Page 1 of When I Fall in Love (De Piaget #4)

ARTANE PRESENT DAY

A mbrose MacLeod flattened himself against the wall that led to the kitchens and wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t found himself in like situations before. One could not be the laird of a mighty clan like the MacLeods and not find himself encountering the odd, dodgy situation or the occasional brush with death. He had gone through more than his share of perilous predicaments and lived to boast of their success.

Still, old habits died hard, as the saying went, and a canny sixteenth-century lad out for a lark in someone else’s castle didn’t simply walk down the passageways as if he had a right to. When assaulting the bowels of someone else’s keep, subterfuge and stealth were always the order of the day.

He held his breath as a stout, plain-faced woman of advancing years came down the passageway, rubbing her hands and complaining to herself about the price of fish. He waited until she’d passed and disappeared the other way before he stepped away from the wall and continued down the passageway, his kilt swinging about his knees in a saucy fashion and his mighty sword slapping against his thigh as it always did.

He walked into the kitchen and looked about him for lights that he might see to. He lit a handful of torches of his own making and found that even here at Artane, the kitchen could be counted on for a shiny black Aga holding court. He conjured up a chair, pulled a mug of ale out of thin air, and sat down with a sigh. Perhaps there were some comforts that could be enjoyed, no matter the location.

He had just settled back to enjoy those comforts when the sound of a cat being strangled assaulted his ears. The front two legs of his chair hit the floor with a thump as he leapt to his feet. His sword came from its sheath with the kind of hiss that bespoke serious business intended.

He waited, bouncing on his heels a time or two, as the sound approached. Who knew what it boded? Was he to be reduced to rescuer of large, very loud felines now? It wasn’t beneath him, of course. Chivalry was chivalry, after all, and no damsel in distress was beneath his notice—be she of the feline kind or not—

He stared, openmouthed, as the sound—and its maker—entered the kitchen. The point of his sword clanged against the stone of the floor. He thought that he just might have to sit down soon.

Or at least stick his fingers in his ears.

“Hugh,” he said weakly. “What, by all the saints above, are you doing?”

Hugh McKinnon, laird of the clan McKinnon near the turn of a particularly medieval century, took the violin from under his chin and made Ambrose a low bow. He straightened, swished his bow through the air a time or two in a manly fashion, then smiled a gap-toothed smile.

“I’m practicing,” he announced proudly.

Ambrose resheathed his sword with difficulty, then felt his way down into his chair. “Practicing what, pray? Terrifying the locals?”

“The violin,” Hugh said indignantly. “Can’t ye see that?”

“Of course I see that,” Ambrose said. “What I don’t see is why .”

“I was thinking that perhaps my wee granddaughter Jennifer McKinnon might play a duet or two with me when she arrives.”

Ambrose was very rarely without some sort of kind word, or a bracing suggestion at the very least, but he found that, in this instance, all he could do was nod, mute. The thought of a musician of Jennifer’s caliber playing with this tormentor of ghostly strung steel was almost beyond comprehension.

Hugh pulled up a chair and sat down with a satisfied sigh. “I’ve already had my first performance, you know,” he said.

“Have you?” Ambrose asked.

“Aye, for that Mr. Victor Bourgeois.” Hugh paused. “He didn’t much care for it, I daresay.”

“Victor Bourgeois?” Ambrose echoed. “The violinist Victor Bourgeois?”

“The very same,” Hugh said with a nod. “Of course, I told him that if he didn’t like my playin’, it meant he was just lackin’ in a bit of good taste.” Hugh scratched his head. “I don’t think he took it well. He checked himself into a mad-house that very night.”

Ambrose suspected Hugh’s playing might drive any sensible soul into madness. He fingered his mug thoughtfully. “And that led to Jennifer’s playing in his stead,” he mused. “I had wondered how that had come about.” He looked at Hugh approvingly. “Well done, Hugh.”

“Shall I serenade you as I did him?” Hugh asked, his eyes alight with pleasure.

“Er, perhaps later,” Ambrose said quickly. “Let us await the arrival of our other comrade in this adventure—”

He would have said more, but he was interrupted by a horrendous clanging coming from inside the Aga. He leapt to his feet, his sword coming from its sheath with a hiss, and tensed, prepared to meet any sort of foe. He noticed that Hugh had tucked his violin under his arm and taken a firmer grip on his bow. Aye, they were both as ready as could possibly be expected—

The door to the oven suddenly burst open and something popped out onto the floor.

Ambrose looked at it in surprise. It was, and he could hardly believe he was about to identify it as such, a genie’s lamp.

Ambrose looked at Hugh. He was staring at the thing with an expression of surprise that Ambrose was sure matched his own. What to do now? Hack at it with his sword?

The genie’s lamp began to wiggle as it sat in front of the stove.

Hugh hopped up on his chair.

“’Tis a lamp, not a mouse,” Ambrose said sternly. He stood and looked down at the brass lamp. “I’ll grasp it quickly and we’ll see what lies within—”

The stopper flew off the top of the lamp and a black, choking smoke poured out. Ambrose used his sword to fan it away. All too soon, the smoke dissipated and all they were left with was Fulbert de Piaget standing there.

Dressed in purple silks.

“Fulbert!” Ambrose exclaimed in horror. “Where is your proper garb, man? Hose, tunic, boots!”

Fulbert scowled fiercely. “Artane is me ancestral home. I thought me entrance deserved a bit of flair.”

“Flair, perhaps. Genie flounces, definitely not,” Ambrose said, resheathing his sword. “This is serious business here.”

Fulbert folded his arms over his chest. “I’m experimentin’ with a new persona.” He straightened his silks importantly. “Fairy godfather.”

“Och, but in different gear,” Hugh pleaded. Then he paused. “How does a body dress for that sort of assignment?”

“Not thusly,” Ambrose said. “You can still act the part without dressing in ... well, in things that would better suit a beautiful woman. Which, I might add, you are not.”

Fulbert grunted, then in a blink of an eye, he was wearing his usual attire of hose, doublet, and sensible boots—more pedestrian, sixteenth-century fashions befitting his station as a nobleman. He pulled up his own comfortable chair and sat down. After satisfying his thirst in the depths of his mug, he dragged his tunic sleeve across his mouth and belched.

“Good to be home,” Fulbert said, looking about the kitchen as if he reflected on pleasant memories. “Second son though I was.”

“But second sons tend to be the cannier of the two, don’t they?” Ambrose said. “While the lord’s heir has all to look forward to, the second son must often make his own way and rely on his wits. As you did.”

Fulbert looked at him in shock at the unexpected compliment, but regained his composure quickly enough. “Aye, there is truth enough in that. Indeed, consider the second sons in just me own illustrious family. Nicholas, Kendrick, Gervase, Christopher, and, well, Fulbert,” he said modestly. “Today even Gideon de Piaget comes nigh onto surpassing his elder brother, what with him bein’ the CEO of an important international conglomerate.” He paused. “As it were.”

“Do tell,” Hugh said. “I’ve heard the name Kendrick nosed about, but I thought the lad bearing that name was the current lord of Seakirk.”

“He is,” Ambrose said. “Interesting coincidence, isn’t it?”

Fulbert looked at him from under bushy eyebrows and snorted. “There is no coincidence, but that is a tale better left for another time. Give me a name besides his and the burden will rest upon me to do his exploits justice.”

“What of that first lad?” Hugh asked. “Nicholas de Piaget?”

Ambrose was tempted to leap in, but he forbore. After all, this was Fulbert’s ancestral home and ’twas right that he have all the glory of it. Besides, he suspected that his ability to jump into much of anything on this caper was going to be sorely limited.

That, too, was something to be thought on at a later time.

“Ah, Nicholas,” Fulbert said, warming to his subject, “Nicholas was, as you might expect, the very epitome of all knightly virtues, things perhaps a Scot would know nothing about.”

Hugh growled.

“Hugh,” Ambrose said patiently, “you’re clutching your bow, not your sword.”

Hugh looked down, swore, then set his bow and his violin down on the floor. He then put his hand on his sword hilt and shot Fulbert a look of promise. “I am skilled in many knightly sorts of things,” he boasted.

Ambrose blew out his breath and looked heavenward.

“And so was Nicholas,” Fulbert said. “Women adored him, men were forced to admire him, kings lusted after his strength of arm and keen wit. He spoke half a dozen languages, traveled extensively, hobnobbed with kings and peasants alike, and burnished his reputation more with each year that passed. He lived a life any man might envy mightily.” He looked at Hugh. “Why did ye want to know?”

Hugh shrugged. “Just curious.”

“Speaking of curious,” Fulbert said, setting his mug aside and rubbing his hands together, “who is it we are set to see settled? Kin of mine?”

“My granddaughter,” Hugh said. “Jennifer—”

“MacLeod,” Ambrose added.

“McKinnon,” Hugh finished. He picked up his bow and pointed it threateningly at Ambrose. “And the lad had best be a fine one, else I’ll have something to say about it.”

“Who is the lad?” Fulbert said. “And why is it I find meself in these pleasant quarters when I could be back at the inn watching you have yer wee parley with the fetching Mrs. Pruitt?”

Ambrose squirmed. “Jennifer is arriving here tomorrow. I thought it would be easiest to see her if we were on site, as it were.”

“Leaving ye,” Fulbert said with a glint in his eye, “comfortably far from our good innkeeper who’d like to do more than just see ye.”

Ambrose wanted to avoid the subject, and indeed he had been avoiding Mrs. Pruitt, the innkeeper at the Boar’s Head Inn, for several months. She had somehow gotten it into her becurlered head that he was the man for her and she was going to woo him, come hell, high water—or present incorporeal status.

Of course, he hadn’t left the inn simply to elude her. He had business at Artane. He needed to watch over his granddaughter, several generations removed of course, and aid her when necessary.

“The lad,” Hugh prodded. “I say a Scot.”

Fulbert shook his head. “A lad from Artane. One with the spine to survive her headstrongness—”

“She isn’t headstrong!” Hugh bellowed.

“Aye, ye have that aright,” Fulbert groused, “that would be yer other granddaughter, Victoria. Young Jennifer is merely opinionated.”

“I daresay she isn’t that, either,” Ambrose said mildly, forcing Hugh back into his chair by means of a pointed stare alone. “She’s passionate and kind and intelligent—”

“All the more reason for an Artane lad,” Fulbert said. “Someone who will appreciate her.”

“And a Scot wouldn’t?” Hugh huffed.

“She deserves someone with courtly manners,” Fulbert said, casting Ambrose an arch look. “Wouldn’t ye agree?”

“For a change, I daresay I would,” Ambrose said slowly. “An Artane lad might suit her very well.”

“What of Stephen?” Fulbert asked. “The current lord’s son? He’s a fine lad, if not a little too fond of his texts.”

“Aye,” Ambrose agreed, “I daresay his time will come, but he is not for Jennifer. She deserves someone who will appreciate her music—”

“Her sweet temperament,” Hugh interjected.

“Her ability to recognize a fine man when she sees one,” Fulbert finished. He paused. “Though I hear that isn’t her strong suit.”

Ambrose smiled. “We’ll see to it this time for her.” He stretched, quite satisfied about the events about to be set in motion. “A fine lad, full of chivalry and good humors.”

“Does such a lad exist these days?” Hugh asked.

Ambrose rose and tossed his mug into the fire. “I daresay he doesn’t.” He smiled at his companions. “I’m off for a walk on the roof. Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”

“I’ll accompany your leave-taking,” Hugh said quickly. “On me fiddle.”

Ambrose hurried.

Truth be told, he bolted, but with dignity, of course.

He wasn’t sure what was louder in the noises that floated along behind him, Hugh’s vile playing or Fulbert’s screeching.

He paused at the edge of the great hall. He could see it as it had been in times past, full of music and beautifully garbed souls. Surely it was a place that a woman of talent and beauty would be comfortable in.

Surely.

He smiled and continued on his way.