by Lynn Kurland
In a different lifetime, he supposed he would have followed his sister Amanda’s example and cut both those wenches down to size with the weight of his father’s name and a look or two of disdain. But he was in the Future where he was no one at all and those looks wouldn’t have served him. He’d done what he could, which was take Tess away. He supposed time would cure the rest.
“I’m sorry,” Tess said, looking at him with a sigh. “I’ve been terrible company today.”
“It was a long weekend,” he offered, “and a busy fortnight before that. Perhaps a good rest is what you need.”
She smiled gamely. “The lord’s solar has a decent hearth and a flat screen hidden behind a tapestry, if you’re interested.”
“As long as your DVD offerings don’t include Jane Austen or any of that other girlish rot,” he said with mock severity.
“Maybe you should settle for a book.”
He smiled. “Quite possibly. Let’s get your gear inside, then we’ll see if we can come to an agreement on something.” He shot her a look. “Wait for me.”
She held her hands up. “I’ve given up fighting you.”
He seriously doubted that, but he wasn’t going to argue the point at present. He got out of the car, pocketed the keys, then went around to open Tess’s door for her. He paused after he’d shut it up again.
“Was it worth it to you? The trip?”
She looked up at him. “Honestly, once I got in there, I realized I would rather listen to you play than look for priceless texts.”
“Daft wench,” he said, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I could play for you anytime.”
She only nodded.
He decided that perhaps it was best not to try to read anything in her face at present. She looked terribly tired and more discouraged than he would have expected her to. She’d had the chance to look at what she’d wanted to, but perhaps it had been a bit of a letdown.
He left her where she was and went around to the boot to fetch her gear for her. He slung her pack over his shoulder, then started to shut the lid.
He supposed that at some point in the future he would have the stomach to reexamine that moment and understand why a cold chill had slid down his spine.
He pushed the lid back open, then reached in and pulled out a slip of paper just visible under his pack. He was almost certain it hadn’t been there when he’d stowed their gear earlier. Where it had come from, then, was a bit of a mystery.
He unfolded it—noting the careless way it had been creased—and began to read.
Who were Rhys de Piaget and what’s he to a particular garage owner?
And if you’re thinkin I’ve only to do with you and not the pretty miss, you’re sore mistaken.
“John?”
John shoved the note into his pocket and stepped back from the boot. He shut the lid, narrowly missing shutting Tess inside, then pasted a smile on his face.
“Nothing,” he said without hesitation. “Just daydreaming.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?”
What was wrong? He hardly knew where to begin. The list was long and terrifying.
He knew at that moment and with a finality that made him want to sit down, that he had gravely underestimated the danger. He was not dealing with an offended reenactment lad; he was dealing with the real thing.
Who were Rhys de Piaget . . .
He realized Tess had her arms around him. “I think you’re going to fall down. Here, put your arm around my shoulder and lean on me.”
“I’ve no need—”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said, not looking any better herself than he felt. “What happened to you? Something from breakfast?”
“Aye,” he said thickly. “Bad eggs.”
“You didn’t eat eggs for breakfast, John.”
“I poached some of Haulton’s whilst he was admiring his visage in the mirror. I’ve probably caught something vile from him.”
“English, John, please.”
He closed his eyes and held on to her for a moment or two in silence. He knew he was shaking, but then again, so was she, so perhaps in the end, it didn’t matter who held whom upright. He looked around as much of the grounds as he could see from his present position and wondered just what in the hell he was supposed to be looking for.
Someone who knew his father.
Someone who knew he loved Tess Alexander.
Someone who knew he knew he was being stalked.
So the sword theft hadn’t been a random thing, nor had the rock propping open Tess’s north guard tower door, nor the curtain rod at Payneswick, nor the slit brake line. He had to take a deep breath. The saints only knew where his enemy would strike next.
If it was at Tess . . .
Tess took her pack with one hand and kept her arm around his waist. “Lock your car.”
He fumbled in his pocket for the key and did so, then put that arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him as he walked with her across the grass to the bridge. He about fell into the moat when a ferocious barking started up behind him.
“Mr. Beagle,” Tess shouted, “sit!”
The dog blinked in surprise, stopped barking, and sat.
“Go home,” Tess ordered.
The dog took a final look at them, hopped up, then trotted back to the gift shop. John took a deep breath, then tried not to stumble as he walked with Tess across the bridge. He knew he was scanning the battlements for unfriendly souls, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. If he hadn’t thought it would raise eyebrows, he would have dropped the damned portcullises and locked himself inside the hall with Tess until he’d determined who was stalking him. He didn’t imagine Tess would mind if he pulled down one—or both—of the swords hanging crossed over the hearth in the great hall to help him with defenses. He imagined that with a little ingenuity, he could sharpen them up in a blink.
He locked himself in the great hall with her, then locked her in her solar as he checked every last door in the place. Nothing was amiss, but that didn’t ease him at all. He went back into the lord’s solar, built a fire, then stopped himself from forbidding Tess to go into the kitchen. If she wanted to eat, he wasn’t going to stand in her way.
He left her holding a very sharp knife and supposed she could see to herself for as long as it took him to build a fire in the great hall.
It occurred to him, whilst he was about the task, that it might be time to call in reinforcements. His father wouldn’t have hesitated, so John supposed there was no shame in it.
He waited until he’d seen Tess seated in front of the fire with a hot mug of tea before he excused himself and walked out the front door, pulling his mobile from his pocket as he did so. He dialed the number he’d had memorized for several years.
“Phillips,” a voice said crisply from the other end.
John took a deep breath. “Oliver, it’s John.”
“John,” Oliver said, sounding not at all surprised to hear from him. “How’s the Vanquish?”
“Brilliant.”
“Points on your license, mate?”
“Nary a one.”
Oliver laughed. “That’s because you take it to Germany every couple of months and get it out of your system. What can I do for you?”
John had to take a deep breath. “This is going to sound absolutely barking, but I need security.”
“When?”
John dragged his hand through his hair. “No questions about why?”
“I work for Robert Cameron, John. I’m accustomed to not asking questions. How many lads and when?”
“A pair, perhaps,” John said slowly. “And perhaps as soon as tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there tonight, with reinforcements.”
John blew out his breath. “Name your price.”
“Oh, it’ll cost you,” Oliver said, sounding as if he were smiling, “and Cameron will likely ding you as well for leaving me unable to fetch him his
tea. I suppose you’ll survive the blow.”
“I could only hope.” John hesitated, then supposed there was no reason not to be frank. “I think it’s personal.”
“It always is.”
“You know,” John said grimly, “you could sound a little less cavalier about this.”
“You’re not hiring me to stand in the corner and weep like a girl, are you?”
John smiled in spite of himself. “Nay, I’m not.”
“Where’s your flat?”
“I have a cottage behind the shop. I assume you can find that.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a snoop if I couldn’t, would I?” Oliver asked. “Where will you be?”
“Tucking my lady up safely in her castle.”
“Of course,” Oliver said without so much as a hint of a smirk in his voice. “I might bring Ewan Cameron as well, just to keep her safe.”
“I think I should be worried.”
“I know you should be worried. Let me ring around a bit and see who’s up for an adventure. I’ll let you know when we’re hiding in your hedge.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
He could have sworn Oliver muttered something about girls and castles before he rang off, but he couldn’t be sure. He had little idea of what Oliver truly did for Robert Cameron, and he supposed it was probably better that way. He’d gotten himself out of a tight spot in a dodgy alley in Glasgow with Oliver at his side and was well aware of the man’s ability to defend himself. A discreet inquiry or two about Oliver and his employer had produced absolutely nothing, which led him to believe that the Cameron’s security was absolute.
He was beginning to suspect he should have been more careful about his own.
He walked back into the hall only to find it empty. Panic slammed into him like a fist until he caught sight of Tess coming out of the solar, her phone to her ear. She glanced at him but only smiled, so perhaps she didn’t realize how loudly the blood was thundering in his ears. After all, he’d spent years perfecting the ability to be quaking with terror yet still look utterly bored. Montgomery had claimed so, at least.
His brother had best have had that aright.
“Of course,” she was saying. “What time do you want me there?”
John frowned at her, but she was ignoring him.
“Terry, don’t worry,” she said soothingly. “Get me a topic later today and I’ll have it ready by the time I get there. It isn’t as if I’ll have to research it from scratch.”
“What are you doing?” John demanded.
It was possible that might have come out a little less politely than he might have wished.
She frowned at him, then walked away. “Are you kidding?” she said. “I couldn’t be more thrilled. A meeting is one thing, but this is a thousand times better.”
“What is?” John said, following her across the hall floor.
She tried to shoo him away. “Four? Absolutely. Chevington isn’t all that far away if I get an early start.”
John felt his jaw hit his chest. Literally. “What?” he exclaimed. He might have shouted it. At the moment, he wasn’t sure he was fit to judge.
Tess shot him a glare, then smiled into her phone. “Thanks, Terry. I really appreciate this.”
“You absolutely won’t—” John began.
She flapped at him and mouthed a very unladylike curse. John folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. She continued to walk away from him, as if she thought by that alone she might manage to get rid of him.
“Thanks, Terry. It’s a terrific opportunity. Yes, see you tomorrow.”
“Nay, you will not,” John said loudly.
She shoved her phone into her pocket and glared at him. “Will you please knock that off?”
“Aye, when I’m convinced you’re—” He cut himself off before he blurted out anything else untoward. “When we’ve both passed a solid fortnight without any incidents, then I’ll knock it off, my lady. Until then, I most certainly will not.”
She took a deep breath. “While I appreciate your concern, I am perfectly capable of seeing to myself. Terry managed to get me a slot at a living history faire at Chevington—”
“Nay,” he said calmly. Well, he might have shouted that as well, but he was under a fair bit of duress. “Absolutely, unequivocally, no arguments, nay.”
He supposed if she’d been a different sort of gel, she might have bloodied his nose at that point.
Tess only looked at him for a moment or two as if she had never seen him before. “Do you have any idea,” she managed finally, “what an amazing opportunity this is? It’s a chance—”
“To put yourself in danger where you need not,” he growled, “which you absolutely will not do.”
She gaped at him for a moment or two, then drew herself up and looked at him coolly. “I think you’d better go.”
“Nay,” he growled.
She walked across her hall to the front door, opened it, and pointed. “Beat it.”
He stalked over to her. “I most assuredly will not, you witless—”
She shoved him out her front door.
He hadn’t expected that, which was the only reason she managed it, to be sure. He stumbled down her stairs, but landed on his feet instead of his face, which she wouldn’t have noticed because she’d already slammed the door shut. He stood there, his chest heaving, and cursed her. He dragged his hand through his hair and fought the urge to stomp off. She was an irascible, unpleasant, impossible—
She opened the door and peeked out.
He glared at her. “Come to finish the job?”
“I wanted to make sure I hadn’t hurt you.”
He closed his eyes and groaned silently before he managed to look at her again. Impossible, impossibly beautiful, dangerously courageous, absolutely, stunningly—
He had to take a deep breath. “What time does your train leave?”
She scowled at him and slammed the door shut again.
Well, as he had reminded himself in the past, he had a BlackBerry and knew how to use it. Assuming she didn’t leave until the morning, and assuming she actually did take the train and not her car, he could have all the possible train times under his fingers within seconds. He would simply camp out at the station and follow her.
Perhaps he might even run into the lad who was following him.
“Lock the door!” he shouted, as a bit of an afterthought.
“Go to hell!” came the muffled response.
But she shoved the bolt home just the same. The sound ricocheted off the walls of the courtyard. John took a deep breath, glanced around him, and, finding no ruffians loitering where he could see them, took himself off toward the barbican gate. He stopped just inside the gate, had a final look about the courtyard, then turned and strode off toward his car.
He would go home, see if there was anything left of his cottage, then slip back to the castle. He wasn’t as familiar with Sedgwick’s grounds as he could have been—and likely should have been—but he could remedy that quickly. Once he knew the lay of the land, as it were, he would plan out a strategy. He would wait for his reinforcements, then put that plan in motion.
And at some point, he would hopefully stop wishing it was a battle he could have fought with a sword.
Chapter 17
Tess knew she was being watched.
The thought, when she said it aloud in her head, was absolutely ridiculous. Of course she was being watched; she was half an hour past a lecture that had been so full, people had been trying to listen from the hallway. She’d been meeting and greeting ever since, finally moving out to the great hall where she’d had more room to chat comfortably with men and women in medieval dress. Of course she was being watched.
Somehow, that didn’t rid her of the shivers that continued to run down her spine.
She decided, as the line began to dwindle a bit, that her unease had less to do with an unknown watcher than it had to do with Chevington itself. She’d been to the
castle several times before, because it was decently preserved and because there was a rich political history associated with it, but she’d never enjoyed any of the visits. She’d initially been able to ignore the paranormal oddities it boasted, though she’d been less successful at that on subsequent visits. She’d begun to have the feeling she was walking back into time—most often into the midst of a battle.
Today, that sensation had been impossible to ignore.
She continued to make what she hoped was pleasant and coherent conversation with the knight in front of her and forced herself to rationally examine the cause of her unease without wimping out by crediting it to being in one of the most paranormally active castles in all of England.
It couldn’t have been because she’d given a bad lecture. She had stuck to basic, indisputable facts and presented them simply. No one was glaring at her for getting her facts wrong. She’d changed into appropriate clothing once she’d reached the castle, so the medieval gown and delicate if not precisely useful slippers on her feet shouldn’t have garnered any especial notice. Terry had given her a terrific introduction, and she’d put on her best company manners after her lecture to leave the attendees with a good impression. There was no reason she should have stuck out in a castle full of medieval wannabes.
Still, she just couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.
She took the opportunity as it presented itself to glance around the keep and look for the looker. It was difficult, though, because no one seemed out of the ordinary. She recognized a few souls from Terry’s group and took note of a few others who she was fairly sure she’d seen at academic conferences in different garb, but she didn’t see any stalkers. She suppressed the urge to look behind her to see if anyone was going to come up behind her and clunk her over the head to carry her off.
Someone like John, for instance.
The thought of him left her with an entirely new reason to be uncomfortable. She had never in her life physically assaulted anyone. While pushing John down the stairs probably didn’t descend quite to that level, it came perilously close in her book.