Unraveling James

by L. L. Muir

  But it was true. What she really wanted was to find a guy she wouldn’t want to leave after a few months—someone who would make her want to stay.

  Loretta exchanged another glance with her sister, then turned to stare intensely into Phoebe’s eyes. “I must be truthful,” she said. “In your future, I see love, happiness, joy, even. All these things will come once you find the reason for your gracelessness. All these things you will know if you leave with nothing more than a sip of tea—and our friendship, of course.” She reached for the blue cup, and slid it back into Phoebe’s hand. “But true love is another matter. True love is like this cup. While you may find joy and happiness with one of the others, you are right to believe there is a man who was meant for you, and you for him.”

  Lorraine finally pulled her hands away, smoothed them across the table, and started fretting at the lace. “It is a rare case,” she finally said, “that such a pair ever find each other, of course. And even if we sent you off on such a quest, it does not mean that you will succeed. After all, the two pieces of a perfect puzzle are often born in different lifetimes. For all you know, this true love might be some Viking pirate stalking the shores of Scotland in the seventh century, bellowing in rage because he feels incomplete, not knowing that it is you he seeks.”

  Phoebe let out a quiet gasp of protest. “Seventh century. Are you kidding me?”

  Loretta frowned at her sister and half-heartedly cleared her throat. Then she looked at Phoebe and gave a begrudging nod, as if to say Lorraine might be right.

  “So, are you trying to warn me that, if I go looking for my true love, I might end up howling mad? Frustrated when I can’t find him?”

  Loretta shrugged. “Something like that, dear, yes.”

  “But I might get lucky?”

  She brightened. “Yes.”

  “You’re telling me I’m choosing between a perfectly acceptable bird in the hand—joy, happiness, blah blah blah—versus an amazing one in the bush kind of thing?”

  Lorraine nodded slowly.

  “A lovely sparkler versus a giant firework?”

  Loretta’s lips curled. “Sparklers are perfectly wonderful sometimes.”

  Phoebe was surprised by how easy the decision was. She’d had a number of relationships with perfectly great guys, and she could find another one, she was sure. She was relatively normal for the most part. She was just as organized or disorganized as the next person, just as pretty as the next girl, maybe just a little more optimistic than the next guy. But she was ready to be something more than normal. She was ready for fireworks.

  “When do I leave?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  James’ stomach growled for something more substantial than lukewarm tea by the time the witches finished with their odd customer and led her out of the room. He pretended not to notice the younger woman’s fine arse as she disappeared through the curtains. After all, that was definitely not the arse for him.

  He waited until the sisters returned to the tearoom before yanking his earbuds from his ears with a painful pop, standing, and gesturing to the chairs to either side of him. “Ladies.”

  “James,” they said in unison. Then one asked if he would like some lunch. “No, but thank ye. I’ll state my business and go, if it’s all the same.”

  They took the offered seats as if they’d been dreading the moment. He hoped for his sake, that was not truly the case. If Quinn had phoned to give them fair warning, they already knew why he’d come, so their reluctance was a bad sign. But no matter. He reminded himself that they could easily read his thoughts, thus there was no sense in being clever about it.

  “Ye ken why I’ve come, aye?”

  They exchanged a knowing look, then nodded.

  “First, let me express my disappointment in a certain Laird Ross, in case ye have the chance to speak with him again, any time soon. I saved Quinn and his wife from the unpleasant Gordons, besides protecting Juliet at every turn.”

  “For which we are all grateful,” said one sister. Loretta, he believed. Her quick nod told him he’d guessed right. “She is our family too.”

  “Aye. And as ye’ll recall, I’ve asked for no favors—”

  “Until now.”

  He nodded. “When I reminded Quinn that I also retrieved Isobelle, he admitted he would never be able to repay me.”

  As their heads bobbed in agreement, he noticed for the first time that their hair was a more natural shade, a faded color that one day might have matched his own, and not the blue-white he once remembered. The sight gave him hope, for if they had the power to make themselves younger, they should have the power to do what he needed them to do.

  But first things first.

  “We all ken what lies beneath Castle Ross. And I asked Quinn if I could have a go at it just one last time, but he refused me. Refused! While he says he will never be able to repay my favors, he flatly refuses to do so when given the chance. And all he must do is disable his security system and allow me into the cellar, re-arm it again, and have done!”

  James closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down when he noticed how his volume had risen along with his blood pressure.

  “Forgive me, ladies. As ye can see, I am upset with Quinn and the reasons he gave for refusing me. I see no reason he cannot do as I ask—”

  “It is not only his security he would need to disarm,” Lorraine said. “No mortal can enter the cellar. But if one should wish to exit, they could do so.”

  “No mortal.”

  Loretta grinned. “That’s right.”

  “Ye’ve cursed the place?”

  “No. We’ve sealed it. And not only the two of us. It took quite a collection of Muirs to do the job.”

  James dropped his elbows onto the table, his head into his hands, and whispered, “Why?” Of course he already knew the answer. The first time he’d chased Juliet into that cellar, he’d emerged into dangerous times. Anyone less skilled than he, and less lucky than Quinn’s wife, might never have returned to the current century alive. To leave those enchanted passageways unguarded would be the equivalent of leaving an open mineshaft in the middle of a park. But knowing that didn’t lessen his frustration.

  Lorraine reached out and patted his shoulder. “We did it for Percy. He can never be allowed to go back.”

  Percy. Once the son of a fifteenth century Gordon laird, was now Quinn’s and Juliet’s adopted son. What with all the dangers that lay in the past for the boy, they couldn’t have left him behind. But that had happened over two years ago. The lad would now be around fourteen, an age when adopted children could begin obsessing about their real parents.

  The Rosses had been right to take such drastic measures. James admitted he should have considered Percy before flying off the handle at Quinn. But that didn’t change his own destiny, a destiny he was determined to control himself.

  “Ladies,” he began again, “I accept that Castle Ross and its passages are not available to me. But I am determined to return to the past—and remain in it. Do ye ken?” Neither of them appeared surprised, nor did they comment, so he continued. “I assume ye can gather these Muirs again, to help me go to where my destiny lies?”

  They shook their heads doubtfully, but their acting skills were a wee bit lacking. Half-hearted to be sure.

  “Think on it, madams. Give me a yea or a nay in…say,” he looked at his watch, “two minutes. And if ye cannot send me back—in one piece, mind ye—then I’ll have no choice but to go find the other one. I’m certain she has the power to do so, for I’ve seen her perform some amazing tricks already. More than just reading minds or telling the future, even.”

  Both sisters now sat at the front of their chairs with their eyes wide, their postures on the verge of snapping their backs.

  “Who?” Again, in unison, as they often spoke, with shaking voices made stronger by their indignance.

  He made a face and glanced away as if searching his memory. “I believe ye call her…Soni? Soncery? No! Soncerae
. That’s it.” He could have gone on, watching their horror grow with each testing of the young witch’s name, but he didn’t wish to be cruel to a pair of older-than-they-appear women who were about to give him what he wanted.

  Hands clamped onto his wrists like manacles, one from each sister. He dared not test their hold for fear of discovering how strong they might be when working together. Instead, he smiled pleasantly and nodded to one, then the other.

  “Never fear, ladies. I have no further reason to follow that other grand-niece of yers. I am not particularly interested in what she does with the evenings she spends upon the battlefield at Culloden Moor. But perhaps…” He was a right mean bastard sometimes. “Perhaps ye wouldn’t mind seeing me sent into the past after all. Mm?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Muir Witches gave James ten days to get his affairs in order before he was expected back at the tea shop. He was ready in two.

  Of course, he’d been prepared to disappear long before he’d gone into Edinburgh to visit their little tea shop and give them his ultimatum. Being turned down by Quinn the first time, however, only made him more determined to follow through. So, the second time he’d pled his case, he’d been fairly upset. It was no wonder the man had called to warn the sisters.

  He took it as a promising sign that they hadn’t refused him outright.

  He was prepared to leave immediately. He’d left instructions with his solicitor for the disposition of his property and bank accounts, in the event of his disappearance. But he’d done that often enough, when being given particularly dangerous assignments by the Home Office, that Willow & March hadn’t batted an eye this last time.

  James secretly suspected that March watched the calendar rather closely, anticipating James not returning by the assigned date, just so he could get his hands on a fat commission. But that didn’t tempt James to change attorneys because Willow was a man he trusted implicitly. If it came down to dispersing all his money to charities, James believed Willow’s sentiments mirrored his own. They had worked closely on an assignment once—had seen some horrific things, in fact, that connected them. Willow had turned out to be an excellent, last minute substitute for a sting operation, although the man would have given anything not to have seen the things he had.

  Walking down Princes Street on that drizzly afternoon, he felt like the weather sensed his mood, so he shook off those memories he rarely examined, wondered how they’d ever escaped to begin with, and hoped the sun would come out to chase the shadows away.

  Instead, the wind picked up and threw rain into his face despite the fact that he’d hunched his shoulders and turned aside to take the brunt of it against his back. He was instantly soaked through and almost regretted giving away his Armani jacket too soon. But the fellow he’d offered it to would make good use out of it. And few things—other than his denims—would look so out of place in past centuries.

  With nothing dry left to protect, he ignored the growing storm and went along his way. One more stop, then only Heaven knew how he would spend his final week in modern-day Scotland.

  As always, he pretended not to notice the stares of those he passed on the street, who waited for him to walk by before they stopped and craned their necks, trying to guess how tall he was. Some days, he preferred it when someone simply asked him outright. Other times, he had to clench his teeth and fists to keep from shouting it was none of their bloody business. That afternoon, he appreciated neither. And the stares he felt on his back became like large straws added to a camel’s load. How long before the last straw fell? What would he do when it did?

  He hurried through the door at Barclay’s Bank and was grateful for a small line. The only one who noticed him right away was the security guard, who recognized him enough to give him a nod, then look away again. If only everyone were so considerate.

  The door opened again, behind him, and he cringed but didn’t turn. Quiet and unwelcoming. Cold and unfriendly. Of course, the attitude would have been easier to pull off had he been wearing the Armani. But no. He’d chosen a casual tan shirt, leather vest, and khaki slacks—and nothing said friendly like cotton, damn it.

  “Oh, my gosh.” It was a woman’s voice behind him, but he ignored it, hoping she would get the hint. “I know you.”

  He turned slightly, glanced at the floor, and said, in a firm tone, “No. You do not.” Then he faced forward again.

  “Oh, wow. Yeah. Now I know it’s you. Still a charmer.”

  Just to be obstinate, he didn’t respond. It was clear she was an American, and about the only interactions he had with those were when they stopped him on the street and begged for a photo. It was the chief reason he avoided the streets of Edinburgh—and just about every other Scottish city as well. When Highland men were all the rage, and red-heads like him especially, it was all he could do to be pleasant about it when he turned them down. Having one’s mug plastered all over the internet was hardly helpful to one of Her Majesty’s agents. But he supposed he wasn’t that anymore.

  He had nearly convinced himself to turn and apologize when the line moved forward. He took two steps and prepared to turn, but the woman spoke before he could.

  “I’m sorry, by the way. I was rude, and then I was mean. And I promise not to bother you again.” She whispered the last, since others had turned to look at her.

  Honestly, it was a relief to have all that attention aimed at someone else, if only for a minute. Of course, they all looked at him to see his reaction. One elderly woman gave him a sharp frown, as if he’d been the one in the wrong.

  He lifted his shoulders, then rolled them, stretching his neck in the process. He pulled his lips into a pleasant if forced smile and turned. The niceties he’d planned flew out of his mind when he recognized the customer from The Enchanted Bloody Tea Cup.

  “You!”

  She shrugged. “Me.”

  A real smile spread across his face. “The woman who stuck her tongue out at me.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m kinda sorry about that, too.”

  He laughed. “Kinda sorry? An American apology of sorts?”

  She laughed back. “Jokes on you. I’m one of you, now. I’ve lived here for a while.”

  The fellow behind her cleared their throat to suggest James move forward in line, which he did, then turned back to continue the conversation. She followed at a respectable distance.

  “How long is this while?”

  “Over eight months.”

  He pretended to be impressed. “A long visit, then?”

  “Permanent resident. My company sent me over to help set up a software program for their offices here. I decided to stay. Didn’t have anything to go back for.”

  He nodded, only half listening, distracted by the memory of how well her denims had fit. The man behind her cleared his throat again, and James turned to see that it was his turn. There was no time left for havering.

  “I accept yer apology,” he said. “Have a nice day, then.”

  He moved to the empty window where a far-too hopeful woman was eager to serve him. He produced his identification and the number of his account, then told the woman he wished to empty and close it. At the next window over, he heard the American woman doing the same. He tipped his head back and clicked his tongue to get her attention.

  Finally, she noticed. “Problem?”

  He frowned. “Please tell me ye’re not handing those old sisters all yer money. For starters, they don’t need it.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He quickly signed where the teller indicated and stepped to the side so he could speak quietly. “I wouldn’t want ye to fall prey to a con game, is all.”

  She smirked. “All I did was rent a cup, buddy.”

  “But ye plan to see them again?”

  “Yes. But they haven’t asked for a dime.”

  “Typical. They’re gaining yer trust, then they’ll take advantage.”

  She sighed and turned back to her window. He did the same and w
atched as the teller took her own sweet time counting out the twelve thousand some-odd dollars he’d kept in that account for pittances. Her intricately painted fingernails slid along his palm as she dropped some coins into his open hand. Then she circled a phone number on a business card and slipped it between his fingers.

  “Anything I can help ye with, mate, phone the number there.”

  He thanked her, and hoped his curt tone made it clear he wouldn’t be calling.

  “Not at all, love.”

  The tinkle of laughter passed behind him and faded toward the exit while he tucked his cash into an inner pocket. He hurried outside, even though he had no earthly reason to want to speak to the Yank again. But he wouldn’t mind watching her walk away…

  The rain had stopped, but the sound of splashing tires continued. He looked to his left, to his right, then across the street, but couldn’t see a flash of her green jacket anywhere.

  “Hey. You looking for me?”

  He turned to find her leaning back against the building, blushing like a teenager.

  He nodded. “I wasn’t joking about those women. Ye need yer money much more than they do. They’re no pensioners, ye ken. I wouldn’t trust them with my personal business, but…I have no alternatives.”

  She gave him a non-committed smile, then took a deep breath. “I don’t suppose you’d want to get a cup of tea—or coffee. Maybe not on Cockburn Street?”

  After his ears caught up with her rapid-fire invitation, he grimaced. “Sorry, no.” It was an automatic response, but he felt it was the right one. After all, she was a woman without loyalty, at least to her own country. And loyalty was the only thing he respected at the moment.

  She nodded and smiled, but was unable to look him in the eye. She craned her neck and waved for a taxicab while she moved to the edge of the pavement. “Have a nice day, then” she said, no doubt mocking him for saying the same to her. Though she completely ignored him after that, her face was still red as a poppy.

  A taxi pulled up and promptly took away all his options. She opened the door, but he grabbed her arm before she could get in. Then handed the driver a fifty pound note through the open window. “Give us a moment, please.” He turned her to face him. “I declined your delightful invitation only because I am leaving town, permanently, and I wouldn’t wish to start something I wouldn’t be around to finish.”