“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 good 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.”