And well she should. A frisson of fear tingled up her spine. It was the section directly before the one that rewrote itself. He would shortly begin on Chapter Ten, and that meant their decisions and actions over the next few days might well decide the version of history which would become reality—an innocuous house party, or a riot of bloodshed and death.
And what role did she play? Did events alter because she came back through time—or was it her presence here in the past that kept history the way it should be? Dear God, why couldn’t it have been someone more adequate to sorting out history and politics than she?
Her legs buckled, and she sank onto a chair. What had she gotten herself into, this time? She always knew she was impulsive, but how did she get into this mess?
“You are going to have to be more cautious.” Mr. Runcorn’s words broke through the fog of horror surrounding her. She looked up, but he addressed the major.
James Holborn shook his head. “Cautious, certainly, but I have another plan.”
She stared at him, aghast, and caught the intent gleam in those dark eyes. “You want them to make another attempt on you!”
“I do, but in a way I can control. I am going to get to the bottom of this.” His tone left no doubts about his determination. “I will not tolerate this any longer, not when someone else is placed in danger.”
His gaze flickered across her, startling her as she realized his concern was not just for others in general, but for her in specific. He cared what became of her.
“Miss Campbell,” he continued, “I do not want you going out alone under any circumstances, is that understood?”
She nodded. “Don’t worry, I won’t let them use me as a pawn against you. But I’m not going to just sit around if something is happening to you, either. Will you go to the authorities now?”
He drew a deep breath. “I did. Last night, after I left here.”
“Then—”
He shook his head. “They didn’t take it seriously—any more than I did myself, at first. Their only aid was to advise me to leave town for some secret destination. They also suggested I publish a conciliatory book in the near future, before making my whereabouts known again.”
“That’s all they did?” she demanded.
He nodded, humor glinting once more in his eyes. “You are even more indignant than I, Miss Campbell.”
She swallowed. “Are you going to do it?”
“I am not.” The gleam faded, leaving in its place a trace of steel. “I will not be intimidated.”
“And hopefully not killed,” she added—but too softly for him to hear.
She left them and started up the steps, only to encounter the boys on their way down for the midday meal. She hurried to the kitchens, and over Nancy’s halfhearted protests assisted her in carrying the food to the dining room.
The major joined them at the table, and entertained the boys with a highly colored account of his exploits in the war. Ned broke in on his narrative, demanding even more details than the major provided—or made up, Christy guessed as the tale became more absurd. The boys guffawed, and he switched to a story of a Christmas season spent huddled around an inadequate fire with the sounds of cannon punctuating their caroling.
The meal completed, Jem and Tom, the two eldest, ran to the stable to harness the aging mare once more to the cart. It would be a slow drive, Christy reflected, as twenty minutes later she watched the animal plod up the street to the orphanage. The boys piled into the back of the wagon with alacrity. Kepp pulled up with the curricle only minutes later, and the major handed first Christy, then Mrs. Runcorn onto the seat.
The carriage had been designed to hold only two people, Christy realized, as the woman slid in beside her. Luckily, Mrs. Runcorn was a slender woman. Christy herself might be well rounded, but only in proportion to her minuscule build. She scooted over as close as she could to the other woman to provide room for the major. There was nothing small about him.
Quarters were close, and she found herself pressed against him, intriguingly so. Far too intriguingly. She studied the road before them with fixed concentration, willing herself not to be aware of every jostling bump that bounced them together.
The major cast a frowning glance at her. “About what are you thinking, Miss Campbell? You are far too silent and solemn for such a festive expedition.”
“I was only thinking how cold it is,” she said, improvising.
Thick clouds hung overhead, menacing, as they had been almost constantly since her arrival. There would probably be snow again before they returned. Fortunately, the curricle had a hood that could be drawn up, rather like riding in a convertible.
As they passed out of the disreputable district, she cast an uneasy glance behind them. No men on horseback tried to hide from her searching gaze. Their only shadow was Mr. Runcorn and the cart. Still, she kept watch, afraid to relax her guard.
The buildings became spaced farther and farther apart, until long stretches of heath spread out on either side of them. Christy shivered, and wondered if there might be any hope of a hot drink where they headed. Probably not. She huddled instead in her pelisse.
At last, they left the buildings completely behind and found themselves on an unbroken expanse of rolling ground with shrubs and woods. Other carriages sped past, filled with laughing passengers, probably bound on the same errand. The ancient cart plodded behind them.
The major turned onto a narrow lane and guided them deep into a wooded section. He drew up, tossed his reins to his groom, and helped the ladies down. A few minutes later, Mr. Runcorn’s unwieldy contraption pulled up behind them and the boys jumped forth, each armed with a knife. They took off with whoops of delight, and in moments disappeared into the underbrush.
Mr. Runcorn beamed after them. “A delightful expedition, James. I only wish there was more we could do with them in the countryside.”
The shrieks of laughter continued, punctuated by loud arguments over who discovered certain choice branches of holly and who was to carry the mistletoe back to the cart. Smiling, the major went after the boys to settle their disputes.
Christy followed, enjoying the crisp, cold air and the feeling of freedom, of being away from London. All too soon, heaping armloads of greenery filled the wagon, and the boys reluctantly climbed in on top.
“It’s a shame to go back.” Mr. Runcorn pulled himself onto the box and collected his reins.
“Why don’t we stop at Hyde Park?” The major kept his voice low. “I saw children ice skating on the Serpentine earlier, perhaps the boys would enjoy it.”
“How very kind.” Mrs. Runcorn cast a hopeful glance at her husband, who agreed at once.
The major called to the boys, asking if they would care for this treat, and instantly a fight broke out between two as to which was the better skater. The major commanded quiet, and announced it would be determined in a contest, with the other six boys being the judges.
It took some maneuvering to turn the cart, but at last Mr. Runcorn accomplished the feat and started back toward the city. Within a very few yards Major Holborn passed him, then led the way, wending through the maze of streets. At last, they pulled up before the orphanage.
Nancy opened the door for them, as the boys piled out waving branches of the holly and mistletoe at her. “A right regular time you’ve been ’avin’ of it,” she said, pleased.
“To the shed, boys,” Mr. Runcorn called.
Armed with their greenery, they headed toward the back of the house.
Mr. Runcorn watched them with a benevolent smile, then turned to the maid. “We are to go skating, Nancy. Do you care to come?”
The girl shook her head, setting her brassy ringlets dancing. “Not me, sir. Never could get used to them things. Miss can use my skates, ifn she’d like.”
“I’d love to,” Christy declared. “Thank you.” That left her with the task of finding shoes suitable for strapping on the blades. Her high-heeled boots wouldn’t work, of that she felt certai
n. Nor did her foot size, large by current standards, make borrowing easy.
Mrs. Runcorn came to her rescue, finding her a pair of boots outgrown by an older boy before he left the orphanage. She apologized for their bulky weight and shabby condition, but Christy waved that aside.
“They fit, that’s all that matters,” she assured the woman.
Twenty minutes later, loaded with a selection of skates, scarves, and gloves, they piled back into the vehicles and set forth to Hyde Park. Christy resumed her vigilance, but still she could detect no threats to Major Holborn’s safety. Almost, she began to relax as they pulled through the Grosvenor Gate and onto the carriage drive.
They completed almost a full half circuit before they came in sight of the frozen lake, on which children and adults alike skated. A collection of booths and stalls clustered together, with a large number of people milling among them, creating a fair like atmosphere. Was this a regular occurrence, Christy wondered, or did some wily vendors merely take advantage of a golden opportunity? Wonderful smells drifted forth. Gingerbread and cinnamon rolls—or the current equivalent.
The major took the boys for hot chocolate, and brought steaming mugs back for Christy and Mrs. Runcorn, as well. They settled on a bench, and Christy took a tentative sip, then wrinkled her nose at the bitterness. She could use a few marshmallows on top. She might be able to get cream and cinnamon if she really tried, but it just wouldn’t be the same.
Their drinks finished, all busied themselves strapping the blades to their shoes. Major Holborn finished his own, then knelt before Christy. He took her left foot in his hands, and shook his head over her clumsy boot. She could only be glad she didn’t wear her own high-heeled ones, with their zipper closing only partly hidden beneath the tabs. That would have taken some explaining.
With the skates fastened at last, and adjusted to the major’s satisfaction, he assisted her to stand. Already, the boys made tentative forays on the frozen lake, the elder skating with vigor, the younger with more awkwardness. They didn’t seem to mind.
“Miss Campbell?” Major Holborn offered her his arm.
She took it, and allowed him to help her across the uneven ground separating them from the Serpentine. As soon as they reached the ice, he struck forward with an even glide, and she clung to him, following perforce. The blades felt different from the shoe-skates to which she was accustomed.
They progressed in silence, his good arm supporting her, until she found her balance. She liked the feel of his hand pressing against her back, gently assisting her. Flakes of snow started to fall as he took her gloved hands and glided into the first movement of a dance.
“No.” She pulled back, effectively stopping him. “You’ll have to teach it to me, first. I don’t know the steps.”
“We have to adapt it to skating, as well.”
He demonstrated the first pass, then helped her through it. After one round of the cordoned off “rink,” repeating the steps, she announced herself ready to give it a try. He whistled an opening bar, then glided forward into the first step.
A dance. Skating. Snow. The enameled scene in the snowdome ... The shock of her realization numbed her. She stumbled, and landed on her tailbone.
“Are you all right?” Major Holborn grasped her elbow and drew her to her feet.
“Yes. I—” She steadied herself against him, shaken. “Yes.” She regained her balance and looked around. If he wanted to know what happened ... “Where are the boys?” she asked, hoping to divert him.
“Forming a whip.”
“Won’t the younger ones get hurt?” She moved forward, and discovered her muscles weren’t as young as they used to be. That fall hurt.
The major caught her arm and swung her back. “You need have no fear, they will be all right. They are far more resilient than you or I.”
“They’d have to be,” she admitted. “They could hardly be less. I’m going to be sore tomorrow.” She brushed herself off. “I suppose I shall have to teach standing up for the next couple of days.”
A soft chuckle broke from him. “My dear Miss Campbell—” He broke off, as if recollecting the impropriety of her comment. His gaze traveled back to the boys. “If it would make you less uneasy about them, I will join them and assure that their games do not get out of hand.”
“You do that.” She shook her head as he set off across the ice. If the man wanted to join a whip, why didn’t he just do it? Afraid of damaging his macho image by enjoying a child’s game? Did they have macho images at this time? She considered, and decided they undoubtedly did. That had to be a sex-linked male characteristic, as old as the race.
As he reached the boys, an argument broke out among them, which the major settled summarily by himself anchoring the whip. Keeping his injured arm close to his body, he held out his good one to the first of the boys. Others joined, not of their group, and soon Christy and Mr. Runcorn were among the very few skaters not part of that human chain.
Christy eased herself around the outer perimeter, wincing at the pain in her hip, stretching her injured muscles. The boys showed no such hesitation. The major skated a zigzag pattern in the lead, picking up speed, and the end of the whip swung wildly from side to side. He laughed and made a sharp turn, obviously enjoying himself every bit as much as the littlest of the children.
It was one of his most endearing traits, this ability to shrug off his fears and play the role of surrogate father. Emotion rushed through her, warm and enticing. He possessed a number of appealing qualities ... Watching him, she, too, could almost forget the danger that perpetually lurked just a step behind them.
The end of the chain broke lose, and three boys shot out toward a roped-off area. They recovered their balance, then headed off to explore, ducking beneath the boundary. Christy caught her breath as they skated toward an unfrozen portion of the lake.
With a word to the boy behind him, Major Holborn untangled himself from the whip and bent low, striking off in pursuit. Christy started after them, fear welling in her. The boys were light, they probably wouldn’t disturb the thin ice, but the major was another matter.
He was so far ahead, beyond the reach of any help. If he fell through, no one could reach him in time...
No, she wasn’t the only one chasing after the major. Relief left her weak. Mr. Runcorn sped across the slick surface with sure, easy strides, closing the space between them. At that speed, he would overtake him just beyond the ropes.
Christy’s heart lurched, as a vision of the Reverend Mr. Runcorn’s tentative, tottering forays on the ice rose in her mind. Frantic, she scanned the rink, and saw the clergyman sitting on a bench beside his wife. Then who—?
She peered at the man, barely able to make him out in the fading light that filtered through the heavy clouds. A voluminous greatcoat enveloped him, and a hat rested low on his head. They might keep him warm, but they also provided an ample disguise, one to which no one would pay any heed until later, when they tried to remember what he looked like...
Abandoning all caution, Christy struck out as fast as she could. He was a far better skater than she, much stronger, and outdistanced her with ease. Abruptly, he glided to a stop in a shower of ice shaved by his blade.
Major Holborn stood less than ten yards from him, bending over, talking to the three boys. The man raised his arm, and a stray beam from the vanishing sun glinted off the polished barrel of his pistol.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Major!” The scream tore from Christy’s throat. As if by instinct, James Holborn ducked, grabbing the boys and dragging them down with him, shielding them with his body.
A flame spurted from the pistol, and the explosion of sound ricocheted over the ice. For a split second, the man stood as one transfixed, then he struck out with swinging strides. The major launched himself in pursuit, his skate caught on the broken ice, and he went down on one knee. The shattering fractures spread beneath him, and he retreated with care. His assailant reached the far side of the lake, clambered o
ver the bank, and ran through the snow to a waiting closed carriage. As the major regained his feet, the vehicle pulled away.
Christy, trembling and wobbling on her skates, reached the major’s side and threw her arms about him, holding him as tightly as she could, desperate to reassure herself he was all right. A broken sob escaped her and she buried her face in his greatcoat.
His good arm closed about her, and for a long minute he held her in his embrace, cradling her against his chest. He murmured something too soft for her to catch the words, but just the sound of his voice filled her with an emotion so intense it brought tears to her eyes. She raised her face to his, and forgot to breathe as she read there a reflection of her own growing need.
Abruptly he stepped back, releasing her. The excited voices of the boys finally penetrated to her as they babbled, demanding to know what happened.
“Did someone really let off a barker at us?” Sammy asked, obviously thinking this raised their status in importance.
The major forced a note of cheerfulness into his voice. “Not at you, at me.”
“Aw.” Sammy, at least, seemed disappointed.
Oh, for the resiliency of youth. Christy could use some of that right now. Her gaze strayed back to the major’s grim face; their gazes met, and she couldn’t look away. Tension, as intriguing as it was powerful, raced between them—a bond she couldn’t—and didn’t want to—deny. Vaguely she remembered they came from different worlds, from different times, but at this moment, what did that matter?
Major Holborn broke the trance, turning his attention to the boys with a determination that effectively blocked her out. He sensed it, too, this unbearable awareness. Of that she felt certain. Yet he intended to ignore it, refuse to give in to it. With his back to her, he collected the boys, delivered a stern lecture on skating near thin ice, then herded them toward where the others still skated.
The Runcorns stood on the snow at the edge of the rink, watching as they approached. Mrs. Runcorn stepped forward, her expression anxious, and beckoned her charges to her.
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