Michael spotted the pump house immediately through the arrow slits that lined the curving stairwell. He exited in unsettling awe past a musket-armed guard standing outside the door at the bottom of the steps, hurried by a dank-smelling well from which a bonneted maid pulled a bucket, and nearly ran into a man with a cleft lip hammering a wheel onto the front of a carriage.
Every image sent another stab of uneasiness through him, and the more seemingly “normal” the image, the sharper the stab of unease. He felt like Hamlet, stumbling unhappily through his haunted dreams. Now that he figured out how he’d gotten here (whether or not his brain could accept it as fact), he needed to figure out how to get back, and there was only one person who could help him with that.
The pump house was no minor outbuilding. Perched on the banks of the river, with a gabled roof and an astounding array of wheels and valves visible through its tracery windows, the pump house was an engineering marvel, and Michael might have spent a moment or two imagining the work necessary to put such a thing together had not the other marvel in view commanded his attention.
Undine stood at the edge of the beech-lined courtyard adjacent to the pump house. Despite her note, she appeared in no urgent need of help. She stood with her back to him, gazing happily at the Tweed, her skirts licked by the breeze.
She hadn’t noticed him, and he watched her without making a sound for as long as decency would allow.
“Look at them,” she said without turning. “See them dance.”
He flushed, realizing she must have known he’d been watching, and looked in the direction of her gaze.
There, just past a bend in the river, scores of fish were leaping in the air and wriggling in the warmth before returning to the churning blue with a splash.
“Salmon, yes?”
“Aye,” she said. “Cuddies and glowers too. But salmon mostly.”
The energetic exercise, like a tiny display of maritime fireworks, seemed to enchant her. He found himself wishing he could elicit the same response.
“There was a huge rain yesterday,” she said. “The fish always come out after that. They like the current. It massages the stiffness from them.”
She’d said the last with such empathetic certainty Michael didn’t quite know how to respond. “It sounds as if you’d like to be in there swimming with them.”
“I would.”
He had come to a stop a little behind her, enjoying the graceful curve of her neck as much as the view. She reached absently under the thick knot of blond at her nape to rub a muscle. Without thinking, he lifted his hands toward her shoulders and recovered himself with a start.
Good Lord, you hardly know the woman.
Undine chose that moment to turn, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, mortified.
“How was my fiancé’s confession?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he said, remaining true to his supposed office.
“I very much doubt he said anything.”
He shrugged, apologetic. “Confidentiality. It’s woven into the cloth.”
“But you’re not a real priest.”
He lifted a brow. What could she mean? He knew she believed him to be a priest. She’d called him “Father” and asked about the location of his parish.
“Am I not?”
She pinkened. “No. I wouldn’t have called you if you were. I’m sorry. I don’t say it to embarrass you. I thought at first when I mixed the potion you would be an acolyte, but you’re too old for that.”
He coughed. “How flattering.”
The pink deepened to red, though she didn’t apologize.
“I assume you’ve been defrocked then?” she said. “Or suspended from service in some way?”
“In the corner in a dunce cap? That’s how you see me?” She seemed to have no knowledge of his having traveled three centuries to serve her. She certainly had no idea he was a theater director. The gaps in her knowledge were large. Perhaps the gaps would prove useful.
“You needn’t be ashamed,” she said. “I’m sure you’re a competent man. Everyone makes mistakes—and in this case, your failing will serve some good.”
“Whom exactly will my failing serve—other than you, of course?”
She shifted. “That’s complicated.”
“I assumed it would be.”
“The people who long for peace in the borderlands, which too often doesn’t include the English.”
He laughed out loud. “Oh God, you’re a Scot.” Her accent was northern English not Lowland Scots, but he knew well enough one can hide anything with the right training.
Her brow rose. “I am neither a Scot nor an Englishwoman.”
“And how is that? Has a new principality been established along the border? A sort of Andorra of Northumberland? Oh, wait. You’re a fairy. I forgot. Fairies don’t have nationalities.”
“I am a naiad, sir,” she said, furious. “Half-naiad, in any case.”
“And the other half? No, let me guess. Unicorn? House elf? Monarch butterfly?”
She didn’t reply, but he caught a flicker of some-thing in her eyes, something beneath the fury, something she wanted neither to talk nor think about.
“Well, I’m sorry to report my paperwork is fully up-to-date,” he said. “Your wedding, should I perform it, will stand the test of time. Which is why you should send me back. Now. Before my hand starts to shake and I accidentally sign the license even without a ceremony.”
Her jaw flexed. The seeds of doubt had been planted. “’Tis not possible,” she said.
“Isn’t it? Have your spells never gone awry?”
She opened her mouth and closed it again.
“I’m willing to help you,” he said, “but I want your word you’ll get me back—today. I have no desire to spend the rest of my days in godforsaken Coldstream.”
“You are a very unpleasant man.”
“Is that your way of saying yes?”
If her eyes had been bolts of lightning, he’d have been nothing more than a large puff of burlap dust. She gave him a derisive nod of agreement.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I should like your word—spoken, please—and a handshake.”
“Naiads don’t shake hands.”
“Of course they don’t. Do we touch elbows? Meet at a circle of stones at midnight?” He hid his disappointment. He’d been looking forward to holding that slim, capable hand.
“I give you my word.”
“I’m assuming I can count on it?”
“Once a naiad gives her word, she cannot withdraw it, ignore it, or undermine it.”
She made the pronouncement with such certainty, he could hardly doubt it. He bowed. “Thank you. There’s a lot I need to learn about naiads, I guess.”
She snorted.
He turned at the sound of hoofbeats. Bridgewater appeared over the rise on a bay stallion and rode directly for them.
“Have you seen the bishop?” he said, pulling his horse to a stop.
“I haven’t,” Michael said, “but—” He turned to suggest Undine might have, only to find Undine was no longer in sight. “But I was just about to check the, er, pump house.”
“Which you think he might have chosen to explore after having the clothes savagely torn from him a mile from here?”
“He has a great curiosity regarding mechanics.”
Bridgewater viewed Michael with hopeless disgust. “Well, I shall leave it to you to investigate the entire catalog of machines here. Do let me know the instant you find anything. Have you seen Undine?”
Michael shook his head.
“If you do, tell her I insist she return immediately to the house. If a madman is on the loose, I don’t want her in harm’s way.”
“I will tell her.”
He geed his horse to a gallop and disappeared. Michael peered down the gentle slope that led to the river and walked around the entire length of the beeches. Undine was nowhere to be seen.
“You nearly got us found out,” she said.
He wheeled around. She stood at the far end of the courtyard, arms crossed, by a mass of overgrown roses in front of the pump house. With her face hidden by the pump house’s tiny buttress and her dress barely distinguishable against the pink of the flowers, she’d been nearly invisible—or completely. Who knew how naiads’ powers worked?
“Found out?” he said. “What do you mean?”
She pointed to the fountain. In it lay a motionless and exceedingly naked man. Michael jumped back. “Jesus.”
“All we needed was for Bridgewater to decide to investigate the pump house. He’d have had to walk right by him.”
“Is he dead?” Michael said. Sending someone through time for your own purpose was one thing. Killing a man for it was something else entirely.
The man rolled from his back to his side, letting out an enthusiastic fart. He drew up a knee, resettled himself on his granite bed, and began to snore.
Michael’s own back began to stiffen just looking at it. “The bishop?”
“Could you tell by the ecclesiastical ring?”
“What happened to him?”
“He was about to marry us,” she said, hinting in her tone that there was more misfortune to be had for those who thought to cross her.
“Well, you’re a nondiscriminatory drugger, I’ll give you that. Same potion?”
She gave him a narrow look. “Hardly.”
“What happened to his clothes?”
“I needed to divert Bridgewater and his men away from here.”
“So you drugged him, stripped him, and—wait. How did you get him here?” Undine looked capable of a lot but not carrying a hundred-and-fifty-pound man the length of the estate grounds.
“Oh, my skies.” She rolled her eyes. “You don’t incapacitate a man and then bring him to the place you want him. You incapacitate him on-site.”
“Pardon me. I’m new to the assault-and-kidnapping game.”
“Are you?” she said, lifting a theatrical brow. “I’m astonished.”
“Why did you want me here?”
“I’ve told you—”
“No, here,” he said, gesturing to the courtyard. “Why did you want me here.”
“Oh.” She straightened. “To help hide him. The man will wake in a few hours, and we need to get him to a place where coming to naked with one’s head thumping and no memory of the night before won’t arouse suspicions—one’s own or anyone else’s—which of course means—”
“Oh Christ, no.”
“—a whorehouse.”
The sound of men’s voices rose in the distance.
“And how might we accomplish that?” he asked.
“I have an idea,” she said, “but we’ll have to hurry.”