Baird wasn’t quite so badly impaired that he would miss such an opening.
“Very, very good,” he said enthusiastically, then turned to their expectant cook. “You know, Elizabeth, I’m certain that Julian would just love this haggis. We might make a meat-eater of him yet!”
“Oh, truly!” Elizabeth smiled with delight at the prospect. “It’ll just be a moment, Mr. Julian! You stay right there!”
“I only want coffee!” Julian wailed as she disappeared into her nook. He glared at Baird. “You get to eat the haggis.”
“Mmm, are you sure?” Baird granted his friend a knowing look. “If I eat yours, she’ll be convinced that you loved it.”
“And if I don’t touch it, she’ll be insulted.” Julian gritted his teeth. “Thank you very much.”
“What are friends for?” Baird was feeling much livelier as he refilled his coffee cup.
Elizabeth trotted back to the table with a cup and saucer and a second steaming thermos of coffee. One thing she had learned about “her Americans” was their need for copious quantities of caffeine.
Regardless of its quality. Julian rolled his eyes and poured as Elizabeth trotted away.
“She’s in her element,” Baird whispered with a wink.
“Like I wasn’t last night. Guess I lost that bet, hmmm?” Julian took a swig of coffee as Baird nodded.
“Oh yeah.”
“Well, the consolation prize will be seeing the state of your princess this morning,” the lawyer said grimly. “If we even see her at all.”
“I bet you will.”
Julian fired a dark glance at Baird. “No more bets, at least until I get rid of the hangover.”
“Don’t underestimate her. She wasn’t very drunk when she went to bed.”
“Mmm. All that vile pizza probably soaked up the booze. Or she’s got a cast-iron gut.” Julian shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “Too bad you can’t say as much for her sanity.”
Baird frowned, unable to explain his desire to defend this woman who thought so little of his character. “She’s had a shock, apparently from losing her father.”
“She’s wacko.” Julian waved his cup for emphasis.
“I don’t think so.” Baird frowned. “It’s all very logical, if you start from her premise.”
“Which would be?”
“That she’s the daughter of Hekod the Fifth.”
“That would be Hekod the Fifth, King of Dunhelm and Lord of Fyordskar.” Julian grimaced. “Nobody I’ve ever heard of.”
Baird indicated the book Talorc had lent him with one finger. “Hekod was an eighth-century Viking who conquered Dunhelm and married a Pictish woman.”
Julian’s glance slid to the book, then swiveled back to Baird. “You don’t see any logical problems with her thinking her father is over a thousand years old?”
Baird shrugged. “If you start from the premise, her behavior makes sense. The clothing, her not understanding the taps in her room, not knowing what wine or pizza is. It’s all logical—an eighth-century person wouldn’t understand these things.”
Julian leaned forward and his eyes gleamed. “An eighth-century person would be really, really dead by now.”
Baird grinned despite himself. “I know, I know, she’s not an eighth-century person, obviously, but she thinks she is, and everything she does follows from that.”
Julian looked skeptical. He coughed. “I hate to spoil this theory that Aurelia is perfectly sane except for one comparatively minor delusion—” he widened his eyes to show his judgment of that “—but only a lunatic would accept the premise that they were actually over a thousand years old.”
Baird stabbed a sausage. “Yeah, well, there is a little glitch in the system there. She and her father must have been really close. I wish we could help her somehow.”
“A little good PR for the grand opening?”
Baird scowled. “This has nothing to do with PR.”
“Wow!” Julian shook his head. “I must be hung-over. That sounded like the second time in less than a day that you’d said ‘forget PR.’ What’s that now, twice in your life?”
“Laugh if you want,” Baird growled. “She needs someone.”
“Doesn’t have to be you.”
Baird frowned, not liking the idea of anyone else helping Aurelia, though he couldn’t explain why to his own satisfaction. “Dunhelm is my property, which makes this my responsibility.”
“And never was there a nobler impulse.” Julian drank his coffee thoughtfully. “She certainly is entertaining, I’ll give you that. I’d pay good money to see her bait Marissa again.”
Baird fired a glance at his legal counsel. “You two really have to get over that.”
Julian’s answering glare was just as sharp. “Well, I don’t see that happening before you get married to someone else and put an end to Marissa’s ambitions.”
Baird felt his expression turn sour at another mention of marriage so soon after his nightmare. “Marriage is not an agenda item. You know that.”
“Then, neither is Marissa and I settling our differences.”
Before Baird could comment, Elizabeth gasped from behind them. “Oh, and who might this little Gemdelovely be?”
Baird choked on his haggis. His fork clattered to the table as he spun in shock.
It was Aurelia, of course.
Baird’s heart thumped. Aurelia was dressed the same way as the night before, although this time, her hair hung in one long braid down her back. She looked disgustingly well-rested.
“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Baird muttered.
“Fourth foster mother?”
“Fifth.”
“Mmm. Mrs. Morning Sunshine, didn’t you call her?” Julian drank deeply of his coffee.
Didn’t it just figure that Aurelia showed no ill effects after the night before? Baird forced himself to turn back to his breakfast, retrieved his fork, and determinedly ignored Julian’s obvious inquisitiveness about his response.
“Good morning. But my name is Aurelia, not Gemdelovely.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Oh, lass, that’s what we call all the pretty lasses up thisaway. On account of the story, as you know.”
“The story?”
Baird’s ears pricked with curiosity but he wasn’t going to turn around again. He plowed through his eggs with purpose.
“Oh, you’ll have to be having one of the old ones tell the tale, for they know it best.” Elizabeth rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Aurelia! Such a lovely name! Could I be getting you a wee breakfast, lass?”
“Yes, please! I am quite hungry.”
Hungry? Baird met Julian’s astonished gaze across the table, certain his own was just as surprised.
“She must have a tapeworm,” Julian declared and buried his nose in his coffee cup. Baird chuckled mid-sip at the unexpected conclusion and snorted some of his coffee.
“Serves you right,” Julian muttered unsympathetically. “Haggis.”
“Well, then, lass, you’ll be wanting a good hot bowl of oatmeal before your eggs. With bacon or sausages or both? Would you like a bit of haggis?”
“Must I choose?”
“Of course not, lass, there’s plenty to eat! There’s coffee on the table, lass, and I’ll be right along. Don’t you fret, Mr. Preston, I’ve not forgotten you!”
Elizabeth scampered away, quite beside herself with excitement.
“How’s your head?” Julian asked wryly as Aurelia came to the table.
She blinked confusion at him and settled into a seat. “My head?”
“From the wine.”
Aurelia looked to Baird, her eyes wide. “I do not understand.”
“Oh no,” Baird winced at the childishly high pitch of her voice and waved his fork at her impatiently. “None of that today. You may be nuts, but we know you’re not stupid.”
He pushed the plate away, the better part of his breakfast untouched and growled into his coffee cup. “Don’t play that game with me today, princess.”
Aurelia’s frown deepened and to Baird’s relief, her voice lowered slightly. “But I still do not understand.”
“The wine!” Julian confirmed expansively. “We drank a lot of it. We were drunk! Falling down drunk. Doesn’t your head hurt? Mine is killing me.”
“You are a fragile sort for a priest,” Aurelia said scathingly. “A sore head from fruit juice.” She rolled her eyes, then examined Baird’s abandoned plate with obvious interest. “Are you going to eat that?”
“No. Do you want it?”
Aurelia tucked in as soon as Baird pushed the plate her way. She used neither knife nor fork, to his surprise. She ate even the eggs with her fingers by sliding each one carefully onto a piece of toast. She was quite graceful about it and both men watched with fascination as she methodically cleaned the plate.
Baird had to hand it to her—she never missed a beat.
“What is the matter with you?” Aurelia asked, looking from one to the other. “Have neither of you learned to eat with any grace?”
Before Baird could summon an answer to that, Elizabeth appeared at his elbow, her hands buried in thick plaid potholders.
“Oh, lass! I’ve just brought your oatmeal and you’ll be all filled up!” Elizabeth was obviously crestfallen, but Aurelia accepted the steaming bowl appreciatively.
“It smells wonderful!”
“And here’s a cup for your coffee, lass. Mr. Preston, here’s your oatmeal, as well.” Elizabeth folded her hands together, her eyes hopeful. “Unless you’ll be wanting tea? Talorc always has a hot cup of tea in the morning.”
Aurelia flicked a glance over the woman’s expression, then smiled. “I would love to have this tea,” she said graciously and Elizabeth, transported with delight, raced back to her kettle.
Aurelia looked to the men and shrugged philosophically. “It was of such import to her,” she murmured, then slid a spoon into Elizabeth’s trademark oatmeal.
The substance was so thick Baird was convinced they could use it for mortar on the brickwork. He had only faced it with success once and was not entirely sure it was edible.
But Aurelia’s oatmeal disappeared in record time. Julian was slower but when Aurelia cast a longing glance at his bowl, he possessively pulled it closer. “You can have my haggis,” he muttered, and Aurelia’s eyes lit up.
She eyed Baird for a long moment. “Your charm is markedly lacking this morn,” she commented finally, then tilted her head to watch him like a perky sparrow. “Are you irked with me?”
“He’s just not a morning kind of guy,” Julian confided. “His bark is definitely worse than his bite.” He eyed his employer. “Though today, he’s barking—and looking—a bit worse than usual.”
“Thanks for the character reference.”
“Least I could do.” Julian smirked.
“I thought perhaps you might have slept poorly,” Aurelia suggested quietly. She watched Baird steadily, her blue gaze seeming to see more than Baird would have liked.
He actually felt like fidgeting.
“Were you troubled by dreams last night, King Bard?” she asked softly, her eyes wide. “I had a most unusual one, myself.”
Baird’s heart lurched, but her fathomless eyes revealed nothing. How could she know?
She couldn’t!
Baird jabbed a finger through the air at the woman he knew was the source of his troubles. “Let’s get one thing straight, princess. I don’t dream.”
“But everyone dreams,” she protested. “It is a natural part of sleep…”
Baird impaled her with his sternest glance, the one he had perfected in the boardroom and which sent most men running for cover.
Aurelia didn’t even flinch.
“I don’t dream,” Baird insisted. “Never have. Never will. And that’s final.”
Aurelia frowned, but Elizabeth brought the teapot in that moment. Although Aurelia looked unimpressed at first sip of the beverage, once she had dropped a third of the sugar bowl’s contents into her cup, she seemed to like it more.
Baird told himself he was irritable not only because it was morning, but that his head hurt and, just to add insult to injury, the one who had drunk the most showed the fewest ill effects.
Maybe it was just his headache making him more grumpy than usual. He sipped his coffee, well aware he had affected the mood at the table.
Just the mention of the dream had Baird all jangled up inside once more. Dammit, this wasn’t like him and he wasn’t going to put up with it. He was going to find Hekod today, if only to end his obligation to the man’s daughter.
But first, Aurelia had to get something to wear. There would be hell to pay if Marissa didn’t get her Karan dress back. Baird would rather that happened sooner than later.
To Baird’s amazement, Aurelia consumed the better part of all three breakfasts before sitting back with a sigh. She surveyed the men and patted her stomach with contentment, treating them both to a sunny smile.
Baird drained his cup and pushed impatiently to his feet. “Come on, princess. Let’s get into town and find you some clothes.”
The cab Baird had ordered was waiting in the circular driveway in front of the hotel. It was one of the boxy black cabs typically found in London, but looking more than a little the worse for wear. Garth, its driver and owner, leaned against the bumper, reading a tabloid and smoking his pipe.
There was a rumor that Garth, disenchanted with the London scene around 1970, had headed north with his cab, vowing not to stop until he found some place simpatico. Whether he had chosen this island or simply run out of Britain to explore was unclear, but here he had remained.
It could be said Garth matched his cab, for both were a conglomeration of the unexpected. The once all-black cab had gotten a brilliant yellow front quarter panel at some point in its life and the front bumper which should have been chrome had been removed to make space for an electric winch. The muffler and tailpipe hung low enough that they scraped the ground at regular intervals, and obviously, nothing more than divine Providence kept them attached to the car.
Garth had confided once the sheep were terrified at the sight of his cab.
Baird couldn’t blame them.
Garth himself was as mismatched as his cab, but a genial sort beneath his crusty exterior. He had a penchant for wearing a blue plaid shirt with orange shorts that were an unwelcome reminder of the psychedelic sixties. The ensemble coordinated with a pair of green Wellington boots, none of it varying, regardless of the weather.
It was frightening to think a man could have more than one pair of shorts like that. Baird didn’t want to know.
Garth’s carrot orange hair always resembled a severely abused Brillo pad and his eyebrows seemed to crawl across his brow with a life of their own. His nose was permanently red and it was no real surprise the phone number for Garth’s Cab Livery was exactly the same as that of the Boar and Thistle Pub.
Garth had taken it upon himself to give his conveyance the decoration he thought it deserved as the island’s sole taxi for hire. The inside had originally been upholstered in crimson vinyl, but now that interior had seen better days. It was patched with mismatched strips and lavished with mementos of Prince Charles’ wedding to Lady Diana Spencer.
A cross-stitched cushion illustrating the glorious event was sealed in plastic for all time and held a position of honor in the center of the back seat. Stickers and posters covered the interior walls of the cab.
Aurelia’s eyes rounded like saucers when she climbed in and Baird couldn’t blame her. He’d had a good look himself when he first stepped into Garth’s cab.
Garth started the vehicle and the pair of commemorative teaspoons hanging from the rear view mirror shuddered. The cab coughed, farted, wheezed, and then settled into an approximation of a consistent hum.
“Where you off to today, guv?” Garth came complete with a diluted variant of a Cockney accent.
“Just into town.” Baird leaned forward as the car slid into gear with a whine. He thought he heard Aurelia gasp, but then, he had been surprised that this dilapidated cab could actually move, as well. He braced his elbows against the back of the front seat. “Is there a women’s clothing store there?”
Garth whistled through his teeth. “You’ll be needing to see Marge, I’ll wager. She’s the only one as follows the trends.”
Baird shrugged, hoping Marge had something worth buying. “Then, Marge’s place it is.”
Aurelia caught her breath when Garth cleared the resort’s new gates and accelerated to a dazzling twenty-five miles an hour. The sheep ran in all directions, fleeing in terror before Garth and his trusty cab.
Aurelia looked as spooked as the sheep. She gripped the armrest as though she was seeing her life pass before her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said in a low voice Garth wouldn’t be able to hear over the grumbling engine. “He’s not that bad a driver.”
“I am afraid of nothing!” Aurelia retorted, though her death grip on the armrest said otherwise.
“Right. Half Viking. I remember.”
Baird settled back in his seat and wondered whether Aurelia had only been used to horses and carts. He certainly hadn’t seen a lot of cars out here and this might just be another unfamiliar experience for her.
At any rate, shopping would cheer her up.
It worked for women everywhere.
The strange chariot carried them away from Dunhelm and around the curve of the coastline. After Aurelia gave up looking for the horses that pulled the chariot, she was amazed at the smooth black surface of the road that had recently been a track in the dirt, riddled with ruts. The only thing familiar about the scene before her was the slope of the land and the hundreds of foolish sheep, bolting in every direction.
Aurelia attributed this to Julian’s magic, because she could think of no other reasonable explanation.
The chariot lurched to a halt in the midst of a cluster of stone homes Aurelia did not recognize. There had been no dwellings here, she knew very well, though these looked soundly rooted to the spot.
A stone cross rose high in the middle of the cobbled square, a reminder of the ascendency of Julian’s faith. It was amazing that so much could have been constructed so quickly—let alone that it could look so aged.
Aurelia wondered again how much time could have passed while Julian’s herbs kept her sleeping.
Could it have been an entire year? Her father could be far across the sea if that were so!
Aurelia watched with fascination as Bard doled out pieces of vellum to the driver. The remarkably garbed man grinned from ear to ear as he closed his hand over the notes.
“Thank you, guv! You’ll know where to find me when you’re set to go back!”
Bard nodded, flicking a wry glance Aurelia’s way. The driver winked, left his chariot where it stood and trotted toward a building wrought of dark wood with wattle and daub between.
The Boar and Thistle read the sign, though Aurelia could make no sense of that.
Aurelia slanted a glance in Bard’s direction to find him looking thoughtful. “Why is he so glad to have vellum from you? Is it scarce in your kingdom?”
Bard glanced to her in what must have been surprise. “It’s money. I was paying him for the ride.”
Aurelia frowned. “With used vellum? What merit is it to him with its surface already covered?”
Bard studied her for a long moment. “It really is like stepping back into the middle ages around here, isn’t it?” he murmured finally.
Aurelia did not understand the reference.
“It’s money, paper money.” Bard pulled out a couple of banknotes and she studied them with curiosity. “I guess you still barter for most things.”
Aurelia looked up with surprise. “Barter?”
“You know, trade some of this for some of that. My oats for your hay. That kind of thing.”
Aurelia shook her head. “We grow our own oats and hay. You must have found all the stores when you took Dunhelm.”
Why would Bard pretend he knew nothing of this?
“What about your clothes?”
Gods and goddesses! Did the man understand nothing of domestic matters? What kind of upbringing had he had?
“We have sheep, as you well know,” Aurelia explained patiently. “And my father employed many spinners and weavers to make cloth, dyers to color it and seamstresses to make garments of it. Were I not nobly born, I would know to do it myself.”
Bard snapped his fingers as though remembering something. “What about that cloak you told us about? The one made of the fabric your father brought from somewhere…”
“It was samite. From Micklegarth. We cannot make such fine cloth here and it was a treasure to be cherished.” Aurelia’s eyes narrowed suddenly as she realized her cloak had disappeared.
Had the whore taken it for her own?
“Right. Wherever that is.”
Aurelia was incredulous. “You do not know of Micklegarth?”
“No.” Bard shrugged, looking untroubled by the stunning inadequacy of his education the admission revealed.
“How could anyone know so little of the world?” Aurelia demanded. “Even I have had enough teaching to know Micklegarth!”
Bard looked grim again. “Let’s just say we’ve had enough of this colonial stuff, all right? I’ve had a perfectly good education, even with the remarkable omission of your Micklegarth.”
Aurelia folded her arms across her chest, unconvinced of that.
Bard shoved one hand through his hair. “My point is that wherever Micklegarth is, your father must have bought that samite stuff there.”
“Bought?” Aurelia arched a brow skeptically. “No Viking exchanges hard-won coin for whatever he desires.” She waggled the banknotes at him. “Nor even used vellum.”
Bard’s brow darkened. “You don’t really expect me to believe that your father is a Viking, do you?”
“No longer,” Aurelia conceded. “But he went a-Viking when he was a young man, as does every man worth his salt.” She fixed Bard with a considering glance. “Did you not go a-Viking in your youth?”
“I’m not that old.”
Aurelia shrugged. “Old enough to be done with such things.”
Bard’s lips tightened. “I went to university.” At Aurelia’s blank look, he continued. “School.”
“But your tutor did not teach you of Micklegarth!” He was lying and Aurelia did not care whether he knew that she knew it. “All men go a-Viking.”
Bard grimaced and shook his head. “No one does that anymore.”
Aurelia was unconvinced. Any inadequacies in his upbringing did not reflect the world as she knew it.
“Perhaps not in your sorry kingdom!” she maintained archly. “My relations do precisely thus and with great success.” She turned to sweep away, not at certain where she was going and could not resist a parting shot. “Of course, they are truly men, not mere barbarians.”
And she turned to stalk away.
Aurelia did not get far before Bard caught at her elbow and pulled her to a halt. His piercing gaze locked on hers and Aurelia braced herself against his ability to read her thoughts. “Wait a minute. Your relatives can’t be Vikings!”
Aurelia tossed her hair, proud of her mixed descent. “Of course, they are!”
“You mean they’re from Scandinavia,” Bard corrected. “They have Viking ancestry, but aren’t actually Vikings anymore.”
His words recalled Aurelia to her senses. What was she thinking? She would destroy any chance her cousins had of surprising him with their attack!
“Of course, you are right,” she said hastily. “I have no Viking relatives.” She giggled foolishly. “Indeed, I have no relatives at all! They are all dead, except for my sire.”
Aurelia pivoted and marched quickly down the street. Bard seemed to have rooted to the spot behind her and she hoped desperately he was not seriously considering what she had said by error.
Had her fickle tongue betrayed her relations’ plans?