The Gift Of Christmas Past Part 4

"Here, kitty, kitty," Abby said. She beckoned. "Come here, Sir Sweet-ums. Miles won't hurt you. He likes cats."

Miles m.u.f.fled a sneeze in his sleeve.

"All right, his nose doesn't, but the rest of him does."

Abby took a step forward. Sir Sweetums got to his feet, gave her a meow she couldn't quite interpret, turned on his heel and, with his tail held high, walked through the door.

Through the closed door.

Miles staggered. He threw his arms around her and clutched her.

"Merciful St. Michael," he breathed. "I did not see what I just saw."

Abby would have felt the same way, but she had inside information. It was hard to swallow, but she had the feeling Sir Maximillian Sweetums 31 was a ghost. She held onto her shaking host and wondered just how to break the news to him.

"Things of this nature do not happen," Miles said, his voice hushed. " Tis a modern age. I do not believe what I have just seen."

Abby looked up at him. "Honey, I think you're living in the past. Everyone else has indoor plumbing."

"How much more modern an age can it be?" he asked, returning her look, his eyes wide. "I don't care overmuch for his politics, but King Henry is a most forward-thinking monarch."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, brother. Not that again."

"Aye, that again," he said, some of the color returning to his face. He released his deathgrip on her and stepped back a pace. "Saints, woman, where have you been?"

"Out to lunch," she returned, "obviously."

"Henry rules England," he insisted.

"No, he doesn't."

"By the very saints of heaven, you are a stubborn maid! Have you for-gotten the b.l.o.o.d.y year? Who else would sit the throne in 1238?"

Abby blinked. "Huh?"

Miles clapped his free hand to his head. "That swim addled your wits, Abigail."

"What did you say before?" she managed. "What year?"

"1238. The Year of Our Lord 1238!"

Abby kept breathing. She knew that because she had to remind her-self to do it. In, out, in, out. Twelve-thirty-eight, twelve-thirty-eight. She breathed in and out to that rhythm.

It couldn't be true. She looked around her at the stone room. There weren't any fireplaces; just Miles s bonfire in the middle of the room. No elec-tricity, no central heat, no carpet. The walls were bare, leaving their stone selves fully open to perusal. No twentieth-century construction job there.

She looked down. There was stone beneath her feet, what she could feel of it beneath the layer of sc.u.m and hay. She looked around again. There were a pair of crude wooden tables near the walls, and chairs that

32 .

looked rustically crafted. But that was the extent of the furniture. She took a deep breath. Well, the place certainly smelled like 1238.

She looked up at Miles. He stood in homespun clothing exactly like hers, wearing a very medieval frown. He didn't have the benefit of mod-ern grooming aids, if his finger-combed hair and non-ironed tunic were any clue. He'd definitely been packing a sword the night before. He'd said he was a knight. Could that be true too?

Abby looked toward the door. Maybe if she stepped outside into the fresh air, she might have a different perspective on things.

She wanted to saunter across the great hall casually, but she had the feeling it had come out as more of a frantic get-me-the-h.e.l.l-back-to-my-century kind of run.

She struggled with the heavy wooden beam that obviously served as a dead bolt in 1238. Heavy hands came to rest on her shoulders.

"Abigail-"

"Let me out!" she shrieked.

"Abigail-" he said, starting to sound a bit concerned.

Abby wasn't just a bit concerned. She was on the verge of having hys-terics-and she was starting not to care just exactly what Garretts did and did not do.

"Please!" she begged.

Miles heaved the beam aside and opened the door, in spite of her at-tempts to help. She ran outside.

It was raining. She slogged straight into three inches of muck.

"Yuck!" she exclaimed.

She would have run anywhere just to be running, but she couldn't seem to get her feet unstuck from the goo.

"Abigail."

Before she could tell Miles just what had her so frantic, she found her-self turned around bodily and gathered against a very firm, very warm body. Without giving his good or bad points any more thought, she threw her arms around him and clung.

"Oh, man," she said, feeling herself beginning to wheeze again. It was a nasty habit she'd gotten into lately. She was certain wheezing was 33 something no respectable Garrett ever found herself doing. "Oh, man, oh, man," she wheezed again.

"By the saints, you're trembling," Miles said, sounding surprised. He stroked her back with his large hand. "There's nothing to fear, Abigail."

"It's 1238!" she exclaimed against his very rough, very un-depart-ment-store-like s.h.i.+rt.

"See?" Miles said, obviously trying to sound soothing. "You've re-membered the year. Tis a most encouraging sign. I'm certain 'twas sim-ply a bit of chill that seeped into your head and addled your wits for a time. Reason is most definitely returning to you."

Abby felt her tights beginning to slip and she made a grab for them before they migrated any further south. She tilted her head back and looked at Miles.

"It really is 1238, isn't it?" she whispered. "And you really are Miles of Spendingthorn-"

"Speningethorpe-"

"Whatever, and you really are a knight, aren't you?"

"For what it is worth, aye, I am."

Well, stranger things had happened. Like Sir Sweetums walking through a thick, wooden plank of a door.

Then there was her trip down into Murphy's Pond the night before to consider. That had taken an awfully long time, hadn't it?

But seven hundred years?

She rested her nose against Miles's chest and contemplated. Garretts didn't faint. Garretts didn't run away from difficulties. Garretts didn't lose their marbles.

Funny, she'd never heard anything about Garretts not time-traveling.

She looked up at Miles. "You don't believe in witches, do you?"

He smiled faintly. "Having come within scorching distance of a healthy bonfire myself, I would have to say nay, I do not believe in witches."

"Then I think you should sit down."

"Why?"

"Because you're going to fall down when I tell you what I have to tell you. It'll hurt less if you're closer to the ground."

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Miles looked at her archly. "The de Piagets of Artane do not faint."

Abby reached up and patted him on his beautiful cheek. "There's a first time for everything, toots."

"Toots? Why do you persist in calling me that?"

Abby took his hand and pulled him back inside the hall. He'd just have to trust her on this one.

And she definitely hoped he'd meant what he'd said about the witch thing, or she was certain her revelations would land her in the fire.

I.

Chapter Four.

MILES FROWNED TO himself as he allowed Abigail to pull him back in-side his hall. Something had obviously troubled her deeply, if her frantic flight from his fire was any indication. But what? She had looked at him as if she were seeing a ghost.

He realized abruptly that he was allowing himself to be led and he dug in his heels. Abigail stopped and looked at him with that same, al-most frantic look. Miles held his ground.

"Whatever you have to tell me, you may most certainly tell me while we are standing. Indeed, I insist upon it."

He looked down at her as he said it, and wondered if she shouldn't be the one sitting down. She was very pale. Saints, had she suffered some sort of in-jury that had damaged her mind so that she barely remembered the date?

He lifted his hands and cupped her face, rubbing his thumbs gently across her cheeks. Her skin was so soft and fair. Perhaps she was a n.o.ble-man's daughter who had become lost and wandered into his moat. Never mind how she was dressed. It was possible her sire employed seamstresses with very odd ideas on fas.h.i.+on. He should have questioned her sooner about her family, but he'd been too bemused by her actions the night be-fore, then too unsettled by the appearance and disappearance of her cat to-day to think too deeply.

She caught his right hand and looked at it. "You have more calluses on this hand than the other."

35.

36 .

"Of course," he said.

"Why?"

" Tis my swordarm, Abigail." He put his callused hand to her brow. She wasn't feverish. Indeed, she was chilled. "Perhaps we should repair to the fire," he said, pulling her in that direction, "then you should tell me of yourself. Forgive me for not having asked sooner. Your sire will no doubt be grieved over your loss. I will take you to him as soon as may be-"

"Honey," she said, "I think you should sit."

"Why do you call me honey?" he asked, finding himself being urged toward a chair. He sat to humor her.

"It's a term of endearment."

"Like Sir Sweetums?" he asked. "Saints, what a name!"

He would have expressed himself further on that, but Abigail had pulled up a stool in front of him and sat. The tunic he had given her to wear fell off one of her shoulders. It was exceedingly distracting.

He looked at her face and instantly ceased to mark what she said. He knew her lips were moving, but he couldn't concentrate on her strangely-accented words. There were surely a score of things that puzzled him about her, but he couldn't seem to focus his thoughts on a b.l.o.o.d.y one of them. All he could do was gaze at the woman before him and marvel.

Saying she cleaned up pa.s.sing well was an understatement. Where she had come by that riotous ma.s.s of hair he did not know, but it certainly suited her. He could almost hear her saying it: "Garrett hair is never obe-dient." He smiled at the thought. Indeed, Abigail's hair seemed to be a re-flection of the woman herself-beyond the bounds of reason or propriety.

And if her spirit hadn't intrigued him, her comeliness certainly would have. He found himself entirely distracted by thoughts of running hands and mouth over that bit of shoulder she couldn't seem to keep cov-ered up. He followed the curve of her shoulder out to her arm and down to her hand. It was then he realized she was snapping her fingers at him.

"The lights are on but n.o.body's home," she was saying.

"Ah," he stalled, "I was thinking on your words."

She jerked up her tunic over her shoulder. His tunic-his clothing that was covering her lithe body, much as he wanted to be doing. Miles 37 was on the verge of allowing himself to be distracted by that thought when Abigail waved at him.

"Come on, Miles," she said, sounding exasperated. "Pay attention. I'm trying to tell you something very important."