Roses in Moonlight

Prologue

A tall, distinguished-looking man of a certain age walked along the back streets of London, his kilt snapping briskly thanks to his haste, his dress sword avoiding the same only because he kept his hand on the hilt. No sense in terrifying the locals prematurely, was his thinking. He had business down the way and suspected he would need every ounce of Scottish canniness to see that task accomplished.

He dodged native and tourist alike who were apparently enjoying leisurely strolls before retiring. He, however, had all his attentions bent on reaching his destination whilst his victim—er, his prey—er . . . well, whilst who was loitering within the building in question hadn’t managed to pry himself off the stage and scamper out the nearest exit. Given that getting the man off the stage would be the biggest obstacle they faced, he supposed perhaps his concern for haste was unfounded. But he hurried just the same.

He leapt up the stairs leading to the theater like a hart, then walked through the gates until he entered the darkened building itself. There was no audience there, no lads manning the lights, no actors waiting in the wings, for there was no play being performed that night.

At least no play that any mortal would have seen.

The boards were indeed being trodden, but he temporarily ignored the man standing on that stage in favor of a bekilted lad standing in the shadows, shifting purposefully. He frowned thoughtfully as he considered the sight. The shifting was less purposeful than it was nervous, but that was unsurprising. Hugh McKinnon, laird of the clan McKinnon in days long past, was a fine swordsman and a canny warrior, but when it came to their current business, he always tended to become a little uneasy.

But he, Ambrose MacLeod, laird of the clan MacLeod during the glorious flowering of the sixteenth century, did not shift unless it was to simply avoid the thrust of an Englishman’s blade whilst saving himself the trouble of drawing his own. He strode purposefully across a floor that was much cleaner than it would have been in his day to stand next to his compatriot. Hugh looked at him, his ruddy complexion rather more pale than Ambrose would have cared to see it.

“I’ve no liking for this locale,” Hugh whispered. “Too many Englishmen loitering about for my taste.”

Ambrose shared Hugh’s distaste, but it couldn’t be helped. “We’ll see to our business quickly, then hie ourselves back to the proper side of Hadrian’s Wall.”

“It pains me to admit as much,” Hugh admitted, looking pained indeed, “but I do wish we had Fulbert de Piaget along for this. At least he might have given that blighter up there a proper bit of trouble.”

“Fulbert is, as you know, offering his services to the newly made Earl of Artane,” Ambrose said, “even though I imagine young Stephen can manage well enough on his own.”

“Ha,” Hugh said derisively. “Fulbert is likely spending less time offering aid than he is sitting in front of a hot fire with a hefty mug of ale. I suspect he simply didn’t want to burden his delicate ears with the bleating of that prancing fool yonder.”

Ambrose studied the man striding about on the stage, pausing frequently to trot out various soliloquies, trying them on to apparently see which one suited him best. It was true that the man was absolutely riveting on stage, but equally apparent that he would be perfectly foul on the ground.

“Should we have looked harder for an appropriate ancestor?” Hugh asked doubtfully. “That one’s a bit full of himself, wouldn’t you say?”

“It carries him confidently on the stage,” Ambrose said.

“But it isn’t as if we lack for Scottish players,” Hugh countered.

“We do of that vintage. And as you well know, we need an Englishman for this part.”

“An Englishman?” Hugh echoed pointedly.

Ambrose sighed heavily. “Very well, I’ll admit he isn’t technically an Englishman.”

Hugh stuck his fingers in his ears briefly and sang part of a heroic battle anthem. Then he scowled at Ambrose. “That was to cleanse the palate. I don’t want to think about where he was born.”

“I can’t blame you, my friend.” Ambrose glanced at the man on the stage. “Nay, Hugh, this is what’s required. Unfortunately, no matter from whence he hails, I fear this one will be hard to manage.”

“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Hugh muttered.

Ambrose turned his full attentions to the spectacle. He was impressed in spite of himself by the lighting the shade had created for himself. That was a lad who knew which side of his profile was the best and wasn’t afraid to display it.

“Did you tell him we wanted to speak to him?” Ambrose murmured, so as not to disturb the show.

Hugh nodded. “I caught him at the stage door and said we wanted to meet him in the pub at midnight.”

“Was he amenable to the suggestion?”

“Nay, but I told him I’d stick him if he didn’t come.”

“And?”

Hugh lifted his eyebrows briefly. “He might be carrying a sword up there, Ambrose, but it isn’t sharp, if you know what I mean.”

Ambrose did. “Very well, then, let’s go await him down the street.”

The crowds outside the Globe had thinned to a mere handful of the braver sort, which made it easier to wend their way to the nearest pub, The Bard’s Board and Keg. Ambrose settled himself in a secluded corner with Hugh, then plucked a mug of ale out of the air to his right. He indulged in a sip or two, then sat back and looked at his compatriot.

“Aye?”

“This is a tricky one, isn’t it?” Hugh ventured. “Complicated.”

Ambrose had to concede that point. There were times, he had to admit, that endeavoring to keep the strands of time woven in their proper order was a dodgy business indeed. And if orchestrating events in their proper order wasn’t delicate enough, trying to add in the choices of two headstrong mortals . . .

It was enough to lead a shade to thinking perhaps ’twas time to hang up Cupid’s arrows.

If the shade in question had been made of lesser stuff, of course, which he was not. He was already sitting up straight, naturally, but he mentally threw back his shoulders and steeled his resolve. The souls in question were difficult and stubborn, but when pointed in the right direction they would no doubt do what needed to be done.

There was honor at stake, after all.

“I don’t like it here, Ambrose,” Hugh said suddenly, clutching his own mug of ale in his hands. “Still too many bloody Brits cluttering up the place.”

“It can’t be helped,” Ambrose said, though he had to admit he shared the other’s unease. If he’d had a back in which a dagger might have successfully rested, he might have been somewhat tempted to take the odd glance over his shoulder. But since he was leaning back against a sturdy pub bench, he felt very confident in ignoring any unusual and unaccustomed unease.

Hugh gulped.

Ambrose looked up to see a man swathed in Elizabethan finery sweeping in through the front door. Through being, of course, exactly what he was doing. Apparently he hadn’t been willing to wait for someone of a more corporeal nature to open up for him.

“Perhaps we should have looked harder,” Hugh whispered.

“We did,” Ambrose murmured into his cup. “That one is the necessary lad.”

Hugh sighed as the man flung his cape back over his shoulders and glanced disdainfully over the crowd as if he searched for someone in particular. Or two someones, rather.

He pursed his lips with the vigor of a man who had sucked on a particularly tart lemon, then strode across the floor as if he were performing in a particularly passionate scene. He came to an abrupt halt next to the table and looked down his long, pointed nose at them.

“I am Sir Richard Drummond,” he said, the crispness of his consonants slicing through the air like a finely sharpened blade. “I was told I must meet you here.” He looked around, then lifted an eyebrow as he reached out to swipe a finger across the table. “In this place.”

“I can’t believe this,” Hugh muttered under his breath. “I could have found someone more suitable at Euro Disney.”

Ambrose looked at Hugh in surprise, then had to stifle a laugh. He was inclined to agree, but decided discretion dictated that he refrain. He looked up at their guest. “How kind of you to join us.”

Sir Richard sniffed. “Threats were issued, threats I didn’t have the time or the desire to address properly.”

Ambrose ignored Hugh’s snort and gestured to a chair he conjured up for their guest. “Please sit and take your ease.”

Sir Richard examined the chair for dust, took off his gloves and brushed at it a time or two, then sat down and spread out as if he’d been Henry VIII himself sitting on his throne. “Well,” he drawled, reaching up and drawing a heavy pewter mug from a spot to his right and imbibing heartily, “what did you need me for?” He looked over the rim of his mug. “Costuming ideas? You both look as if you could use a fair bit of aid.”

Ambrose’s hand shot out and grasped Hugh by the forearm almost before the thought to do so occurred to him. Hugh glared at him, then deliberately folded his arms over his chest. Ambrose chose to ignore the fact that his left hand was tucked under his right arm where it might most readily grasp the dagger tucked into his belt. Hugh, as many a foe had found out too late, was ambidextrous. Ambrose turned back to Sir Richard.

“I believe, friend, that our concerns might turn out to rest a little closer to home than you know.”

Sir Richard pursed his lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?”

“I most certainly do not.”

Ambrose set his cup aside and placed his hands on the table in plain sight. “Then allow me to enlighten you. We’ve a task for you to accomplish—”

“What!” Sir Richard said, drawing himself up haughtily. “Give me a task, you say? You, sir, have overstepped your bounds.”

Ambrose continued without hesitation. “There are two who must be brought together.”

“Who? Are we interbreeding again with McKinnons and MacLeods?” Richard asked, lacing his tone with a heavy layer of disdain. “Oh, yes, that’s right. That’s what you two are, isn’t it?”

Ambrose stopped Hugh before he had even begun to lunge. That gave him something to do besides fling his own sweet self forward. He looked at Richard coolly.

“There is a goodly work for you to do.”

“Unless it requires my presence in Drury Lane, my good man, it is not goodly.”

“Something even more interesting than that,” Ambrose assured him.

“I can’t imagine what.”

“Then allow me to tell you,” Ambrose said pleasantly. “There is a particular lad who needs to meet a certain lassie at a distinct point in time. There will be things that try to get in the way of that.”

“Good sense?” Sir Richard asked politely.

“Your big nose,” Hugh shot back, “poking itself in places it don’t belong whilst ignoring the places it should be poking itself!”

Sir Richard shot him a look of undisguised antipathy, then turned back to Ambrose. “Do tell.”

Ambrose slid a carefully cut piece of parchment across the table and waited until Sir Richard had read it before he spoke.

“There are the particulars for the young woman. On the reverse is a description of the young man. Try not to mistake him for anyone else.”

Sir Richard curled his lip. “I doubt that’s possible, unless he’s up to his usual tricks of disguise.”

“One never knows,” Ambrose conceded. He looked at Sir Richard pointedly. “Fail, and you know what the reward will be.”

Sir Richard looked for the briefest of moments slightly pale, but that passed quickly enough. He tossed both the parchment and his mug into oblivion, then rose. He wrapped his cape around himself and looked down at them coldly.

“I will do what you have requested because it suits me,” he said. “No other reason.”

And with that, he swept out of the pub. Ambrose watched him go and considered the encounter. It hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped nor as poorly as he’d feared. He sat back and reached for his ale. He would, of course, oversee the entire affair as best he could, but there were things he simply wouldn’t be able to control, places he perhaps could have gone but dared not go.

“Does he know?” Hugh asked, his face scrunched up thoughtfully. “What will happen if he fails?”

“Of course he knows.”

“He isn’t happy about it.”

Ambrose looked at him. “He’s an Englishman.” He paused. “Well, at least he’s playing an Englishman as a permanent role.”

“He’s good at it.”

Ambrose smiled. “He certainly would like to be, I imagine. We might have to make certain he’s about his business properly at first, but I daresay with what he has at stake, he won’t shirk his duties.”

Hugh shook his head. “Ambrose, I’ll tell ye plain. I’m happier when things are a bit more removed from where we stand.”

“And speaking of that,” Ambrose said brightly, “shall we return to the Globe and see how our current Drummond is taking these recent tidings we’ve given him?”

“Only if I can fling things at him from the floor.”

“Why not?”

Ten minutes later, Ambrose was standing again in the shadows watching Richard Drummond chew the scenery. He was no longer even attempting to restrain his ego. He was absolutely furious.

Ambrose smiled.

All was as it should be.

Of course, there were the usual things that still concerned him, namely trying to bring together two rather stubborn souls who might not particularly want to be brought together. But in this case, there were things that hung in the balance: lives that depended on the cooperation and, aye, it had to be said, the affection of those two sterling souls. And Richard Drummond knew it as well as anyone else.

Ambrose conjured himself up a comfortable chair. He had the feeling it was going to be a long night.