Every Time with a Highlander by Gwyn Cready

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. ”
    â€œAll we needed was for Bridgewater to decide to investigate the pump house. He’d have had to walk right by him.”
    â€œIs he dea d ?” 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?”
    â€œCould you tell by the ecclesiastical ring?”
    â€œWhat happened to him?”
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œWell, you’re a nondiscriminatory drugger, I’ll give you that. Same potion?”
    She gave him a narrow look. “Hardly.”
    â€œWhat happened to his clothes?”
    â€œI needed to divert Bridgewater and his men away from here.”
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œPardon me. I’m new to the assault-and-kidnapping game.”
    â€œAre you?” she said, lifting a theatrical brow. “I’m astonished.”
    â€œWhy did you want me here?”
    â€œI’ve told you—”
    â€œNo, here ,” he said, gesturing to the courtyard. “Why did you want me here .”
    â€œOh.” 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—”
    â€œOh Christ, no.”
    â€œâ€”a whorehouse.”
    The sound of men’s voices rose in the distance.
    â€œAnd how might we accomplish that?” he asked.
    â€œI have an idea,” she said, “but we’ll have to hurry.”

Twelve
    The cart bumped along the path to the town, and the farmer driving it whistled “Tam Lin” loudly. Undine could feel Father Kent’s annoyance with her, and she adjusted the cloak over his shoulders as a means of appeasement.
    â€œA hunchback?” he said. “Really?” He made an exasperated growl as the cart hit a particularly large rut.
    â€œâ€™Tis the only way to move what needs to be moved without being seen.”
    One of the bishop’s hands flopped out, and Undine shoved it back under the fabric.
    Kent wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “There’s nothing like wearing a wool cloak over a sweaty bishop on the most humid day in eternity while getting one’s teeth rattled out of one’s head to make one really long for the pleasures of Bankside.”
    â€œWe shall have you home soon enough.”
    â€œOh, we are miles past soon enough.”
    After she’d explained her plan, Kent had lifted the bishop from the fountain onto his back like a summer pig and directed her to fetch rope to secure him and a cloak to hide him. She thought of the ease with which Kent had managed the effort. For a man of the church, he had the forearms of a blacksmith and the dexterity of an acrobat—not to mention the high-handedness of a sultan.
    â€œWhere did you get your training?” she said.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYour ecclesiastical studies. Where did you do them?”
    He shrugged. “You know. Here and there. One