by M. S. Parker
“We had an agreement,” I repeated. “I'm not a prisoner here, am I?”
“Of course not.”
“Then let me go.” I had to force the words out of me.
Every fiber of my being screamed at me to stay, to beg Gracen to keep me with him. The intensity of what I was feeling scared me, fueling my need to escape. I'd always prided myself on my independence, on my strength. I never felt like I needed Bruce. I wanted to marry him, and I hadn't liked being away from him, but I'd never felt this inexplicable need for him. Not like what I was feeling right now.
The worst part was, I knew it was dangerous, and a part of me didn't care.
Gracen shook his head in response to my request. “Go back to your room and think this through.” His eyes narrowed. “Is it because of my father’s friends? They’re Loyalists, but they’re harmless. And no one other than myself knows that your views aren't...similar.”
“It has nothing to do with the company you keep,” I said. Then I amended it, wanting to be honest with him about this. “Not entirely about them, anyway. This is your house, and I have no say over what happens within these walls.”
“I demand a proper explanation.” He crowded into my space, his eyes flashing. “I deserve that. After everything we’ve been through, I deserve an honest explanation.”
I looked out the kitchen window at the first signs of daylight and realized that if I didn’t leave now, I would have the entire staff to deal with.
“I don't have one,” I whispered. I needed to leave.
Now.
I tried to push past Gracen, but he grabbed my shoulders, stopping me from going more than a few steps. His fingers burned through my sleeves. I'd never before craved human touch so much.
“Let me go, Gracen,” I begged as desperation filled me. Tears burned my eyes, and I struggled not to cry. I couldn't let him know how much this hurt me. “Please, just let me go.”
His eyes locked on mine, and those impossible butterflies in my stomach fluttered. The room was suddenly too warm, the air too thick to breathe. His body was less than an inch from mine, and despite the layers of clothing between us, I imagined I could feel the heat of him.
“Gracen,” I murmured, unsure what I was asking him to do.
He decided for me as he bent his head and brushed his lips across mine. A shock went through me, and then his hands were sliding up my arms, one to linger on my neck, the other cupping the back of my head. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding across my bottom lip. As my lips parted, I leaned into him, feeling his hunger matching my own. I forgot where I was, what I was supposed to be doing. All that mattered was how right this felt.
Then, as suddenly as the kiss began, it was over. He pulled away, and I could see the confusion in his eyes as he stared down at me. This wasn't right, and we both knew it. Even though Gracen didn't know about Bruce, we both knew about Clara, and that alone was enough.
Still, I couldn't lie to myself any longer. No matter how many times I told myself that this was a bad idea, that I couldn't get involved. Hell, it didn't even matter that I'd never believed in the kind of connection I felt toward him. It was real.
And it could never happen.
He lowered his eyes even as his skin flushed a deep red. I wanted to comfort him, tell him it was okay, that it was just a spur of the moment reaction that meant nothing. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it, even if it hadn't meant anything to him. I knew, if he decided to kiss me again, I would welcome it and damn the consequences.
“I’m sorry,” Gracen muttered, his gaze flicking toward me, and then away again.
I nodded, still unable to find the words I needed to say. There was nothing, actually, that I could say. It was all just too complicated.
“I shouldn't have done that,” he said, rubbing the nape of his neck. “You’re right, Honor, you aren't a prisoner here. But, I beg of you, reconsider what you are doing. It isn’t safe out there. You’re safer here.”
“Gracen,” I began but stopped when he held up his hand.
“The choice is yours,” he continued, his eyes falling to my lips as our bodies seemed to want to pull together. He looked away. “Just know that if you decide to leave, I won't stop you, and I won't be able to protect you.”
With a shake of his head, he brushed past me, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the chaos in my mind.
Sixteen
I remembered my first kiss with Bruce clearly. I didn't know if it was because it was my first kiss ever, or the fact that I'd been terrified that my father would find out. Or because it was nothing like I'd expected.
Bruce and I had been unofficially dating on and off for a couple years, and while I'd accepted that he'd been too immature to be exclusive, my part of the deal had been that I wouldn't kiss him, or do anything else for that matter, until we were an official couple.
We were in his car, parked in front of my house but away from the living room window where my parents could easily look out and see us parked. A part of me had been worried that one of my parents would draw it open and spot Bruce’s car. But they hadn't.
We'd gone to the movies, but I couldn't say what we'd watched. All I could remember was the fact that I'd finally been sitting in the movies with my boyfriend, holding his hand, my head resting on his shoulder as the colors from the big screen flashed across us.
It was one of those teenage things, the perfect first real date with my boyfriend. It didn’t matter that we'd actually gone out before, because those outings had been group dates or dances that Bruce hadn't had another date for. This was the first time we'd gone somewhere alone, as boyfriend and girlfriend, and the entire time I'd sat in the theater, I'd known that I would let him kiss me.
We'd gotten home well before my curfew, my father’s warning having been given with a smile. The look in his eyes, however, had said it all. He terrified Bruce, and although that had slowly grown old and less amusing over time, it had kept Bruce in check through high school.
It hadn't, however, kept me from getting my first kiss. I'd always imagined my first kiss to be something special, something that would make me shiver every time I thought about it.
Instead, I'd been disappointed.
I'd known, of course, that I wasn’t the first girl Bruce had kissed. Kathy O'Neill was all too happy to tell me that she'd received that honor back in seventh grade. In some ways, I'd expected that since he’d gotten in some practice, he'd at least be good at it.
I thought that until his lips touched mine, parted them, and instantly stuck his tongue in my mouth. The kiss was pushy and sloppy, and it took me by complete surprise. What I'd expected to be something soft and sweet, something to show the way we felt about each other, had clearly all been about him. The follow-up hadn’t been any better, and when Bruce’s hand had reached under the hem of my shirt, he'd been visibly disappointed at my resistance.
Over time, Bruce had gotten better – or I'd gotten used to his technique – and I'd filed my childhood dream of a perfect first kiss alongside things that I'd learned were just fantasies. Like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.
I'd also put time travel on that list, and now that I'd experienced both time travel and an amazing kiss, I was beginning to think that anything was possible.
Maybe Dye had been right after all. Maybe I was here for a reason.
Maybe staying was what I was meant to do all along.
I spent the rest of the day in a bit of a daze, my mind constantly wanting to return to that kiss, to remember the way Gracen's lips had felt against mine. I was next to useless, taking longer than usual to finish my tasks, often earning dirty looks from the other servants, or insults from Titus, but I didn't take any of it to heart. I was too busy thinking about what this all meant. If it meant anything at all.
After lunch, Dye found me in the dining room, cleaning up by myself. I was so busy daydreaming that I didn’t notice her until she was standing right next to me, a frown on her face.
“You be a
fool,” she said, her voice low, but her words sharp.
“Pardon me?”
“You want Master Roston to send you away?” she asked, an eyebrow raised.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I actually did want Roston to send me away, but only if it meant I could go home...or that Gracen was going with me.
“You been workin' slower than molasses today.”
“I didn't sleep much last night,” I said. That was, at least, true.
Dye, however, didn't seem to believe that fatigue was my only reasoning. She watched me work for a few seconds before clicking her tongue and shaking her head.
“You better get what’s on yo’ mind off it, and soon,” Dye said. “Titus ain’t happy, and you can be sure he'll tell Master Roston.”
I turned toward her, giving her one of my own frowns. “Since when have you become my keeper?”
She clicked her tongue again. “You ain’t from here, Honor,” she reminded me. “You’s a long ways from home, and this place ain't so kind to strangers nowadays. Master Roston wants you out, you gonna be in a spot o' danger.”
I stiffened. “I can handle myself.”
“Maybe,” she nodded, “but when they find out who you really be, they ain’t gonna be friendly.”
“I’m not a rebel,” I murmured.
She gave me a hard look before speaking. “I know. You’s so much more. I can see that, and you betcha they will too.”
Dye reached down to take the plates I'd collected and walked out of the dining room as I tried to make sense of what she had just said.
By the time evening rolled in, I managed to get myself back on track, picking up my pace while simultaneously trying my best to keep a low profile. It hadn't only been Dye's warning either. I'd bumped into Titus a couple times, and by the second time, I'd gotten a sinking feeling that he was keeping a closer eye on me than usual. Definitely motivation.
I left the study for last, knowing that Roston usually spent most of the day in there, and I was in no mood to interact with the man in any way, let alone hear more Loyalist rhetoric. Besides, if Titus had talked to Roston as Dye had warned me he would, then avoiding him was the better choice.
I opened the study door, then stopped when I saw Roston's back. In front of him sat Gracen, a scowl on his face. His eyes met mine for a split second before they quickly returned to his father. Despite how quick it was, Roston noticed and glared at me for a moment before dismissing me completely.
Apparently, I'd interrupted something important.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll come back later.”
Roston turned away as if he hadn't heard me, and I backed out of the study, closing the door behind me. I was already starting to walk away when Roston's booming voice came through the thick oak.
“You are being fool hearty!”
I stopped, curiosity getting the best of me. I moved closer to the door but kept my eyes facing forward. I wasn't stupid enough to eavesdrop without keeping an eye out, but I also wasn't about to walk away.
“On the contrary, Father,” Gracen's voice was clipped, tight, “I believe I am being quite reasonable.”
“You are an Englishman,” Roston bellowed. “You cannot have conflicting loyalties. I won’t allow it!”
“I do not have conflicting loyalties,” Gracen countered. “And you do not need to remind me of my heritage.”
“It seems that I do,” Roston snapped. “I cannot believe we are having this conversation.”
“Then why bore yourself?”
“Because you are too stubborn to listen to reason!”
“How is anything you say reasonable?” Gracen raised his voice. “You want me to enlist!”
My heart dropped as a chill ran down my spine. That couldn't happen. Gracen couldn't enlist. Even if he survived the war, he'd go back to England. Thanks to a historical fiction series I'd read a couple years back, I knew how badly the loss had hit England.
“You are a Lightwood!” Roston bellowed, loud enough that I flinched. “We have always been loyal to the Crown and having a son of military age who hasn't enlisted is calling that into question. I will not allow our family name to be besmirched!”
For the first time since I had arrived at the Lightwood estate, I felt like Gracen could be in grave danger, and it took all of my self-control not to burst in and tell Roston that his demands would destroy his family.
Roston’s friends had often discussed with him what they all believed was a harmless uprising that would be quelled within weeks, or at the most, months. They had no idea what the colonists would achieve, especially in Boston, and that most of them would be fleeing to Nova Scotia to escape the war. The ones who didn't would most likely return to England with nothing. For now, however, everyone was looking for an opportunity to bring honor to their family’s name, fight a few battles and return with heroic stories to tell their grandchildren.
Those discussions had obviously gotten to Roston, and now he was willing to risk the life of his only son for glory and honor. I scowled. Bastard.
“I am sorry, Father, but this is one thing I cannot blindly do,” Gracen said. “I have agreed to most everything since my birth. This is different, Father. It’s a matter of what I believe in, and I do not know how I truly feel about all this.”
“What you believe is of no concern to me,” Roston shouted, and I winced at the sound of his fist slamming against something hard. The desk, I assumed. “It is a matter of what is right.”
“And how is any of this right?” Gracen asked. “How can you stand there and honestly tell me that this battle is right?”
“It is that damn girl that you brought with you, is it not?” Roston’s voice suddenly changed, and my heart skipped a beat, wondering just how dangerous it was for me to be standing here. “Since the moment she arrived, you have changed. I never should have let you convince me into hiring that damn colonist!”
“Honor has nothing to do with this,” Gracen said.
“She has a name, does she?” Roston sneered. “Don't think I haven't seen how you look at her.”
“I am engaged!” Gracen shouted. “Which, I may remind you, is also something I gave into despite my beliefs. And it will be the last time I shall do so.”
There was a sudden silence in the study, and I imagined both men staring each other down, neither of them willing to give in. I could only pray that Gracen would continue to stand his ground. The thought of him in a redcoat uniform made me sick.
I needed to find some way to tell him that he was making the right decision, that he needed to stay as far away from the war as humanly possible. I couldn't let him give in to his father's demands. Not about this. I could survive the engagement, but I wasn't sure I could survive it if he died.
Which was ironic, considering a part of me was still trying to figure out how to return to a time when he was already dead.
My mind began to race with all the possible ways I could support his personal rebellion and keep him safe. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a small voice in the back of my head began asking why I'd taken such an interest in his well-being. Deep down, I knew the answer to that, but I still wasn’t ready to admit it to myself, as if acknowledging how deeply I felt about Gracen would solidify the wrong I was doing. He was an engaged man. I was an engaged woman. Even if that wasn’t the case, there was no future in this, no matter how I felt.
“I need you to make up your mind quickly,” Roston Lightwood’s voice was unusually soft and composed. “These skirmishes won’t last for long.”
“I certainly hope not,” came Gracen’s reply, and with that, I knew the discussion had ended.
I heard footsteps, and then...shit! I was standing too close to the door. As quietly as I could, I raced down the hall and turned towards the staircase, making for the second floor where I was sure I could busy myself with one mundane task or another.
Halfway up, I heard the study door open and close. I couldn't resist peeking over the baniste
r to watch Gracen storm down the hall and out of my sight.
Seventeen
I dreamed that night.
I was standing in a run-down house of sorts with Gracen by my side. I couldn't make out enough of the interior to tell where we were or even when we were. We were dressed differently, and the air was cold against my skin despite the fact we were inside and I was wearing a coat.
In front of us were a man and a woman standing behind a counter, and I knew instinctively that they were the owners of the establishment. The looks on their faces were disturbing, even a little threatening, especially the scowl that the man had directed at me. Now I didn’t know if the chill under my skin was from the look or the cold, but I was extremely uncomfortable.
The woman was talking to Gracen in broken English with what I figured out was a French accent. They were arguing about something I couldn’t quite make out, but that was probably because I couldn't take my eyes off the man who was scowling at me. I felt like I should know him from somewhere, but no matter how hard I tried, I wasn't able to place him.
Suddenly, the woman started yelling in French, waving us away. I looked at Gracen, and for the first time, I realized how worn he appeared, a man who had seen and been through more in one lifetime than anyone should. With his hair tied back and dyed, he looked very different from the Gracen I knew, barely recognizable.
Still, I knew him, and I knew then that I'd recognize him anywhere. It had little to do with how he looked and everything to do with the way I felt. In that moment, a small burst of inspiration made me wonder if it might have been Gracen who pulled me through time, if this inexplicable connection we had, whatever this was, had been so strong, so powerful, that it broke through space and time itself.
Then the woman's voice rose, joined by the gruff voice of the man next to her, both bellowing in incomprehensible French, and the moment was gone. Despite the tension filling the air, Gracen kept his cool. His eyes briefly shifted to me, as if making sure I was still there, before returning to the couple in front of us.