Read Online One Magic Moment by Lynn Kurland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynn Kurland
Ads: Link
from the kitchen, then made his way to the studio. He found himself a comfortable chair, pulled out the music he’d been charged with playing, then tuned his guitar and prepared to warm up a bit.
Unbidden and certainly unwelcome memories of his past washed over him without warning. Commanding them to leave him be was useless. It had been, he could admit with all frankness, that sort of day.
Playing the guitar hadn’t been the first job he’d had after leaving home; that had been mucking out stables. His skill with horses and, truth be told, his inordinate fondness for them had earned him room and board for a pair of months until he’d gotten on his feet a bit and been able to look for something that paid better. It had been listening to modern music whilst about his work that had given him the idea that perhaps he might make a go of that sort of thing.
A year, two different stables, and a restaurant dishwashing job or two later—he hadn’t dared convert any of his gold at that point—he’d had a guitar and himself in Edinburgh at the same time. He’d performed at the Festival for a lark that first time, absolutely clueless as to who might have been in the audience. After all, what had it mattered? He’d given himself a year to see what another world was like before he’d fully intended to return to his own, wiser, more seasoned, and ready to settle down into the rather pedestrian life of a lord’s fourth son. He’d had no intention of loitering about in present-day England to see who might have wanted his musical services.
He deftly circumvented the memories of a particular fortnight that had left him realizing he was rather more wedded to the present day than he’d anticipated he might be.
It had been at that point that he’d made more definite plans, found a lad to put him legally in the current century, and run across a fortuitous and random mention of Cameron Antiquities, Ltd. A discreet inquiry had resulted in that cautious friendship with Oliver and even an offer of an introduction to Lord Robert Cameron. John had declined the latter because at the time he’d had enough of nobility to last him a bit.
He’d continued on with his life, continued to play, forced himself to acclimatize to his circumstances, and flown under the radar, as the saying went. He’d gone from being a grubby, overwhelmed stable boy to being a reclusive, several-times-over millionaire. He dabbled with cars because he’d always fancied unraveling how mechanical things worked. He played whatever stringed instrument he could lay his hands on—some rather badly, as it happened—because he had inherited his grandmother’s love for music. He’d moved from day to day, ignoring who he had been and contenting himself with who he was.
Until Tess Alexander had walked into his shop and forced his world to grind to a halt.
A doctor of medieval studies.
The irony of it was enough to do him in.
And now that bloody note from Oliver, whom he hadn’t seen since the first of the year when he’d first begun to investigate a move south. John pursed his lips. Of course, he’d heard of Ian MacLeod’s school of swordplay, but he’d dismissed it as a Highlander taking his heritage far too seriously for his own good.
It was as he’d thought before: Oliver had obviously spent too much time wondering why it was John had such a large supply of rare medieval gold coins and that had led him to speculating on other things he shouldn’t have.
John didn’t particularly want to think about that.
He didn’t want to think about anything else that made him uncomfortable, either, so he turned his mind back to the music in front of him. He would have a decent day, pick up a few quid for his trouble, then hopefully escape before Tess Alexander did the unthinkable and called him.
He felt fairly safe in assuming she wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to irritate her, but she seemed to want as little to do with him as he did her. His
Unbidden and certainly unwelcome memories of his past washed over him without warning. Commanding them to leave him be was useless. It had been, he could admit with all frankness, that sort of day.
Playing the guitar hadn’t been the first job he’d had after leaving home; that had been mucking out stables. His skill with horses and, truth be told, his inordinate fondness for them had earned him room and board for a pair of months until he’d gotten on his feet a bit and been able to look for something that paid better. It had been listening to modern music whilst about his work that had given him the idea that perhaps he might make a go of that sort of thing.
A year, two different stables, and a restaurant dishwashing job or two later—he hadn’t dared convert any of his gold at that point—he’d had a guitar and himself in Edinburgh at the same time. He’d performed at the Festival for a lark that first time, absolutely clueless as to who might have been in the audience. After all, what had it mattered? He’d given himself a year to see what another world was like before he’d fully intended to return to his own, wiser, more seasoned, and ready to settle down into the rather pedestrian life of a lord’s fourth son. He’d had no intention of loitering about in present-day England to see who might have wanted his musical services.
He deftly circumvented the memories of a particular fortnight that had left him realizing he was rather more wedded to the present day than he’d anticipated he might be.
It had been at that point that he’d made more definite plans, found a lad to put him legally in the current century, and run across a fortuitous and random mention of Cameron Antiquities, Ltd. A discreet inquiry had resulted in that cautious friendship with Oliver and even an offer of an introduction to Lord Robert Cameron. John had declined the latter because at the time he’d had enough of nobility to last him a bit.
He’d continued on with his life, continued to play, forced himself to acclimatize to his circumstances, and flown under the radar, as the saying went. He’d gone from being a grubby, overwhelmed stable boy to being a reclusive, several-times-over millionaire. He dabbled with cars because he’d always fancied unraveling how mechanical things worked. He played whatever stringed instrument he could lay his hands on—some rather badly, as it happened—because he had inherited his grandmother’s love for music. He’d moved from day to day, ignoring who he had been and contenting himself with who he was.
Until Tess Alexander had walked into his shop and forced his world to grind to a halt.
A doctor of medieval studies.
The irony of it was enough to do him in.
And now that bloody note from Oliver, whom he hadn’t seen since the first of the year when he’d first begun to investigate a move south. John pursed his lips. Of course, he’d heard of Ian MacLeod’s school of swordplay, but he’d dismissed it as a Highlander taking his heritage far too seriously for his own good.
It was as he’d thought before: Oliver had obviously spent too much time wondering why it was John had such a large supply of rare medieval gold coins and that had led him to speculating on other things he shouldn’t have.
John didn’t particularly want to think about that.
He didn’t want to think about anything else that made him uncomfortable, either, so he turned his mind back to the music in front of him. He would have a decent day, pick up a few quid for his trouble, then hopefully escape before Tess Alexander did the unthinkable and called him.
He felt fairly safe in assuming she wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to irritate her, but she seemed to want as little to do with him as he did her. His
Similar Books
