by Mia Easton
Tears pricked the backs of her eyes.
"Think of the impossibility of it," he continued. "Have you ever heard of anyone going either back or forward in time?"
"I think that's what I just did. And you did, too, right? Except I stepped over or through or into or…hell, I don't know. They make movies about it all the time." As soon as she'd uttered the words, she realized how senseless a thing it was to say.
He shook his head. "And what are—"
"It doesn't matter. It was a stupid thing to say. Forget it. I think my brain was partially fried last night. I do remember a really bright light and like getting knocked out. Maybe I was struck by lightning."
"It wasn't lightening."
"What was it?"
"I don't know."
"Then how do you know it wasn't lightening?"
He shook his head at the inanity of the conversation. "I have friends a few hours' ride from here. I've been staying there and we'll return. They're expecting me. We'll need to," he paused and flicked his gaze over her. "Keep you from being seen until we can get proper clothing for you to wear."
Clothing. Proper clothing. Not only was she not dressed right for 1783, she didn't know how to dress for 1783. And she had no money! New thoughts and fears began crowding her brain.
"It will be all right, Elizabeth."
"How? How will it be all right? I don't know how to exist in 1783." Tears filled her eyes. "Do you get that? Except you can't. You cannot possibly understand how different my life is from life in 1783. I don't know how to do anything women of 1783 know how to do. And I have no money, not that my money would have even been acceptable here. I mean, our money's all different now. Not that I know anything about your money."
She was talking rapidly and obviously working herself into a state of hysteria.
"Elizabeth!"
She drew a breath and looked into the deepest blue eyes she'd ever seen.
"It will be all right. I promise."
"How can you promise that?"
"Because I was part of what happened last night. This situation is, well, it's of my making, too. I may not understand it, but I know that much."
That meant she wasn't alone. "Thank you for saying so," she said quietly.
"It's true. And I have a home of my own. I haven't been back in years, but I can offer you residence there. There's a staff. I promise that you'll be taken care of."
She shifted on her feet and then nodded.
"We should go. My friends will be beside themselves with worry. My closest friend in the world sometimes mistakes himself for my nursemaid."
She had never felt so helpless or so lost in her life, and that was saying something. She watched as Wes picked up the blankets, shook and folded them, repacked his things, everything matter-of-factly. He kicked dirt on the glowing embers of the campfire and went to his horse. She felt completely numb and he was going about business as usual. He put a blanket on its back then began saddling it. She came closer. "What's your horse's name?"
"Halcyon."
She found herself nodding like an idiot. She stopped herself, pressing a hand to the back of her neck. "It's a male horse?"
He gave her a look. "A stallion, yes."
She made a move to stroke the horse, but withdrew when his head came at her.
"Are you afraid of horses?"
"Not really afraid," she fibbed. "I've just never been around them."
"Never been around them?"
"It's not how we get around anymore. I've always wanted to learn to ride, though. I just never had the chance. It wasn't my life, if you know what I mean." He raised his eyebrows but didn't reply. It was obvious he had no idea what she meant.
"Halcyon," he said, "this is Miss Elizabeth Gordon."
Just as though he understood the words, Halcyon turned his head to her and then back to his master.
"You may call her Liz or Elizabeth. She doesn't care to be called Miss Gordon, although it does have a certain charm to it."
The unexpected levity made her smile and fueled her nerve to stroke the stallion's neck. He was so big, it was intimidating, especially when he sniffed her. "Hello, Halcyon," she said, trying to be calm. "You can ignore what he said. I think I may like being called Miss Gordon, after all. It's just going to take some getting used to."
"I imagine many things will."
She laughed from sheer nerves. Like you cannot possibly even imagine. She stepped back and looked around for some kind of magic portal, but there was only wilderness. It was an overcast day. Birds sang. The air had the sweet scent of autumn decay.
"What is it?" he asked.
She shook her head and looked at him. "What will we tell people?"
"We'll come up with something."
At least, he wasn't abandoning her, which he could have so easily.
"Ready?"
"I guess so."
"Do you need to eat first? I have dried meat."
"No, thank you. Not really feeling my best at the moment."
"I understand." He mounted in a smooth, easy move and then vacated a stirrup. He extended his hand to her, linked arms with her, and pulled her up behind him.
"Whoa," she said, dumbfounded by the height on which she found herself. Funny, it didn't look that high up from the ground. She wrapped her arms around him tightly.
"Are you all right?"
She loosened her grip a little. "Sure. I guess. So far." If you don't count terrified.
He spurred on the horse, and she grabbed a breath and tightened her hold again.
Chapter 6
The ride got less terrifying with each mile, but it was such relief when he told her they'd reached their destination. They topped a hill and he reined in Halcyon so she could get a good look. "Oh, my gosh," she breathed. The house before them was three-story, red-brick, as deep as it was long, with a white pillared portico centered on two levels. "Your friends live here?"
"Yes. The Nordstroms. John Paul and Maggie."
"They're rich," she remarked. Maybe she shouldn't have been shocked, but she was.
"She comes from wealth," he said stiffly. "She inherited."
"It's just like a southern plantation."
He shifted to give her a baffled look. "It is a plantation."
A sudden, unnatural urge to giggle came over her.
"It's called Laurelton. Maggie's father, Lord Eldridge, built it."
"Why is it called Laurelton?"
"I have no idea. His name was Ellery. Ellery Eldridge. Not a name you forget. I don't recall what Lady Eldridge's name is." He turned back around. "You're close to Maggie's size, which is good."
If they accepted her as a houseguest. But how in the world was Wes going to explain her presence or that she had no clothing? In fact, nothing at all to her name. She took in the grandness of the home, the sweeping lawn and the long, tree-lined driveway leading to Laurelton. Set against a backdrop of blue sky and autumnal majesty, it was magnificent. "I've never seen a more beautiful house."
"The interior is just as beautiful."
With a flick of the reins, Wes got Halcyon moving again. They made a wide arc around the home, circling around to the back. "It's not the easiest feat not to be seen. House there, the quad over there. Slave housing, I mean to say."
The mention of slaves shook her. But it was 1783. There were still decades of slavery to come.
Wes rode to a grove of trees. "Can you dismount?"
"Not absolutely sure," she admitted.
He lifted up in the stirrups and deftly swung a leg around. She found the stirrup with her foot and dismounted clumsily. She felt Wes's hand on her back, but it was gone as soon as her feet were on the ground. Her back, legs, knees and rump were so sore, she wasn't sure she could walk.
"This way," he said, oblivious to her plight.
"Aren't you going to tie him up?"
"No need. He'll make his way to the stable. Go, boy," he said with a slap on the horse's rear. And Halcyon obeyed.
&nb
sp; "Wow. That's impressive."
"We've been together a long time. We can practically read each other's minds. This way," he said with a gesture. He started off and she followed, exceedingly glad he wasn't watching her awkward gait, which felt Quasimodo-like. She wouldn't have thought it possible, but the house seemed even bigger up close. She followed him up a short set of steps to reach the main level and then inside through a side door. After the brightness of daylight, she was blind in the dim interior. "Wait, please," she whispered. "I can't see."
"Give me your hand," he said quietly. "The stairs are just ahead. We're going up."
The intimacy of his nearness was affecting, and her body reacted. She slipped her hand in his and he led onward. His hand felt strong and slightly callused. Fortunately, her vision was rapidly sharpening and he'd slowed his pace. At the top of the staircase, the path was clear. He opened the first door to the right and led her inside a bedroom and only then did he let go of her.
"This will do."
It was the prettiest, most elegant bedroom she'd ever laid eyes on.
"I'll go speak with my friends."
It was probably childish, but she didn't want him to go.
"Lock the door behind me and don't let anyone else in."
She realized she was nodding at everything he said and she stopped. "Okay. I mean, I'd rather us just hide in here, but—"
He smiled. "It will be all right. Try not to worry." He hesitated a moment longer and then he left, shutting the door behind him.
She followed and turned the small brass key in the lock. She leaned her forehead against the door and took a couple of breaths to steady her nerves. "Okay," she whispered. Here I am. In a bedroom in a plantation in 1783. She turned to face the room and tears filled her eyes. Standing there alone, with only the rhythmic ticking of a mantle clock for company, reality hit. Christ, almighty. She was in 1783. She had changed worlds. She released a shuddering breath and slid down the door to hug her badly aching knees. What have I done?
"There you are. I was worried as hell," John Paul blustered when Wes walked into his office. "You told me you'd return last—"
"Something's happened," Wes interrupted.
John Paul opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and looked his friend over. "What? You found peace and absolution, at long last?"
"I found something. Where's Maggie?"
John Paul frowned. "I don't know. Why?"
"Get her. Please. You both have to hear this."
"Hear what?"
"Please. It's important."
John Paul drew breath to argue, but changed his mind. He huffed, shook his head and got up to go find his wife. "I've been worried," he said once more for good measure.
"I know. I'm sorry. I intended on returning yesterday." He paused. "I won't go again."
That took John Paul by surprise. "Really?"
Wes nodded.
"Why not?" John Paul asked cautiously.
"I found what I was looking for. And something else."
"What were you looking for and what else did you find?"
Wes folded his arms. "When Maggie is here."
John Paul sighed loudly. "You're trying to drive me mad, aren't you?"
"Not at the moment. It's just…I only want to explain this once."
"I will be calm," Liz mouthed. I will be as calm as possible. "For someone who has just time traveled," she whispered. A tear spilled over and she wiped it away. Oh, no, you don't, chickiepoo. You will not start crying like a little girl.
She got to her feet so quickly, she had to wait until a wave of dizziness passed. It was caused from anxiety, and she would not let it control her. Control was the key. She'd made a choice yesterday, knowing it was crazy. Knowing it. She could have taken a step back or just stood still and watched the eighteenth-century man vanish in the fog. It would have ranked as the single most bizarre experience of her life, but she would have eventually convinced herself it had been some sort of mental episode. Instead, she'd chosen to lunge toward him. It hadn't been a ladylike step. She had lunged like she was about to run hurdles.
Ladylike.
She wasn't ladylike enough for the eighteenth century. She didn't know their customs or manners. Hell, what did she know about the eighteenth century? Not freaking much. If Wes changed his mind and left her behind, she was up Reeking Shit Creek in a leaky boat.
Stop it!
He'd said he would make sure she was taken care of, and he seemed totally honorable. So, this was a one step at a time thing.
She began to stroll around the room. The décor was feminine, in shades of blue, yellow and white. The ceiling was high, at least twelve feet, and large windowed doors led to a balcony beyond. She stopped in front of a white desk and looked over the delicate accoutrements atop it. This was an era of letter writing and contemplation. Of course, she had no one to write to.
She crossed her arms tightly and walked on until she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror. She stopped short, dismayed by her appearance. She tried combing her hair with her fingers, which did nothing to improve it. Wow. So, the best looking, sexiest man she had ever encountered in her entire life had been looking at her like this. She was lucky he hadn't jumped on his horse and ridden for the hills.
Her makeup had faded except for her mascara, which was smudged beneath her eyes. And it was supposed to be the non-smudging kind. She went to lick her finger and wipe it away. Then it occurred to her how long it had been since she washed her hands so, instead, she attempted to spit on the end of her finger, but the spit ended up half on her fingertip, half on the knuckles of her other three fingers and a little on her chin. "Nice," she muttered, wiping her chin off with the back of her hand. She rubbed at the smudges, but it didn't much help. She was a hot mess.
A heavy exhaustion settled over her and she walked over and sank to the floor. The rug beneath her was surprisingly soft and she was tempted to lie back, curl up and sleep. How much did she know about the eighteenth century or about the American Revolution? She knew colonists had rebelled against what they felt was English tyranny. She knew about the Boston Tea Party and George Washington and Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin and John Adams, not to mention Abagail. 1776 was a big year, but why? It had to have been the beginning of the war. Ethan Allen had been somebody, not just a furniture gallery, and Samuel Adams had been someone, not just good beer. And Benedict Arnold had been a big-time traitor.
"I know we won," she muttered.
She lay back with a slow sigh and extended her arms out from her body thinking of what a shit student she'd been. She had never tried very hard, because no one cared if she excelled or not. She'd never felt intelligent or special. She'd been a solid C student and then she'd gone to college for no other reason than because she could, compliments of financial aid, since her adopted parents had 'emancipated' her at age eighteen. And, while she was on a roll, the truth was that she'd only graduated from college to spite the Gordons. To show them she could do it.
"Don't think about it," she whispered with a shake of her head.
She suddenly thought of Jordan and the others. They had to be distraught. What did they think had happened to her? What had happened? The impossible. But she was here, so it wasn't impossible. It had been a surreal glitch in the cosmos for her and Wes to see one another from the span of hundreds of years apart, but they had. She'd chosen to go to a handsome stranger on The Haunted Grounds on Halloween and crossed back two hundred and twenty-one years. That was what happened.
Maggie looked from Wesley to John Paul and back to Wes again. Her hand was pressed to her throat; she always did that when she was overwhelmed.
John Paul looked grim. "You say she saw men hanging, but then they weren't there?"
Wes waited. He knew his friend well. "Yes," he finally replied.
"It's a trick," John Paul said. "I can't imagine why, but others knew about those men, Wesley."
"It's not a trick," Wes stated calmly.
"She claim
s to be from a future time," John Paul exclaimed. He glanced at Maggie, who was looking at him and then back at Wes. "No one magically appears from a future time."
"I was there. I cannot explain it, but it happened just as I told you." He threw his arms up in exasperation. "You know me. You both know me. Do I seem as though I've suddenly gone mad? Am I talking out of my head?"
"Of course not," Maggie replied. "It's just—"
"I know," Wes said to her. "I do. I know exactly how it sounds. And when it happened, it was overwhelming, although it took mere moments." He thought back on it, wondering if there was anything important he'd left out. "There was a cry that woke me. I got up, reaching for my musket, and saw her on the ground because she'd fallen."
"Why did she scream?" John Paul asked.
Maggie sighed with vexation. "Because she'd seen men hanging and it startled her."
Wes nodded tightly. "She'd turned to run, but her foot caught and she fell. Then she looked back and…we saw each other."
"So," John Paul said. "She sees men hanging. Then turns and falls. Then she looks back and you see one another."
"Yes."
"Did you see any men hanging?"
Wes tried to tamp down the frustration mounting in him. "No, I did not. May I continue?"
John Paul motioned for him to carry on.
Wes began to pace. "It was storming all around us. Around us, but not on us. And the valley was different. I can't even say how, exactly, but there was a large white house in the distance, for one thing. And then someone called her name." He stopped and saw that they were both mesmerized. "I held out my hand to her."
"Well," John Paul said with a shrug, "you said she'd fallen."
"No," Wes said crossly. "I mean, yes, she had, but she was up by then. I held out my hand because I wanted her to come to me."
He heard a soft intake of breath from Maggie. "And then she did," she said softly, moved by the story. "But was struck by a light," she added haltingly, unsure of that part of the explanation.
"There was a flash of light and she was—" He broke off, wondering how to explain it. "She'd started toward me, but there was…something that barred her way and, when she hit it, she was thrown backwards. Rendered unconscious."