’t want to think about her seeing any of this. Even though he knew nothing had actually happened, it sure looked like it had. As he righted the lamp, he spotted the unopened condom – no doubt placed there by Gloria in preparation for her surprised seduction - and groaned.
Postponing his shower, he went about cleaning up the mess first instead.
He threw open the windows, letting the icy air clear away Gloria’s lingering, heavy perfume. He swept up the wilted flowers and buttons, emptying the dust pan into the trash. Then he tipped the remains of what would have been his dinner into the trash and did the dishes. When that was all done he tied up the trash bag and carried it down to the bin, not wanting any reminder of the evening in his apartment when Isobeille returned in the morning. If she even wanted to.
Well, he told himself, if she didn’t, he was going to do his damnedest to convince her otherwise.
He looked at the tiny Christmas tree sitting in the corner and sighed. It was what his mom would have called a “Charlie Brown tree”. Isobeille stared at that thing for hours; she’d asked him to place it where she could see it as she fell asleep at night and be the first thing she saw in the morning.
It seemed wrong to have it sitting in the dark like that, so Nick plugged in the strands of lights. So simply decorated, with its tiny little lights and hand-crafted bows, lovingly made by a woman who knew the true spirit of Christmas and held it in her heart every day of the year.
And yet, despite its size and its simplicity, it was quite possibly the most beautiful tree he had ever seen.
Only then did he take a shower and crawl onto the sofa, pulling the pillow and blanket up to his nose. They smelled like Isobeille – like snow and wildflowers.
Sleep was a long time in coming. The events of the day kept rolling around in his head. There were so many things he should have done differently, but there was little he could do about that now. All he could do was try to make everything right again.
Eventually he fell into a tormented sleep around dawn.
Chapter 15
“May I come in?” Nick asked.
Mrs. Anderson opened the door, allowing him to step into her apartment. “Isobeille isn’t here,” she said, her face devoid of the welcoming, neighborly smile she usually had for him.
“She isn’t?” Nick asked, fear settling in to the pit of his stomach. “She didn’t spend the night here with you?”
“Yes, she did, but she’s gone now.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
Mrs. Anderson fixed him with a stern look. “Away for the day. It will do her good.”
Away? Where the hell would Isobeille go? The thought of her out there in the city all alone filled his veins with icy dread. “Mrs. Anderson, this is really important. Please tell me where she is.”
“Let me ask you something first,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Why is it so important to you? Isobeille is a grown woman, and you, obviously, are involved with someone else.”
“Not anymore,” Nick said, his jaw flexing. The way Mrs. Anderson was looking at him like a pissed-off mother hen, she knew. Which meant that Isobeille probably did, too.
Nick was a big boy; he knew he’d messed up and would face the consequences. But he would have done anything if he could have somehow prevented hurting Isobeille’s feelings. The thought of seeing that wounded look in her eyes was cutting him up on the inside. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her because he had been too dense to see what had been right before his eyes.
“Isobeille may be a grown woman, but in many ways she is like a child. She’s been... sheltered.”
Nick struggled to find a way to explain to the older woman that Isobeille was not a typical twenty-four year old woman without revealing the whole truth or sounding like a nut case. “She isn’t familiar with city life. There are those that will take advantage of her.”
Mrs. Anderson pinned him with a gimlet eye. He’d seen that same look on his own mother’s face every time he or one of his siblings had done something incredibly stupid. Nick should have foreseen that Isobeille would bring out those primitive, protective instincts in her. Hadn’t he been feeling those same instincts since day one?
“Like men who might expect her to clean and cook for them, and hide away in an apartment all day by herself until they come home from work?” she asked. “Except, of course, when those men plan on inviting their lady friends over – and I use the term lady quite loosely here – and expect her to conveniently disappear for several hours?”
Nick winced. “It’s not like that.”
Mrs. Anderson raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest. “Is that so? How is it, then?”
“Isobeille needed a place to stay. She was new in town, didn’t know anyone, had no place to go. I was trying to help.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I never asked her to clean or cook or do any of those things – she wanted to, said it made her feel useful.”
But he had loved it, hadn’t he? Knowing he’d come home to a warm, clean apartment and a home-cooked meal. But mostly, he realized now, it was knowing that Isobeille was waiting for him that he loved the most.
Mrs. Anderson’s features softened a little. “Maybe you were trying to help. Most people would have just turned their backs on her, or dropped her off at a shelter and let someone else worry about her. But did you ever stop to think that she might mistake what you saw as simple kindness and human compassion for something... more?”
God, his chest hurt. “She knew I had a girlfriend. I never lied about that. And despite what you might think, I never, uh, seduced her.” He clamped his mouth shut, mortified. What on earth had ever possessed him to share that with his neighbor?
Mrs. Anderson shook her head sadly. “You don’t understand anything, do you? You think because you didn’t try to blatantly get her into your bed – and I am quite proud of you for that, by the way – that you were not seducing her? A woman like Isobeille would have seen through something like that in a heartbeat.”
“What are you saying? That I seduced a woman unintentionally?”
“Oh, I don’t think it was truly unintentional. I think some part of you recognized what Isobeille was to you even while your head was up your – well, let’s just say your head was in a much darker place.”
Her mouth quirked up at the corners. She seemed much happier now that Nick was miserable and squirming.
Nick looked the older woman directly in the eyes and held her gaze. “And what do you think Isobeille is to me?” he asked softly.
She didn’t hesitate. “Why, your one true love, of course.”
The ache in his chest increased; drawing a full breath became difficult. He wondered vaguely if it was the beginning of a heart attack, then dismissed the idea. He was still having trouble wrapping his head around Mrs. Anderson’s words.
“I don’t believe in that stuff.”
“Just because you choose not to believe doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Isobeille knows it, too.” Mrs. Anderson’s eyes glistened. “Why else do you think she would have travelled through time to find you?”
* * *
Isobeille’s opinion of automobiles changed drastically as they made their way up the coast. She liked Ian’s convertible Audi GT Spyder very much; it was nothing at all like the cramped and malodorous taxi.
“Are you sure you’re not too cold?” he asked.
“Nay! ‘Tis invigorating! Like riding upon a fine stallion at full gallop, but without the pain in the backside!”
Ian laughed. It felt go
od to smile again, even if she was hurting inside.
It took slightly more than two hours to reach Ian’s place along the cape, but the ride passed quickly. Isobeille loved the stereo, amazed at the choices of music genres available. She spent a lot of time playing with all the buttons – much to Ian’s amusement – stopping when she found a song she liked. She seemed as equally fond of rock ballads as she was techno-pop and classical – some of which had her dancing in her seat.
“Ye live here alone?” Isobeille asked uncertainly, eyeing the size of the house. It looked much larger than she had imagined. Ian had made it sound quite modest, but it didn’t appear that way to her, a woman who had grown up in a small, two-room dwelling.
“Yes, just me,” he said, carrying her small bag and his into the foyer. “Would you like a tour?”
“Aye!” she said excitedly.
Ian’s bungalow had none of the plain white walls and clean lines that Nick’s apartment had. Dark, rich colors and wood paneling covered the walls – those that weren’t already covered in bookshelves, that is. The furniture, too, was plush and dark; the woodwork was intricately carved and polished. The slight lingering scent of wood smoke mingled with that of lemon oil and old books.
“’Tis the most beautiful house I have ever seen,” Isobeille breathed as each room seemed even better than the last. She ran her hands lovingly along the leather-bound volumes strewn everywhere. It was warm and cozy and very lived in. Ian’s presence was evident in every room – masculine, scholarly, and tasteful. “Ye must be verra wealthy te have such a fine place like this.”
“I do alright,” he said modestly. “Come. There’s something I’d like you to see.”
Isobeille followed Ian through an attractive kitchen of dark wood and stainless steel and out onto a large deck that ran the entire width of the bungalow and wrapped around each corner. Isobeille walked out to the railing and looked out onto the ocean.
“’Tis so verra big,” she murmured, her eyes wide with wonder at the sight before her.
Ian laughed. “Yes, it is. Would you like to go down to the water?”
“Oh, aye! Please!”
Ian took her hand and led her down the steps toward the rocks that formed the shore along his property. Much to his dismay, Isobeille wasted no time in removing her shoes and socks and wading out into the ocean, despite the fact that the water was ice cold. She seemed so genuinely excited, he didn’t have the heart to stop her. He did, however, ensure that her little foray into the freezing waters was not a long one.
Even later, when she was still shivering and Ian had tucked a blanket around her legs and placed a steaming mug of hot chocolate into her hands, Isobeille was still smiling.
“What do ye call these little white things?” she asked. Ian was forced to hide his smile at the prominent white mustache adorning her upper lip.
“Marshmallows,” he said. Deliberately, he tilted his own mug so that he was sporting a similar ‘stache. Isobeille’s eyes widened, then giggled as she reached up to confirm that she, too, had one.
“Marshmallows,” she repeated. “I like marshmallows verra much.”
“I thought you might.” The cocoa and the shots of Bailey’s he’d added should have her warmed up in no time.
“Thank ye, Ian, for bringing me te yer home and showing me the ocean. Ye are a verra kind mon.”
“You are very welcome, Isobeille. But I’m not quite as selfless as you might think. I had an ulterior motive for bringing you here today.”
For the first time since she had met him, Isobeille felt a twinge of unease, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. Yes, she was alone in a house with a man she had only met the night before, but Ian was not a man with evil in his heart. She’d been around enough of those to know the difference, at least.
“Aye? And what might that be?”
“I was hoping,” Ian said carefully, “that you might share with me what life was truly like in early fifteenth-century Scotland.”
She smiled serenely, but he did not miss the flash in her eyes. “Ye are the expert, Ian. I am no scholar.”
“No,” he agreed. “You are something much better. You are someone who’s actually lived it.”
Chapter 16
Nick stared at Mrs. Anderson, his face frozen into a mask of neutrality. He wasn’t sure if he should laugh out loud or sigh in relief. She made the decision for him.
“It’s alright, Nick. I’m not crazy. Well, not about this, anyway. I know Isobeille is not from our time.”
Despite her assurances, Nick was reluctant to admit anything just yet. “Did she tell you that?”
“No. I suspect you are the only one she has trusted enough with that information.”
“Then how...”
“Do I know?” Mrs. Anderson finished for him. “Well, let’s just say I’ve been around long enough to know that anything is possible. Oh, I had my suspicions, of course. I knew from the first time I met the girl that she was, well, different. But it didn’t all become clear to me until last night.”
“My son, Ian, has several degrees, including two doctorates in medieval Scottish and Norse history,” she explained. “He is considered by many to be one of the world’s foremost experts on the subject, as a matter of fact. It is one of the reasons I asked him to come down to see me. I wanted him to meet Isobeille.”
Something uncomfortable twisted in Nick’s gut. “And did he?”
The older woman’s eyes glittered. “Oh, yes. He was quite taken with her.”
That uncomfortable twisting worsened, forming large, wiggling knots, but Mrs. Anderson continued happily, “They hit it off instantly, as I suspected they would. We went to dinner and had a lovely time. Then Ian coaxed her into a carriage ride around the park. That, apparently, went quite well, from what I gathered.”
She pinned Nick with a glare that spoke volumes, but the short version of it was that she thought Nick was an idiot, and that her son would be a much better match for Isobeille.
“Did it?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Yes,” she sighed. “It’s a shame she’s already head over heels in love with you. I would have liked to have had her as a daughter-in-law. As it is, she and Ian will just be great friends, I suppose.”
Nick felt a flood of relief wash through him, but until he saw with his own two eyes that Isobeille was safe, until he could hold her in his arms again, he would not be content.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” Mrs. Anderson looked pointedly at Nick as if he was the one who had gotten her off track, “Ian was all too willing to humor me. I don’t think he believed me at first, but something happened in the past week that got him thinking. Someone from the University gave him an ancient coin and asked him to confirm its authenticity. Apparently it was in quite good condition, as if it had only been fashioned a few months ago instead of several centuries. After we spoke, he agreed to meet with Isobeille, to bring up various topics and see how she reacted, as well as pose several questions. A series of tests, I suppose, administered subtly and without her knowledge. Not surprisingly, he came to the same conclusion that I did.”
Mrs. Anderson paused, her expression as determined and challenging as Nick had ever seen. “The question now, young man, is what are we going to do about it?”
* * *
“Do you have any idea how incredible this is for someone like me, who has spent the majority of the last ten years studying something I could only dream about?” Ian asked, his eyes dancing with excitement. “And here you are, a living, breathing example of what I’ve simply read about my whole life?”
Isobeille sipped her cocoa, averting her eyes. “Why do ye believe such a thing as fantastic as that?”
Ian smiled. “Remember when we were talking at dinner last night? Nobody – and I mean nobody - could have known the things you knew without years of intensive study, and you already mentioned you’d never been to college. Several times I lapsed into an ancient dialect that hasn’t been spoken for ce
nturies, yet you didn’t even blink. Plus you told me about your village – Gwynnevael? Gwynnevael ceased to exist half a millennium ago, yet I’d heard of that place once before. I couldn’t remember where until my mother reminded me of an obscure reference in the ancestral history I started when I was still an undergrad. It was a passage from memoirs written by one of my ancestors – a knight by the name of Sir Galen Anderson. He wrote about the woman he was supposed to have married, but who mysteriously disappeared just before he could come for her.”
Isobeille felt the blood draining from her face, but Ian was too excited to notice. “He described her as having a gentle soul and the beauty of an angel, with hair the color of a fine garnet and eyes like cut emeralds. He called her his treasure, a treasure he’d unearthed in a tiny little village known as Gwynnevael.”
“And yer ancestor,” she said in a shaky voice. “Did he name his betrothed?”
“Yes,” Ian said, his eyes sparkling. “Her name was Isobeille. Isobeille Aislinn McKenna.”
* * *
“First things first,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Do you love Isobeille?”
“Yes.” The answer just came out, without hesitation, without thought. Nick was tired of trying to fool himself. He loved Isobeille, loved her with his heart and his mind and his soul.
“Good,” Mrs. Anderson nodded approvingly. “It’s about time you figured that out. What about that other woman you were seeing?”
“Gloria. That’s over,” he said, still a bit shaken by the realization that he was in love with Isobeille. Last night he’d finally realized that it wasn’t really Gloria that he’d so desperately wanted, but a woman who he could share his life with. Someone who would make him laugh, and ask about his day, and sit in the dark and watch movies and fall asleep with him. Someone like Isobeille.
“Good. I never liked that woman.”
Nick raised an eyebrow, but Mrs. Anderson just smirked. “Now that all of that’s been taken care of, I guess that just leaves one last thing.”
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