Beyond Time: A Knights Through Time Travel Romance

by Cynthia Luhrs

  Not wanting to walk through the glass corridor linking the sculpture gallery to the modern gallery, Mellie took the long way through the medieval gallery. Normally, she avoided this wing; it was in the oldest part of the museum, the original structure, built back in the early 1900s. There was something about all those objects belonging to people long dead, and the various weapons used in battles that creeped her out. Not that she believed in spirits or ghosts, but there was an odd feeling in the gallery, the same in the Egyptian and Greek wings, but stronger here.

  The emergency lighting made the glass cases glow, and an object in one of the cases caught her eye, winking in the darkness. A set of daggers drew her forward as if pulled by a string on a windup toy, and before she knew what she was doing, Mellie found her fingers touching the glass, mesmerized by the wicked-looking blades.

  Whoever owned these must have been a warrior, not only strong and undefeated in battle but kind and just. The type of man who’d only ever loved one woman his whole life. What would it have been like to be loved by a man like that?

  There was a crash, then another, and the skylight above her head shattered, a huge tree limb from one of the old trees hitting the roof, sending pieces of the skylight and debris raining down, bouncing off the cases like icicles hitting the ground. Mellie covered her head and cowered next to the base of the case. The downpour drenched her as the thunder cracked across the sky, the floor rumbled, and lightning arced inside the building as she went sliding across the floor, screaming as the walls shook.

  Lightning swirled around her like one of those static electricity balls in the kids’ section, the energy inside changing colors when the kids ran their hands over the surface. Deep within the storm, Mellie swore she heard voices, smelled smoke, blood, and death. When the crescendo died down and it was silent once again, except for the whistling of the wind as it blew in through the skylight, she peeked out between her arms. Why hadn’t the alarm gone off?

  Something cold pressed against her jeans, sending shivers down her bare arms. Looking down, she gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. The daggers were lying on the floor beside her, the case across the room shattered, glass all around the floor. There were cracks in the walls and other cases had been destroyed—a toppled suit of armor was haphazardly strewn across the floor, the head in one corner still spinning, sending crazy laughter bubbling up.

  Mellie reached out, touching the hilt of one of the daggers as pain lanced up her arm, blue light flowing through her as she involuntarily curled her hand around the hilt. In the blinding light, she caught a glimpse of crimson, and then there was nothing but darkness.

  FIVE

  Was her head pounding from the headache, or was that actual pounding she heard echoing through the room? Mellie rubbed her eyes, groaned, and rolled to her side, panting before she heaved herself to a sitting position.

  Broken tree limbs, debris, shattered cases, and priceless artifacts lay scattered across the reclaimed wood floor. Puddles of water shimmered, and in one she could see the first tinge of blue sky through the gaping skylight.

  “Wait until Jacob sees all the damage. He’ll start eating junk again for sure.” Glass crunched under her feet as she stood, brushing leaves off her t-shirt and pulling them from her hair. “I’m glad I’m not the one that has to clean this mess up.”

  A grunt made her whirl around, heart beating triple time as she searched for the source. A squeak escaped as she spied a huge man, dressed in some kind of dirty kilt and a linen shirt with stains all over it. The guy looked like he’d been rolling around in a pile of red clay or rust.

  “Who are you? You can’t be in here,” she stammered as she looked at the weapons scattered across the floor. Surely the museum would understand if she had to poke him with a priceless sword…she’d pretend it was Greg and run him through. What was a homeless guy doing sleeping in the medieval gallery?

  “Hey, I’m talking to you. How did you get in here? The doors are all locked.”

  The man groaned, clutching the sides of his head, dark hair hiding his eyes. He said something she didn’t catch; she was too busy figuring out what was wrong with the scene in front of her—well, besides the crazy man. And then it hit her: the daggers from the case were missing. No longer on the floor, they’d vanished.

  “No, no, no. This can’t be. I’m not getting blamed for this.” Mellie shoved debris into a pile, looking for the missing daggers. Unsure of how much time had passed, she slid down the wall, staring at the mess until the sound of a throat being cleared made her jump up, remembering the homeless guy.

  “Did you steal them?” She scrambled to her feet, pointing a short sword at the guy, and, using her best “don’t break stuff” voice, said, “I’m calling the cops. They’re going to arrest you. I’m counting to three, and you better put the daggers back. Do it now and I won’t tell.”

  He clutched his head and spoke, the words coming out garbled. It took her a moment to realize it wasn’t English he was speaking.

  “Nice try. One…”

  The man spoke again, something different. Maybe French?

  Mellie shook her head. “Two. Last chance, buddy.”

  The man tried again, and she shook her head. It sounded like the Gaelic she’d heard when she vacationed in Scotland during her sophomore year of college. What was a homeless Scottish guy doing here?

  “Three.” She unlocked her phone, finger hovering over the nine, and looked at him. The man leaned against the now-empty case, but he didn’t look too well, and she bit her cheek to keep the hysterical laughter from bubbling out at the thought of him throwing up and adding to the mess surrounding them.

  “What ’tis this strange place? Is the battle over, then? Tell me, lass.” He straightened up, and she sniffed. The odor was like a penny after she’d held it in her sweaty palm a long time. He was bleeding. Then she narrowed her eyes. Was it a ploy to get money out of the museum? Had he cut himself on purpose?

  The guy shuddered, the grimace on his face telling her he wasn’t faking—he was injured, and badly, by the streaks of blood covering his body.

  “You’re hurt. Did a limb or broken glass hit you?”

  “Nay, lass. Whoresons stabbed me. Thought I was done for.”

  The man patted his back, then his boots, his eyes searching the room. “Where are my blades?”

  Mr. Homeless had the nerve to reach down and pick up a beautiful sword from the sixteenth century.

  “You can’t take that. It belongs to the museum.”

  “Museum? Tell this museum I have need of the blade.”

  Mellie stepped forward, meaning to grab the sword, but instead her hand touched his arm and came away red.

  “Your arm’s bleeding.” She looked him over, trying to ignore the muscles and sculpted face. Men were dirt in her book. Now and forevermore.

  “Look, whoever you are, you need a hospital.” She wrinkled her nose as she stood close enough to see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. The smell of a sweaty guy mingled with blood, along with the scent of the rain and fresh-cut wood from the broken tree limbs all around them, mixing together into some kind of odd perfume. It did funny things to her stomach, like going over the first dip on a rollercoaster with her hands in the air.

  “How exactly did you get in here? Were you hiding in the Egyptian gallery? No one goes in there lately. It’s a totally lame exhibit. I hope Will doesn’t lose his job because of you.”

  The way the guy was looking around, blinking and turning paler and paler, she wondered if he was a veteran suffering from PTSD and found himself on the street. Maybe he came in and hid from everyone. Though the whole Scottish thing was throwing her.

  He’d switched to English, but it was oddly accented, archaic. Inasmuch as she wanted to ask him about Scotland, she had to deal with the here and now. The museum would be opening in a few hours, and they couldn’t let people in with this mess, not to mention accounting for all the exhibits. The missing daggers would turn up; they’d likel
y been blown under other debris in the room during the storm, earthquake, whatever it was.

  “I was on the field of battle. A blade nearly took my head.” He touched his side, fingers dripping red onto the floor, and for a moment all Mellie could think was the blood would stain the reclaimed wood.

  His voice drew her attention back to him. “The ground trembled and swallowed me whole, and when I woke I was here. Is this hell?”

  “Funny. I’ve heard museums called a lot of things, but not usually hell.” At his blank look, she bit the inside of her cheek. “You’re in a museum. You know, where people go to see old things, learn something, broaden their cultural horizons?”

  There was no sign he understood her. The guy was rigid, holding himself in such a way that she knew it was taking everything he had not to flip out. She recognized the same in herself after she saw the Greg posts on social media.

  The man’s jaw was clenched tight, sweat dripped down his forehead, and she hoped he wasn’t going to faint. She’d never get him up; he was huge. Solid.

  “I don’t mean to be rude. But are you homeless or is this how you normally dress?” She gestured to his clothing, her hand hovering in midair. “Fudge. I’m an awful person. Now I know who you are. Guess I forgot. Jacob said he’d hired someone for the kids to make learning about history fun.” She cocked her head at him. “I thought you weren’t starting until next week?”

  Relief flooded through her that he wasn’t a homeless guy or crazy person or some kind of museum serial killer. He was just an employee who’d shown up early and got caught in the storm. But how did he get in? Feeling marginally better, she brushed the thought aside and focused on what needed to be done next. Knowing he wasn’t some murderer but was an employee who got caught in the storm, like her, made Mellie feel better.

  SIX

  Talk about unprofessional. Mellie’s coworker stared at her, eyes traveling up and down her body. “The way you are dressed is passing strange.”

  Mellie snorted. “Look who’s talking. Don’t see many guys walking around in kilts, not even in Scotland.” She looked at her phone, mentally swearing when she saw it was dead. “Sorry, I’m being rude. My name’s Melissa Evers.”

  Heat licked its way up her arm when he took her hand, and she snatched her palm away, the sensation making her scowl.

  “Connor McTavish at your service, lass.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Connor. And let me say, killer accent.” With another look at him, she pursed her lips, deciding to forgive him for making elevator eyes at her earlier. “You going to pass out on me?”

  He looked offended. “Nay, lass.”

  “Good. Come on, then. I need to call Jacob and tell him what happened. We can’t open up with all this mess.”

  The crunching under her feet made Mellie wince. Almost to the door, she noticed he wasn’t with her. Turning, she saw him standing in the entranceway to another gallery, a look of confusion on his face before he fell to his knees.

  “No, no, no. I can’t carry you, you big lug.”

  He grunted, falling flat on his back. Looking up at her, he said, “Is this museum hell, then? ’Twould be fitting for all the wrongs I have done.”

  “Again. Place of learning, not hell. Maybe a step down from heaven, in my humble opinion.”

  The man’s eyes fluttered and he went still, his chest moving up and down, the only indication he was still alive. Nibbling her lip, Mellie pictured him dying. She’d never seen anyone die, not even a grandparent. Summoning her courage, she knelt beside him and pressed her ear to his chest, listening. His heart thumped, air from his nose tickled her cheek, and she sat up, relieved.

  “Hello, Connor.” She prodded him but he didn’t move, so, engaging her core muscles, she took hold of his arms and pulled, managing to drag him about half an inch. “Come on, big boy, let’s get you up.”

  Connor opened his eyes and reached out for her, and then his arm dropped, his eyes rolling back.

  “Please get up. There’s no way I can carry you, and it’s a long way to drag you to the doors.”

  But he didn’t answer; instead she saw the trail of blood from the medieval gallery leading to him. Not wanting to leave him alone, she patted his arm and, after thinking it over, stood.

  “I’m going for a phone to get you help.”

  Talk about a horrible first day. The guy would quit once he was stitched up—not that she’d blame him. She would too. Sprinting down the corridor to the front desk, she was grateful the phones were working. The museum still had landlines, refused to go to cordless and digital. It was annoying until today. Now she was thankful as she dialed her manager’s number.

  “Come on, Jacob. Pick up.”

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Melissa.” She quickly explained that somehow she hadn’t heard Will making his rounds when the power went out and found herself locked in, then told him about the storm and all the damage. She was about to tell him about Connor, but he cut her off.

  “Get in touch with the IT guy—have him put a notice up on social media that the museum is closed for the day. I’ll be there within the hour.”

  “That new guy you hired? The one to do the history talks with the kids? He showed up early and he’s hurt. I don’t know if it was from the storm or what, but I’m calling an ambulance. He needs stitches, a lot of them.”

  “Henry? He wasn’t supposed to start until next week. I hope he doesn’t try to sue us. Thanks, Melissa, I appreciate it. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. A couple of scratches.”

  “I know you weren’t scheduled to work today, but I’ll see you’re paid for the day. Get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Jacob, it’s Connor, not Henry. Who’s Henry? And what do I do about—”

  But he’d already disconnected.

  Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed and she clenched her fist, dialing 911, explaining she needed an ambulance.

  The calm voice on the other end told her to stay with him and they would be there in a few minutes. Mellie sent up thanks the hospital was only a few blocks away.

  At the front doors, she peered out, looking for the ambulance, hearing the sirens long before they arrived. Everything turned to chaos as they tried to get in.

  “The doors locked automatically. I can’t open them.” But at that moment, a clicking noise sounded, the power came back on, and the doors unlocked.

  “Hurry, this way,” she called as the EMTs filed in. One of the emergency workers looked startled when he caught sight of Connor. “Oh, don’t mind the way he’s dressed. He was hired to do the history talks with the kids.”

  “Good thing. For a moment I thought that movie Highlander had come to life.” One of the guys laughed, his eyes darting left and right.

  Why had Jacob called him Henry? Did he go by his middle name or use a stage name?

  It took four of them to get Connor on the gurney. As they wheeled him down the corridor to the waiting ambulance, a small dirk fell off the gurney, and one of the guys grinned at her.

  “Sure he’s not from a movie or one of your statues come to life? The guy must be made of stone.”

  “Funny,” she said as she looked over her shoulder, locking the door behind her, fuming he’d taken a dirk. Thief.

  “You coming with?”

  “Yes.” Mellie climbed up, squeezing on the bench as the EMTs ignored her and went to work on Connor. She couldn’t just leave him. Even if he was a low-down dirty thief and a liar, she’d keep an eye on him so he didn’t get away. The cops and Jacob could deal with him.

  Mellie sent a text to Jacob, telling him she’d locked the doors and had gone to the hospital.

  The reply came back. Be there in ten. Who’s Connor?

  The new guy.

  Right. Henry Connor.

  Hadn’t Connor said his name was Connor McTavish? She’d have to find out when he came to. Must be a mix-up with the paperwork.

  The last thing Mellie wanted to do wa
s go to the hospital, especially for a complete stranger. She hated the place, everything from the noise to the smell to the way some people went in and never came out. But she couldn’t leave him alone after what had happened to him or allow him to escape once he was stitched up. Chewing her lip, she looked out the window, unable to watch the EMTs putting tubes into his arms.

  SEVEN

  Connor woke to find himself in a place unlike any he had ever seen. He was in some sort of metal box with odd torture implements surrounding him, and when he tried to sit up, he found he was tied to the bed.

  “What madness is this? Let me up, ye whoresons.”

  The woman he’d seen in the room full of weapons placed a hand on his arm, which comforted him. She leaned close enough that he could smell a fresh, clean smell with a bit of a bite. It tickled his nose.

  “Easy, Connor. They’re taking you to the hospital. You’ve lost a great deal of blood.”

  One of her curls stuck out from her head, and he tried to tuck it behind her ear but could not raise his arm. What sorcery was this? He’d never seen such ropes, and in such colors.

  “Is this the Armstrong’s doing? I have gold to pay ye. Let me go.” He pulled against the ropes and heard a satisfying creak and then a tear.

  “He’s ripping the restraints. Get the sedative.”

  Connor did not know what a sedative was, but he was leaving this place with its strange people who spoke in an even odder tongue. Pulling again, he heard another rip, and was almost free when the man in blue stuck him with a tiny sword. For a moment he thought it was a bee, but then he could no longer hold his eyes open.

  “What happened to me?” he mumbled. The lovely lass with the golden eyes spoke to him, her face full of fear, but he could not make out the words; she was far away. Where was the battlefield? Connor never believed he deserved heaven, but he wanted a chance to tell his side of things to the almighty before he was judged.