“What on earth are you doing? No one should be out in this. Why didn’t you get a taxi? Do you want a glass of wine?”
Grace nodded, wrapping her arms around herself trying to warm up. She moved to stand in front of the radiator, lifting her hands over the gentle heat that radiated from it. Her fingers burnt and she knew there was a reason she shouldn’t keep her hands in the heat but her mind had forgotten that reason and the only coherent thought she could manage was that she needed to get warm.
“Here you go, hun. Get this down you, it’s mulled wine. It’ll warm you up nicely,” she said, handing Grace a large warm glass of red wine. “I haven’t boiled it, just heated it a bit.”
“Thanks, Kate. This is lovely,” she said, taking a sip of the warm liquid and enjoying the heat it brought to her as it slid down the back of her throat.
“You know, Grace, don’t take this the wrong way hun, but you look dreadful. Are you still feeling rattled by that silly old bat from Monday night?”
Grace shook her head and took another sip of the warm wine.
“No, I’m fine, honestly. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
“Are you still having trouble sleeping in that room?”
“No. Honest Kate, I’m absolutely fine. As I said, just need a good night’s sleep and I’ll be good as new.”
Grace emptied the last of the liquid from the glass.
“Want some more?”
“That would be nice, thanks.”
“Fancy watching a film?” Kate asked, returning with two filled glasses.
“I can’t. It’s getting late and the weather is dreadful. I only came for a quick chat.”
“No worries, Grace. Anything in particular you wanted to chat about?”
“Well actually there was. It’s about your desk; you know the one that Robert made his wife.”
“You mean the one that he made for you?”
“Don’t mess around, Kate. That’s just daft and we both know it.”
“How so? You know Harry believes you are going to go back in time.”
“Think about what you are saying. It’s not possible. No one has ever done it.”
“No one that you know about. People go missing all the time.”
“Yes, they do. I did it myself, but I’ve not travelled in time. I just left my husband and moved to York.”
“I wondered what happened. Thought it might be something like that but I didn’t like to ask. Figured you would tell me when you were ready.”
“I hadn’t intended telling anyone. I hope you will keep it to yourself, Kate. Jack is a dangerous man and I can’t risk him finding me.”
“Your secret is safe with me, hun. I promise, I won’t tell a living soul.”
“Thank you.”
“No worries. But it won’t matter one day because you won’t be here anymore.”
“There is the chance the medium was right,” Grace said, feeling the sick knot in her stomach tighten.
“I don’t mean that you’re going to die, you Muppet. You’ll be four hundred years in the past. He’s hardly likely to find you there.”
“Enough, Kate. It won’t happen.”
“If you say so. Here, give me your glass and I’ll get us both another.”
Grace stared as the lights on the Christmas tree flashed in her eyes. They blurred and the colors blended like a halo around the tree. She could see the hazy outline of his face forming in the glow. His eyes found her and a gentle smile spread across his face. She lifted her hand and stretched her fingers toward him.
“I love you,” he whispered as the hazy outline of his features started to fade.
“Here you go, Grace,” she said, handing her friend the filled glass.
Grace took the glass from her but continued to stare, unblinking at the tree.
“Mesmerizing, aren’t they?” Kate said, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Grace blinked and the image faded. She was suddenly aware of the sound of the wind howling against the window.
“I’d better not be too much longer, it sounds nasty out there.”
“You want me to call you a taxi?”
“No, it’s not far. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
Grace nodded and took a few sips from the glass.
“Can I use your bathroom before I leave?”
“Course, it’s up there.”
Grace picked up her bag and made her way toward the stairs. She shuddered as a gust of wind lashed against the landing window. ‘I certainly hope it’s stopped snowing out there,’ she thought to herself as she made her way into the bathroom.
She looked at herself in the mirror above the sink. Her cheeks were sunken and her skin pale and grey. She turned the tap on and splashed cold water onto her face. It left the sting of a slap on her cheeks but she felt better for it. Opening her bag she found the anti-depressant tablets. She popped one out of its bubble and dropped the tablet into her mouth.
“Feeling a bit better?” Kate asked as Grace returned to the room.
“A bit, thanks,” she said, reaching for the backpack. “Kate, before I go, I have a message for you.”
“OK, who from?”
“Well I can’t really tell you that.”
“Right,” replied her friend a little skeptically, “Can I just ask if Harry is behind this?”
“This has nothing to do with Harry, although I did have a message for him as well.”
“Cool. So what’s the message then?”
“It’s... just that, you know the drawer in your desk?”
“Which one?”
“One of the lower drawers has a false bottom to it.”
“Wow, who would figure? I’ve had that desk for years and I had no idea. How on earth did you find out?”
“Don’t ask. It’s a long story. I’ve got to go now. It’s late and the weather’s getting worse. Just lift the false bottom of the drawer.”
“OK, hun, I’ll lift it, promise. Now you look after yourself out there. Give me a ring when you get back to the hotel. Just to let me know you got there safely.”
“Yeah, sure, will do,” she said, doing up the buttons on her coat and slinging the backpack over her shoulder. “Kate, would you mind if I take tomorrow off? I think I should see a doctor.”
“That’s fine, hun. Things have slowed down a bit the last few days because of Christmas.”
The wind howled around them as they hugged goodbye on the doorstep.
“You sure I can’t call you taxi?”
“I’ll be fine. Go on, get back inside, Kate, you’ll catch your death out here.”
Kate laughed, “And you won’t? Come on, Grace, let me get you a taxi.”
“Really, I’m fine,” she said, giving her friend a final quick wave before turning toward the street.
Quickly disorientated by the dense fog and carpet of snow that blanketed the city, she found herself on a street that she didn’t recognize. Tired and struggling through the deep snow, she wished she had worn her boots instead of her trainers.
Icy wind pounded her with snow, the air pierced her skin like a blade and the cold snow burnt her feet through her trainers as she plunged through the bitter blizzard. She blinked, trying to clear her streaming eyes and stumbled with the weight of the backpack. The snow-covered street was deserted but she cried for help nonetheless. The weak pitiful wail was swallowed by the howling wind as she stumbled again and fell to the ground.
Tiredness crept into every muscle and bone of her body. She could hear the thudding of her pulse in her ears, felt the bitter cold of the snow beneath her hands and knees as she crawled along the ground. Terror gripped her as she sank exhausted into a snow drift. In desperation she tried to pull herself up, but the ache and weariness in her limbs prevented her from rising. Stuck on her hands and knees with the weight of the bag on back she noticed her crystal necklace swinging from her neck and illogically started concentrating on the pendulum swing of the crystal, for
getting all about trying to stand. There was a flash of lightening followed immediately by a clap of thunder that seemed to knock her to the ground, forcing all the air from her lungs.
The falling snow started to spin, forming an ever tightening vortex of darkness around her, made all the worse by the recent blinding flash of lightening. She could hear the murmur of a voice somewhere in the distance as she desperately fought to keep herself from sleep. Her arm reached out in the direction of the voice and her fingers stretched to touch its source.
In those final moments of life she felt his arm around her shoulders, his face so close that his breath warmed her cheeks. She heard the gentle rumble of his voice tremble in her ears as she clawed at the tiny hole of light, desperate to break through the darkness.
As life drifted from her body and all conscious thought became dreams, her mind clung to the hazy image of Robert Hamilton.
He lifted her lifeless body and carried her through the blizzard toward the city lights. Deterred by the late hour, driving wind and heavy snowfall most residents had abandoned the streets for the comfort of a warm fire and the shelter of their homes.
Robert was grateful for the deserted streets and late hour as he approached the door of his house. He would have had a hard time explaining the limp body in his arms to anyone who might have enquired. Not to mention the strange looking sack he had found on her back.
Gently he placed her on the mattress of his bed. He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles slowly over her cheek. He watched the shallow rise and fall of her chest and knew, as sure as the sun that had just set, that she clung to life by a thread.
Undeterred by propriety he removed her sodden clothes and covered her gently with the padded quilt from his bed. He placed a warmed brick wrapped in a cotton cloth at her feet and stoked the fire in the room, before removing his own sodden clothes and toweling his hair dry. Reaching for a clean shirt and trousers he hurriedly dressed so that he could examine the sack he had found her with.
He couldn’t find an opening to the sack and assumed it had been stitched all round. He was puzzled by the strange leather and cloth that had been used to make it. His eyes wandered over her discarded clothes and her ruined shoes. He raised her hand gently and examined the bracelet on her left wrist. It looked to Robert like a timepiece, but he had never seen one so delicate and small. He rested her hand on his upturned palm and brushed his lips across her fingers. He wrapped his hand around hers and clutched it tightly to his chest.
She gasped as her body sprang back to life. Her eyelids flickered as she fought to open them. She could feel him beside her, clutching her hand to his chest. She could hear the crackle of a fire and the howling of the wind as it lashed against the window. She was in a familiar yet strange place. Her heart raced with anticipation as her eyes opened to the recognition of Robert Hamilton.
“Who are you and why have you haunted me so?” he whispered.
“I’ve been haunting you? You’ve got to be bloody joking,” Grace said, sitting bolt upright in the bed. Realizing too late that she had nothing on, Grace grabbed for the blanket and pulled it up underneath her chin. “Where the hell are my clothes?”
He raised his brows, casting his eyes lazily toward the wrought iron bedstead where Grace’s clothes hung neatly.
“They were wet,” he replied simply.
“So you just decided to take them off?”
“You were catching your death.”
She stared at him, her mind replaying what he had just said.
“Wet? You just said my clothes were wet?”
He nodded solemnly, a slight frown creasing his brow.
“I found you, face down in the snow.”
Color drained from her face, her eyes frantically scanned the dimly lit room around her.
“Am I dead?”
“No.”
A surge of panic ripped through her.
“Then I’m dreaming... which means I’m probably still lying face down in the snow,” she said, panic causing her voice to quiver. “I’ve got to wake up. Help me Robert! Help me wake up!”
“You aren’t dreaming.”
“I am! You’ve got to help me or I’m going to die.”
“You are not going to die.”
“I am! No one will find me. The snow is too heavy.”
Her heart pounded and her head throbbed as she tried desperately to work out how to wake herself.
He rose from the chair and stood beside the bed taking her shoulders in his large hands and holding her firmly.
“You are not going to die and you are not dreaming. Do you hear me?”
She could feel his warm breath on her face and a shiver passed through her at the touch of his hands on her bare shoulders.
“If I’m not dreaming and I’m not dead, what am I?”
Gently he let go of her and perched himself on the edge of the bed.
“That’s what I would like to know,” he whispered.
“Where am I?” she asked softly.
“In my bed.”
“That’s not terribly helpful,” she said, growing irritated with his curt replies.
“Why don’t you start by telling me what you were doing out in that snow storm?” he asked.
“Why don’t you start by telling me what you are doing here when you’re supposed to be dead?” she snapped.
“And what makes you think I should be dead?”
“You died four hundred years ago.”
“Did I?” he said, raising his brows in mock surprise.
“Yes, you did.”
“Well then, you are probably right. I should be dead.”
“But you’re not?”
“Very observant of you, Grace.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I don’t know. But I could ask the same of you.”
“I know your damn name because of that portrait,” she said, pointing to the picture above the mantle.
He turned slowly to look at the portrait.
“You have seen this portrait before?”
“Yes, I have seen your portrait and to tell you the truth I am growing quite sick of it. It has brought me nothing but grief since I first laid eyes on it.”
“I am very interested to know where you have seen this portrait, considering it has never left this room.”
“It’s true,” she whispered with horror as her mind rationalized fantasy into probable reality.
“What is true?”
“All this,” she said, pointing around the room. “I don’t belong here. I’m not where I should be.”
“Where should you be, Grace?”
“At home... I don’t know,” she replied, pathetically, realizing mid-sentence that she had no idea where home was anymore.
He shifted off the bed and moved toward a trunk in the corner of the room. Opening it, he removed a cream cotton shirt.
“Here, put this on,” he said, handing her the shirt and turning his back to her.
Grateful for the offer, Grace wasted no time slipping the shirt over her head. Getting out of bed she moved to stand in front of the fire.
Robert came to stand beside her.
“Here, drink this,” he said, holding a pewter mug out for her.
“What is it?” Grace asked, as she recognized the mug from York Castle Museum.
“Whisky.”
“Oh, not again. It must be hereditary,” she sighed, waving the mug cautiously under her nose.
“You don’t like whisky?”
“No, but I’ll drink it.”
He laughed softly. “I have no doubt you will.”
Grace lifted her head and raised her eyes to look at the portrait.
“I’m not a witch,” she said, suddenly.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“But you must be thinking it.”
“I don’t believe in witches.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I don’t.”
“I thought everyone
believed in witches in the seventeenth century.”
“It seems you believed wrong,” he said, turning to face her, “You’re not from this time are you?”
“No.”
“Did you intend to come here?”
“No... No, I didn’t intend to come here.”
“Do you know how you got here?”
Slowly she turned from the fire to face the man standing beside her.
“No, but I did know I was coming.”
“I don’t suppose you would care to share what you know with me,” he asked.
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me, Grace,” he said, his voice so low she could hardly hear him.
She lifted the mug to her mouth and swallowed the content. He slapped her on the back as she gasped and choked on the fumes from the liquid.
“Sorry,” she said, still trying to catch her breath.
The corner of his lips quirked in a gentle smile that reached his eyes.
“Another?”
She shook her head fervently.
“I didn’t think so,” he said, pouring himself another.
Grace sat on the rug in front of the fire, playing nervously with the oversized sleeves of the cotton shirt.
Robert sank to the floor beside her, and propped himself up on his elbow, his mug resting on his bent knee. He stared at her for a while, his eyes searching intently.
“What do you know, Grace?”
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with much needed air.
“I was born and grew up in Derbyshire about four hundred years from now. I married a man called Jack Evans and we have a daughter. My husband is a cruel and evil man, or he will be... I left him a little over a week ago and moved to York,” she paused, taking her eyes off the flames of the fire and turned to face Robert.
“You won’t understand any of this. In your time a man can do as he wishes with a woman. Things are different in my time. Women have a voice.”
He raised his brows and lifted the mug of whisky to his mouth.
“I have great respect for the women in my family,” he said, pausing as the liquid slid down his throat. “I don’t believe they are capable of fighting wars or chopping wood. But then there are many roles they perform which I cannot. I would no more ignore my mother’s voice than I would my father’s. Don’t presume to judge me, Grace.”
Beyond Time (Highland Secret Series) Page 7