Much Ado In the Moonlight Read Free Page B

be?”
    “Well—”
    “Unraveling your disasters, that’s where I’d be,” Fulbert continued in a superior tone, retrieving his mug from its invisible storage place. “Now, who is it this time? The name escapes me . . .”
    “You know very well who is coming.”
    Fulbert took a deep pull of his ale. “I’ve been trying to forget.” He looked at Ambrose over the rim of his cup. “Go ahead. Spew out the name.”
    “Victoria McKinnon, and do not dare disparage her.”
    “Disparage her?” Fulbert echoed weakly. “I wouldn’t dare! But, by the saints, must we be involved with that particular McKinnon wench? I remember Mistress Victoria from young Gideon’s wedding to that granddaughter of yours, that Megan MacLeod McKinnon.” He shivered. “As if Megan wasn’t bad enough, wedding me nevvy and ruinin’ him for decent labor, now we’ve another of your descendants to be tormented by—”
    “Don’t you talk about me wee granddaughter thusly!” a voice bellowed suddenly. Hugh McKinnon appeared, his face red, his sword grasped in his hand, the business end pointed toward Fulbert’s chest.
    “I won’t say more about Megan,” Fulbert grumbled, “but that Victoria—”
    “Do not malign her, either!” Hugh thundered. “She’s a spirited gel—”
    “Hugh, she’s a bleedin’ garrison captain!” Fulbert exclaimed.
    Hugh squirmed uncomfortably for a moment or two, then scrunched his face up in his most determined expression. “She’s . . . er . . . focused .”
    Fulbert leaped to his feet, sending his chair toppling backward. He drew his sword with a flourish. “And I say she’s impossible! Spending her life trying to keep those flighty actors and dancers in proper form . . .” He snorted. “Foolishness. Damn me if I couldn’t wish for just one wench who’s for a bit of bloodshed—”
    “I’ll give ye all the bloodshed ye want, ye pompous Brit!” Hugh vowed, giving Fulbert a healthy shove.
    Fulbert took a firmer grip on his sword. “Whey-faced skirt-wearer.”
    “Whey-faced,” Hugh echoed. “ Whey-faced! ”
    They raised their swords as if they intended to do damage with them. Ambrose cursed. He was all for a bit of proper exercise when circumstances warranted, but now was not the time and the kitchen was not the place.
    “Take it outside,” he bellowed.
    Hugh hesitated in midswing; Fulbert paused before he cleaved Hugh’s skull in twain. They looked at each other, shrugged, then tromped out the door with word or two of pleasant conversation between them.
    Soon there came the sound of a mighty battle from the back garden. Ambrose wanted to believe that would be the end of it, but he knew better. He began to count silently. He expected that he wouldn’t reach a score before the kitchen door would burst open—it did at ten-and-six—and a be-curlered, hastily garbed Mrs. Pruitt would come racing through the kitchen with her video camera at the ready—which she did, clutching her pink robe to her breast and nearly putting out an eye as she dashed across the wooden floor. She rushed out the back door.
    Ambrose sighed as the sounds outside changed in tone. Bloodshed? Aye, there might be a bit, and not just Mrs. Pruitt tripping over garden implements.
    Curses and screeches mingled outside. Ambrose tipped back in his chair, waiting for what was to come. The curses ceased abruptly and the screeching became the low murmuring of a woman who was reviewing her videotape and finding it completely lacking the kind of paranormal activity she had intended it to capture. Ambrose was unsurprised several minutes later when Mrs. Pruitt marched through the kitchen and cursed her equipment thoroughly as she continued on her way into the dining chamber.
    Hugh and Fulbert came in not far behind her, with swords sheathed, and heads shaking.
    “Parley with her,” Fulbert said to Ambrose.
    Hugh nodded nervously in agreement.
    Ambrose sighed. “I will. Soon. After this next bit of business is finished. I