by Kristy Tate
The color seeped from Garret’s face as confusion replaced his enthusiasm. “Ah, so it is,” he said slowly. “So it is.” Garret straightened and he looked at Anne. “When will your father return?”
Anne met his gaze with open hostility. “I do not know. He has gone abroad to purchase dye.”
Petra remembered a second man in Anne’s cottage. She’d assumed him to be her father. Maybe he wasn’t. Or maybe he was and Anne was lying.
“Do you have other tapestries?” Garret asked.
Anne nodded.
“Then you must bring me another. Monday hence?”
“Perhaps it would be best to wait for the Earl’s return,” Chambers suggested.
“Nonsense. This room and this estate will soon be mine. I can purchase a tapestry,” Garret said, his chest puffing out. “If I should so desire.” The words sounded loaded and his eyes locked with Anne’s.
Petra felt a current running between them like a live wire.
“Yes, my Lord.” Anne ducked her head, but not before Petra saw a spark of defiance.
Garret rocked back on his heels. “Monday then, at the same time.”
Anne’s shoulders drooped as she watched the two footmen roll up her tapestry.
***
Petra had thought that she’d undress herself, but one look in the mirror at the army of buttons and the tiny tool that Mary used changed her mind. “Do you know how I got to Pennington Place?” Petra asked as Mary crouched behind her. She suspected Mary didn’t believe her tale of memory loss.
Mary sighed, pushed back a lock of hair from her forehead and straightened. “According to Fitz t’was the thick of night, he answered the bell and found you dead to the world at the gatehouse door. A bag of jewels and a note had been tucked in your cape.”
“A note?”
Mary raised the heavy brocade dress over Petra’s head.
“It said to take good care of you until your father arrived,” Mary said, lifting an eyebrow. “But aren’t you the least bit wondering about your jewels?” She motioned for Petra to turn around.
“Oh, of course, the jewels,” Petra said, taking a deep breath, her first since her corset encounter. “Did Garret just keep them?”
“He’s keeping you, isn’t he?” Mary shrugged.
Petra squirmed. The transaction made her feel more like Frosty at the kennel than Petra at the Marriot. Of course, Frosty had to stay in a kennel surrounded by a choir of barking, whining dogs. She wasn’t forced to stay in a cage, but she had to wear a corset, and that was sort of the same thing.
Mary flung a cottony nightgown over Petra’s head. While Petra put her arms in the sleeves, she asked, “And Garret?”
“My Lord Garret --” Mary tugged the nightgown into place.
The nightgown, a soft shimmery and see-through affair, was a hundred times more comfortable than the dress. “Lord Garret wasn’t suspicious?”
Mary smiled. “Suspicious and yet pleased, miss.”
“Mary, you don’t know me. Why are you pushing me on Garret?” She corrected herself. “My Lord Garret?”
“Pushing you on Garret?” Mary thought about that as she pulled pins from Petra’s hair. “I spent years working my way up to being a lady’s maid. Years, mind you. And in the five months since My Lady Falstaff’s been gone I’ve been doing chores like the chamber and scullery maids.” She paused the comb above Petra’s head. “I don’t like emptying chamber pots.”
Petra got it. Spending time with other people’s pots would make her sick. “Can’t you do something else?”
Mary looked like she wanted to use the hair comb as a weapon. “I’m a lady’s maid,” she said through gritted teeth. She set the comb down, deemed Petra ready and bustled her into bed.
Under the rustle of the covers, Petra heard Mary mumble, “Not all of us have the fortune to wander willy-nilly around the countryside with jewels in our pockets.”
Even with the candle extinguished, Petra could easily see. Moonlight shone bright through the windows, and a fire smoldered in the fireplace. The feather bed had a down quilt, and Petra felt like she was floating in a white cloud, but she wasn’t tired and didn’t want to sleep. She didn’t want to wander willy-nilly. She wanted to go home.
If she could Google…but before the Internet, there were libraries. A place like this would have a library, right? She crawled from the bed, shivering in the cold, and searched the room for something to wear.
No clothes. No shoes. Night gown it is.
The latch opened with a soft click, and the door swung silently open. The tapestry that ran down the hall felt soft beneath her feet. Candles flickered in sconces on the stone walls. It couldn’t be too late because she heard the rattling and clinking of dishes from below.
Guessing that a library would be on the ground floor, Petra padded down the stairs, keeping an eye out for servants, or worse, Garret and Chambers. A stack of books sat on a table outside the third door to the left. A telling clue, her dad would say.
Biting her lower lip, Petra pushed open the door. Less a library, she decided and more like her dad’s office, but some books and maybe some answers.
Petra stood at the threshold, hating that there were so many things she didn’t know and didn’t understand. She’d been in the seventeenth century for two days. Two days! Who has dreams that last two days?
A massive desk covered with ledgers and papers dominated the generous-sized room. Two chairs flanked a fireplace so large she could have stood among the embers and ashes without hitting her head on the flue.
At home, she knew exactly what to do, what to say, and if she made a mistake, which she almost never did, no one called her on it. Except for Zoe, who didn’t count, because of her age and size. Zoe’s freckles didn’t help; they made her look comical, even when she was angry. Maybe especially when she was angry. Her skin flushed red, the freckles stood out and her hair seemed to stand on end. Furious Zoe looked like a cartoon character being electrocuted.
Petra leaned against the doorjamb, homesickness and loneliness overwhelming her. Casting a critical eye on the leather-bound books, she felt fairly confident that not one of them would provide directions on how to speed travel 400 years, but she stepped in for a closer look.
The books marched across the shelves and she recognized very few titles or authors. A great many had to do with agriculture. The Modern Egg Farmer. How modern can a seventeenth century chicken be? She passed poultry and poetry and spotted Copernicus. Science. A German bible. Religion. Could either help her?
While the shelves and book bindings were spotless, most of the book tops were covered with a thin layer of dust. Curious why One Thousand and One Nights was dust free, she pulled at it. The book slipped forward and the fireplace façade rotated nearly noiselessly. Where once there had been blackened bricks, now an opening.
Astounded, Petra watched the book slide in the shelf and the bricks whirred back into place. She tried it again with the same results -- bricks gone, dark passageway, earthy breeze, and moments later, all on its own, the bricks returned.
As did the voices.
Chapter Eleven
Some secret passageways lead to hidden rooms. Hidden rooms are useful for kidnapping, smuggling goods, and other illegal activities. Secret passageways may also be private entrances or tunnels. They’re particularly common in episodes of “Scooby-Do.”
—Petra’s notes
Out in the hall, Chambers spoke with animation. “Of course your father must be informed of the gypsy blight!”
Petra didn’t want to explain why she’d wandered from her room. With no time to consider her options or consequences, Petra lifted her nightgown and dashed through the fireplace. Seconds later, the fireplace bricks closed behind her.
Darkness engulfed her. She felt the walls on either side. She stood stock still, afraid that perhaps one wrong move would reopen the door and expose her. She strained to hear, hoping they had skipped the office, but Chambers’ voice droned closer and
the tenor of his voice changed dramatically after Garret interrupted with a question.
“She cannot stay, my lord. Her people must be located and notified.”
Garret said something unintelligible.
“Precisely why she’s dangerous!” Chambers retorted.
Dangerous? Were they talking about her? Annoying, bossy, perhaps spoiled, but dangerous?
Petra didn’t possess any weapons, or knowledge of how to use one if she happened to find one, but she knew things these men couldn’t even dream. All the technological advancements, inventions and discoveries of the past four hundred years.
Of course, at this moment, she didn’t have access to anything even slightly useful. Beam me up, Scotty, she thought, itching for a Star Trek gizmo that could rearrange her molecules and put her back where she belonged.
“She’s but a chit,” Garret laughed, his voice startlingly clear.
Chit? She didn’t know what that meant, but she didn’t like it. She also didn’t like how close Garret sounded. What if they accessed the passageway and found her in the dark? In her nightgown?
As horrible as it would have been to be discovered in an office, being found in a secret passage would be much, much worse. There had to be a way out. Passageways always had a destination.
Cautiously, Petra toed the darkness ahead before taking a step. Nothing happened. Holding her breath, she took another step, and then another. Then she smacked into a wall.
She woofed in surprise, stepped back and rubbed her nose.
The voices rumbling in the office stopped. Petra froze until their murmurs resumed. Stretching out her arms, she felt along the walls, found a corner and slipped around it.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw stone walls, hard-packed dirt floors and a timbered ceiling. She kept her fingertips against the wall to maintain her bearings. As she moved deeper, quiet and darkness seemed to swallow her. Then she heard a scraping noise.
Petra stopped, listening.
Silence.
Her nerves pricked, and her skin tingled as she continued to who-knew-where. Around a corner, she saw a flickering flash of light and smelled the acrid smoke of candles.
The footsteps fell in swift purposeful strides. Someone who knew where they were going, which put them at a distinct advantage. She had nowhere to hide.
Petra hadn’t panicked when she’d been nose-to-beak with fighting roosters, or when she’d been drugged in Anne’s cottage, or even when she saw Emory die, but now, in this gloomy corridor, adrenaline pumped through her. Fight or flight? Blood pounded in her ears as she picked up her nightgown with frantic hands and ran, stumbling in the dark.
The footsteps overtook her in moments. As she raced forward her foot caught on something and she pitched forward.
She smelled a mix of cloves and leather as hands caught her and lifted her into the air. Imprisoned against a broad chest, Petra kicked as a thigh pressed between her legs. He held her so that her back arched against him, his arms curved under hers, his hand on the side of her neck, one pressing her head sideways.
He spoke quietly in her ear, his voice sending tremors down her spine. “My lady, do not move, or with one twist, I will snap your neck.”
But Petra couldn’t move. She could barely think. She couldn’t hear her thoughts over her beating heart. His grip tightened. Stunned, she gasped, “I saw you die.”
He dropped her to the dirt floor. “You?”
Petra craned her neck to look at Emory’s face.
He grabbed her wrist, hauled her to her feet, held her against the wall with one hand and lightly ran his other hand over her arms and front as if searching for something. Knowing that she should be outraged, she still found herself grinning at him. They stood so closely that she saw the outline of his hard, chiseled chin and the glint in his dark eyes.
He stopped, as if struck by her expression, and his lips tugged upward. “What are you doing here?”
She suspected he wanted to sound angry and menacing. Disbelieving, she couldn’t resist. She placed her hand on his belly where she’d seen the sword stab him. He didn’t flinch.
“How?” she asked.
He held his finger to her lips, took her wrist and led her deeper into the passage. Then he turned her question back on her. “I saw you with Black Shuck.” It sounded like an accusation.
“Who?”
He shook his head. “Black Shuck, the hound of hell.”
She bit back a laugh. “The what?”
He shook his head again as if trying to clear it. “Pray thee, keep thy peace. What are you doing here? Who are you? Who sent you?”
“My answers haven’t changed since yesterday. I don’t know how I got here or why but… I’ve stopped wondering about myself and started thinking about you.”
He took a step closer and leaned down so his nose nearly touched hers. “I don’t know what sort of trick or trap you are, but I won’t be fooled.”
Her heart skipped as she stared into his eyes. “I’m not a trick. Or a trap.”
He frowned and pushed away, but because he still held her wrist, she had no option but to follow. His eyes slid over her, and she suddenly felt grateful for the dark. “What are you wearing?” he asked through clenched teeth.
Petra glanced down at the thin cotton nightgown. By gathering it in a fistful in her middle she created folds that made it a little less sheer. “Mary called it a chemise.”
His lips straightened and tightened. “’Tis nearly invisible.”
She cut a quick glance at his face and then looked down at her pale, exposed ankles. She laughed. “Do you think this is an inappropriate nightie for creeping in hidden passageways?”
He didn’t let go of her hand but towed her after him. “I do not mind for myself, of course --”
She tripped after him. “Of course…You do realize, you haven’t answered any of my questions.”
“I’m not here to satisfy your curiosity.”
“Which begs the question—why are you here? And that leads to how are you here?” Petra ground her heels into the dirt, a fair imitation of Frosty being led to the groomer. “I saw that man stab you.” Her voice shook. “I saw the sword go through you!” She ran her hand over his back and felt his muscles quiver.
“Will you stop doing that?” He pressed forward.
“There has to be a wound.” Dropping the folds of her chemise, she tugged at the back of his shirt and lifted it to expose the broad unblemished plane of his back. Reaching forward, she ran her hand up and under his shirt.
He stopped and faced her. The shirt, still in her hand, twisted around his waist.
“My lady, I do not know the customs of your Royal Oaks.” He tugged the shirt out of her fingers and tucked it into his breeches but not before she saw his rippling, tan, perfect abs. “But I can assure you, in our country, young ladies do not remove a gentleman’s clothing.”
Embarrassment made her bolder. “Oh, are you a gentleman?” Her thoughts leaped to her stepmother’s Regency romance novels hidden in a basket in the den. By Petra’s calculations they were currently about two centuries prior to the Regency period, but a gentleman was a gentleman, right?
“If I weren’t a gentleman, I wouldn’t be worried about your sheer shift.”
“Good point,” she said. As he stood before her, glowering, she took the opportunity to touch his belly again.
He roared and grabbed her other hand, so that he now held both hands.
She laughed.
He gave her hands a shake, rattling her to the teeth. “This is not a lark!”
She sobered slightly. “I’m just so relieved you are alive.”
The frown between his eyebrows eased. “As I am you.” He released her and turned away. She trailed after him.
“You must stop touching me,” he said over his shoulder.
She sniffed, offended. “As if I wanted to.”
He lifted his chin. “Apparently, you do.”
She trotted by his si
de. “I just wanted to see where the sword went in.”
He sent her a swift glance. “You thought you saw something. You were mistaken.”
Moving through the gloom with grace and speed, he seemed remarkably healthy and fit. He also seemed to know where he was going. “There was a lot of noise, a lot of confusion. You were kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” She gathered her nightgown in her fists so she could keep up. She wished he’d slow down so she could see his face. She knew he was lying.
“Did you think you flew to the manor?”
She opened her mouth. She didn’t remember traveling or arriving at the manor. “Someone put something over my head. If you weren’t lying on the ground dying as I’d thought, did you see who it was?”
“If you remember, I had problems of my own.”
She grabbed his arm, and he looked down at her face and then at her exposed legs. “Me too. Black Muck and all those hell hounds.”
He brushed her off, turned his back and walked away. “It’s Shuck,” he said over his shoulder.
His indifference stung. Staring after his retreating back, she dropped her nightgown and said, “Well, shuck you.”
He paused, as if he understood her near-obscenity and the anger and frustration that’d brought it on. “Go to bed, my lady. You’ve no business here.”
“I don’t know where to go,” she said in a small voice.
“Left, then right, follow the passageway until you reach the orangery.”
Orangery? What the shuck is an orangery? She remained rooted as he turned a corner. A minute later she heard the low murmur of voices coming from further down the passage. A light glowed in the distance.
She really couldn’t go back the way she came. Return to the library and face Garret and Chambers? She didn’t want to return to her room with more questions than when she’d started out. Not knowing what else to do, she went after Emory, but at a distance, hoping he would lead her out of the passageway.
The path sloped downward, and the deeper they went the more putrid the air. The rank smell made her think of bats. The light grew brighter and Petra recognized the deep voice that had belonged to the second man at Anne’s. She turned a corner and bit back a gasp. She ducked, afraid that Emory had seen or heard her, but after a moment, she peeked to watch Emory, a large man in a friar’s frock and a heavily bleeding gypsy.