Love Came Just In Time Part 7

"Do you miss your home?"

"No."

He lifted her face up. Abby met his dark gray eyes and almost wanted to cry. Why be dumped here if she couldn't have him?

"Saints, but you Garretts are a stubborn lot," he said, smiling down at her. "You are resisting my wooing. You leave me with no choice but to pour more energies into it. Perhaps without the distractions of supper to prepare."

Well, wooing sounded good. Maybe it was best to just give things a few more days. After all, she might find out she really didn't like him very much.

He released her, dumped the rest of his vegetables into the pot, hung it over the fire, then turned back to her with a purposeful gleam in his eye.

"Is that all that needs to go in there?" she asked.

He shrugged and advanced.

"What if it tastes lousy?"

"You'll never notice."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll be too distracted by my surliness if you do not give me your complete attention."

"One of these days, Miles de Piaget, kissing me into submission isn't going to wor-"

But, oh, it was working at present. With her last coherent thought, Abby knew the day she decided she didn't like him would be the day they'd need snow tires in h.e.l.l.

An hour later, Abby held up a dollar bill to the firelight. "This is George Was.h.i.+ngton. He was the first president of the United States." "No king?"

"Nope. That's why we said 'no thank you' to England in the 1700s. We're all for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness without a monarchy to tell us how to go about it."

Miles looked with interest at her wallet that sat between them on the blanket near the fire. Abby had appropriated his sleeping blanket as a carpet. The chair was too uncomfortable for sitting, and the floor too disgusting for intimate contact.

"What else have you in that small purse?" he asked.

"Not as many things as I would like," Abby said with a sigh.

She had her little wallet on a string, her gloves, and her keys. Her sungla.s.ses had been stuffed inside her coat. The only other things she'd had in her pocket were a plastic bag of gourmet jelly beans and some soggy lint. But he'd been fascinated by it all. She'd been fairly certain he'd believed her when he'd hit the floor in the kitchen, but there was nothing like a bit of substantial evidence to slam the door on doubt.

He'd examined her jeans closely, seemingly very impressed by the pockets and copper rivets. Her down coat was still dripping wet, but she had the feeling they'd be fighting over that once it was dry. Her underwear and bra she'd finally had to rip out of his hands. It was then she'd given him her Garretts-don't-do-it-before-marriage speech. She'd expected protests. Instead, she'd gotten a puzzled look.

"Of course you don't," had been his only comment.

So, now they were sitting in front of his bonfire, examining the contents of her wallet and munching on Jelly Bellies.

"Aaack," Miles said, chewing gingerly. "What sort is this one?"

She learned forward and smelled. "b.u.t.tered popcorn, I think."

"Nasty." He swallowed with a gulp. "Is there this chocolate you spoke of?" he asked, poking around in the bag hopefully.

"I wish," she said with feeling. She'd had one lemon jelly bean and given the rest to Miles. Unless sugar found itself mixed in with a generous amount of cocoa, she wasn't all that interested. Now, if it had been a bag of M&M's she'd been packing, Miles would have been limited to a small taste and lots of sniffs. "Chocolate doesn't even get to England until the seventeenth century. Trust me. This is history I know about."

"Where does it come from?"

"They grow it in Africa."

"Oh," he said, sounding almost as regretful as she felt. "A bit of a journey."

"You didn't see any on your travels?"

He shook his head. "Not that I remember."

Abby leaned back against the chair legs. "What made you decide to go to Jerusalem?"

"I wanted to see the places my father had been in his youth, I suppose. My father had gone on the Lionheart's crusade, first as page, then squire to a Norman lord. My brothers followed in his footsteps to the Holy Land, even though there was no glorious war for them to wage." He smiled faintly. "I think I simply had a young man's desire to see the world and discover its mysteries. Instead, I saw cities ravaged by war, women without husbands, children without fathers." He shrugged. "I don't think fighting over relics was the message the Christ left behind Him. Perhaps I found it even more ironic because I overlooked the city of Jerusalem on Christmas day."

"I take it that count you insulted didn't feel the same about it?"

Miles smiled. "Indeed, he did not. And I am not shy about expressing my opinions, whether I am in my cups or not."

"Was your grandfather upset with you?"

"Nay. You see, of all his grandsons, he says I remind him overmuch of himself." He smiled modestly, then continued. "My eldest brother, Robin, would rather grumble and curse under his breath. Nicholas is a peacemaker and rarely says aught to offend. My younger brothers are giddy maids, talking of nothing but whatever ladyloves they are currently wooing." He smiled again. "I, on the other hand, am surly and moody and generally make certain others know that."

"Oh, boy, surly and moody," she said, with delight. "And to think I could have landed in the moat of someone who was merely agreeable and deferring." "And how dull you would have found him to be," he said with a grin. "My grandsire shares my temperament. I am his favorite, of course."

"Of course," she agreed, dryly. "You were just lucky he happened by when he did."

"It is perhaps more than luck. I learned later one of his servants had been pa.s.sing by and heard me telling the count rather loudly that he was a mindless twit."

"Oh, Miles," she laughed. "You'd make a terrible diplomat."

"Aye," he agreed. "'Tis fortunate I'll never pursue that calling."

"Then what is it you intend to pursue?" She knew it was a loaded question, but she couldn't stop herself from asking it.

His smile deepened. "I intend to pursue you, of course."

"Really?" she squeaked. She cleared her throat and tried again in a more dignified tone. "Really," she said, hoping it sounded casual.

He nodded. "Aye. But how is a twentieth-century girl wooed? Gifts?"

"Well, it is almost Christmas."

He frowned. "And you plan on making me partic.i.p.ate in the festivities?"

"If I can do it, so can you." She had her own reasons for finding Christmas difficult, but she managed each year. Miles could, too. "We could spruce up the place a little."

"Aye," he agreed, sounding reluctant.

"Come on, grumpy. It'll be fun."

"Fun?" he echoed doubtfully.

"As in enjoyable, entertaining. We'll do some cleaning and sprucing and you'll feel much better about the season. Trust me. And while we're cleaning, I'll tell you the story of Ebeneezer Scrooge." She laughed. "Talk about the Ghost of Christmas Past! Boy, this puts a whole new spin on that one."

Miles only blinked at her.

"We may have to forgo the gifts," she continued. "I would have put those Jelly Bellies in your stocking, but you ate them all."

Miles burped discreetly. "And they were delicious. Is that how 'tis done in your day? Sprucing and giving?"

"Pretty much."

He reached over, put his hand behind her head and pulled her toward him. "You are the best gift I could have asked for," he murmured against her lips. "I need nothing else."

Abby closed her eyes as he kissed her. Was it possible to fall in love with someone so soon?

It was much later that she managed to catch her breath enough to ask if he thought the stew was finished.

"Do you care?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eye. "My appet.i.te is running more toward more of your mouth. I can guarantee it is more tasty than what boils in yon pot."

"Who needs food?" Abby managed.

And that was the last thing she said for a very long time.

Chapter Six.

Miles struggled to fas.h.i.+on the soft straw into a bow. "Will this do?" he asked, holding it up.

"Well, it isn't raffia, but we'll survive."

Miles handed her the bow, then leaned his elbows on the table and watched her rummaging through his stores for other appropriately Christma.s.sy items, as she called them.

He'd slept poorly the night before. He'd been tempted to blame it on his stew. It had been, in a word, inedible. More than likely it had been sleeping so close to Abigail and not touching her. Garretts didn't do that sort of thing before marriage-not that he'd expected anything else. He wouldn't take her until he'd wed her. The thought of it sent a thrill of something through him; he wasn't sure if it was excitement or terror. He'd always known he would take a wife sooner or later. It had certainly suited his brothers well enough, though the wooing of their ladies had been tumultuous.

Miles stole a look at Abigail and wondered if the courting of her would take such a toll on him. He didn't think so. She looked fairly serene as she sifted through his things. Perhaps she would accept him well enough as time went on.

He watched her and couldn't help but smile. It seemed a better thing to do than shake his head, which was what he had been doing since she'd started telling him future things the eve before. Airplanes, cars, trains, microwaves; the list was endless. It would take him a lifetime to draw from her all the things she took for granted, things he hadn't even imagined, well-traveled though he might have been.

"Abigail, what sort of work did you do in your day?" he asked.

"I was a secretary for an insurance salesman," she said, frowning at a bow. She flashed him a brief smile. "People paid this man a certain amount of money each month just in case they died or their house went up in flames. If that happened, then he would replace the house or pay the family money to compensate for the deceased. I wrote out all his correspondence and things on a machine called a computer. And I watered his plants. I hated it."

"What would you rather have been doing?"

"Anything but that." She fingered a fig. "I always wanted to be a gardener. I love to watch things grow.

A family would have been nice, too."

"I see," he said. No wonder she had found Brett so lacking. The man obviously didn't share her

sentiments about marriage. But why was she so concerned with sprucing and giving? Was that all part of it?

"Why is this Christma.s.sy fuss so important to you?" he asked.

He might not have noticed her hesitation if he hadn't been watching her so closely. But he noticed it, and

he certainly noticed the false smile she put on for his benefit.

" 'Tis the season, ho, ho, ho, and all that," she said, brightly.

"Hmmm," Miles said, thoughtfully. She was lying, obviously. He looked at her sad little pile of straw

bows, then back up at her.

"How did you celebrate in your time?"

"Oh, there's a lot to it. You have to decorate the house with a tree and ornaments and greenery. All the

family gets together and there's lots of food and laughter." She gave another piece of straw a hard yank."It's the family togetherness thing." Miles reached out and put his hand over hers. "Abigail, I want to know how you celebrated."

She looked away. "I went to my grandmother's. Until she and my granddad died."

"Then it must have been quite festive. Tell me of your siblings. What a clan you must have been with a houseful of Garretts."

"Oh, it was a houseful, all right," she said. "I don't have any brothers or sisters, but I have lots of cousins and aunts and uncles. They would all show up with gifts and things."

"And what of your parents?"