Castaways in Time (The After Cilmeri Series)

by Sarah Woodbury

  For a moment, they sat quietly, and then Bronwen said, “I hope Cassie and Callum are okay.”

  “I have to believe they are,” David said. “I could say I wish things had been different a million times but it doesn’t help. I’ve gone over and over again in my mind the events leading up to my departure from that world, but at the time, our choices made sense.”

  “Bad things happen,” Lili said. “They happen all the time. That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to Anna. But as you well know and have said many times yourself, it’s how you respond to the bad things that determines what kind of man you are. Or woman,” Lili amended.

  “You comfort me.” David felt himself drifting off to sleep.

  And then Lili spoke again, quietly and not for anyone’s ears but David’s, “My love, you have changed the world. I think Callum, wherever he is, would be proud.”

  Epilogue

  September, 2017

  Cassie

  The black SUV came for them at midnight on the fourth day after Callum had been shot. They’d been told it was coming, of course, and where they were going, but when the Security Service agents came through Callum’s hospital room door, Cassie still didn’t quite expect to see them. She wore a dress, which was to her hilariously funny given where she’d spent the last five years living; Callum had a new suit, one without a dark red stain across the lapel and a hole in the shoulder.

  They showed Callum their badges but didn’t tell Cassie their names, and she didn’t ask. A near continual stream of nameless and faceless men in suits with earpieces had come and gone since Callum had been shot and David had left. Cassie had given up trying to make small talk. One of the men wheeled Callum in a wheelchair down to the garage and helped him into the SUV. Cassie knew they didn’t want her to come, but Callum had insisted.

  “I know you’re sick of being baggage,” Callum said, in the moment they were alone inside the car.

  “You’re sick of being sick, so I guess that makes us even,” Cassie said, which was her attempt not to be sour about this whole thing. She restrained the rest of her thoughts, such as the hope that she could stop being baggage soon.

  Callum took Cassie’s hand as they drove through the deserted streets of Cardiff, a far cry from that frantic afternoon chasing David’s ambulance. It was the end of a long day in a string of long days. If Cassie never saw the inside of a hospital again it would be too soon.

  Callum was fine. Or would be once his wound healed. It seemed that David was fine too, given that he’d disappeared before he hit the ground. Cassie hoped that he’d landed gently on the other side.

  The SUV rolled up to a side door of the government building. The First Minister of the Welsh government greeted them as they got out. This time Callum declined the wheelchair and walked into the building, holding Cassie’s hand in his good one.

  They took an elevator to a large office on the third floor; once there, the First Minister held out his hand to indicate that Cassie and Callum should enter without him. “This is where I stop.”

  This interview was too top secret even for him.

  The men inside the room stood as they entered: the Prime Minister of Great Britain, his Minister of Defense, and the head of the CIA. They introduced themselves, each one shaking Cassie’s hand and looking into her eyes, though the Prime Minister almost made to kiss her cheek but held himself back at the last second.

  “Please sit.” The Prime Minister indicated one of the soft couches arranged in a talking group.

  Callum walked to an upright spindle chair instead. “If I sit there, I may never get up again.” And then he smiled to indicate that he meant no offense. Cassie sat at the end of one of the couches, next to Callum’s chair.

  “Before we get any further,” the head of the CIA said, “I’d like you to have this.” He took a United States passport out of his breast pocket and handed it to Cassie.

  She opened it and stared at the picture. She didn’t know where they’d gotten it—off a camera somewhere, clearly—and wasn’t entirely unhappy with the likeness. She looked up. “Thank you.”

  “Since you lived in Scotland for five years and are married to Agent Callum, you may apply for a UK passport as well, but we hoped this would be enough to be going on with,” the Prime Minister said.

  Cassie nodded, oddly moved by the gift.

  “You have my personal assurance,” the CIA director said, “as well as that of the United States government, that we had no hand in any of the events leading up to David’s disappearance.”

  Cassie nodded again, but with the formalities over, they weren’t looking at her any more and had moved on to Callum and the real purpose for this meeting. “You’ve read the newspapers, of course.” It was the Defense Minister’s turn to talk. “And I understand you also received a copy of Director Cooke’s files.”

  “I did,” Callum said. “Before she was killed, she told me about them and that she’d arranged to have them made public.”

  As Lady Jane had said to Callum an hour before she died, her documents exposed a host of individuals in the government—from MI-5 to Whitehall, the Home Office, and Parliament, to the cabinet itself—as being in the pocket of the Dunland Group, the organization that had orchestrated the abduction of David. As the information had been disseminated throughout London, the halls of government had run red with blood, figuratively speaking.

  With Lady Jane and Driscoll dead, Natasha on the run, and a half dozen other agents also incriminated in the documents, MI-5 in particular had been decimated. Smythe hadn’t been named in Lady Jane’s files, but he’d kowtowed to those who had. All in all, it was a mess.

  On top of that, MI-5 sorely missed Lady Jane’s leadership. She’d had her finger in more pies and known more about more things than anyone had given her credit for. Callum had decided that the manner in which he’d been treated from the start by MI-5 had been intended by Lady Jane to drive him towards the path he’d ultimately followed. He hadn’t yet asked Jones if he’d waited eight seconds to report to Lady Jane after they’d left, or ten. But neither he nor Cassie doubted now that they’d been a part of Lady Jane’s carefully laid trap from the moment she learned of their appearance in the Bristol Channel. Cassie was just sorry that her machinations had ultimately ensnared her too.

  “Then you know that Thomas Smythe was not implicated directly in the scandal,” the Defense Minister said.

  “So I understood,” Callum said. “Are you telling me that he has been appointed director of the Security Service?”

  “No,” said the Prime Minister. “That has yet to be decided. At issue today is your future. I spoke with Director Cooke only hours before she was killed. She suggested at that time that I name you as the head of the Project.”

  Callum canted his head. “I am unfamiliar with that file.”

  The CIA Director laughed. “That’s because we just invented it.” His British companions shot him sour looks, but he ignored them. “Seriously, given the current upheaval, our two governments have resolved to create a joint task force to address and oversee what we are otherwise calling the time travel initiative.”

  “We are asking that you, Agent Callum, accept the posting as Director of the Project, reporting directly to Downing Street,” the Prime Minister said, “not the Home Office.”

  Callum and Cassie had talked about this—not about the Project (with a capital ‘P’) specifically, since the terminology was new, but about the role that Callum might play in MI-5 in the future. His absence over the last ten months, and his unswerving loyalty, had left him the last man standing at Cardiff station. And Cardiff station had the time travel initiative file, to use the CIA man’s phrasing.

  Callum didn’t want the job, but he feared the consequences if he didn’t take it. The issue for him was the balance between the unpleasantness of the job, with all the politics and behind-the-scenes maneuvering becoming director entailed, and what might happen if he left the Project in the hands of someone else. Someone
he didn’t trust. Since Callum didn’t trust anyone, it was hard to see how he could refuse it. It could be disastrous if someone with Smythe’s sensibilities was running things the next time David—or Anna or Meg—appeared.

  “Would I still be a member of the Security Service?” Callum said.

  “Only on paper,” the Prime Minister said. “But in point of fact, you would be the director of a new agency, with the commensurate compensation, of course.”

  “I’m concerned about oversight,” Callum said. “I would need the freedom to run the agency as I saw fit, without meddling or micro-management.”

  “Whitehall and the Home Office have been severely implicated in the Dunland scandal,” the Prime Minister said. “I cannot, and will not, promise you free rein, but we have read your report and believe we understand your position.”

  “Just so we’re clear: my position is that David’s world—the medieval world—is not an opportunity to enrich our government or private interests,” Callum said. “No agency under my direction will pursue such a directive.”

  The three men exchanged glances; they all nodded. “You are the right man for the job,” the Prime Minister said.

  “Then I accept your offer,” Callum said. “I will direct the Project.”

  While the three politicians congratulated each other, smiles all around, Callum reached over and took Cassie’s hand. “Am I making a mistake?”

  “We promised we’d have David’s back,” she said. “This is the way to do it.”

  Callum sucked on his teeth. “What about you? I’m hoping you’re going to be my first hire.”

  Cassie almost laughed. They’d spent so much time plotting out what would happen with Callum’s job, she hadn’t given any thought to what she was going to do. As the men called Callum’s attention to them once again, it occurred to her that perhaps it wasn’t only David who time traveled because he was needed somewhere. Maybe those who were caught up in it with him were needed too.

  Maybe she was needed too.

  Cassie took out her passport and waved it to catch the attention of the Prime Minister. “Are our relations with the Home Office amicable enough to extend to a work permit?”

  Callum’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and for the first time since Lady Jane’s death, he genuinely smiled. Cassie squeezed his hand. They’d been through a lot in the few months they’d been together, but she had a feeling that their adventures were only just beginning.

  The End

  Thank you for reading Castaways in Time. Look for the next book in the After Cilmeri series in 2014. If you would like to be notified the moment it is released, please see my web page to enter your name and email into the side bar: http://www.sarahwoodbury.com/

  Keep reading for the first chapter of The Good Knight, the first Gareth and Gwen

  Medieval Mystery

  The Good Knight: Chapter One

  August, 1143 AD

  Gwynedd (North Wales)

  “Look at you, girl.”

  Gwen’s father, Meilyr, tsked under his breath and brought his borrowed horse closer to her side of the path. He’d been out of sorts since early morning when he’d found his horse lame and King Anarawd and his company of soldiers had left the castle without them, refusing to wait for Meilyr to find a replacement mount. Anarawd’s men-at-arms would have provided Meilyr with the fine escort he coveted.

  “You’ll have no cause for complaint once we reach Owain Gwynedd’s court.” A breeze wafted over Gwen’s face and she closed her eyes, letting her pony find his own way for a moment. “I won’t embarrass you at the wedding.”

  “If you cared more for your appearance, you would have been married yourself years ago and given me grandchildren long since.”

  Gwen opened her eyes, her forehead wrinkling in annoyance. “And whose fault is it that I’m unmarried?” Her fingers flexed about the reins but she forced herself to relax. Her present appearance was her own doing, even if her father found it intolerable. In her bag, she had fine clothes and ribbons to weave through her hair, but saw no point in sullying any of them on the long journey to Aber Castle.

  King Owain Gwynedd’s daughter was due to marry King Anarawd in three days’ time. Owain Gwynedd had invited Gwen, her father, and her almost twelve-year old brother, Gwalchmai, to furnish the entertainment for the event, provided King Owain and her father could bridge the six years of animosity and silence that separated them. Meilyr had sung for King Owain’s father, Gruffydd; he’d practically raised King Owain’s son, Hywel. But six years was six years. No wonder her father’s temper was short.

  Even so, she couldn’t let her father’s comments go. Responsibility for the fact that she had no husband rested firmly on his shoulders. “Who refused the contract?”

  “Rhys was a rapscallion and a laze-about,” Meilyr said.

  And you weren’t about to give up your housekeeper, maidservant, cook, and child-minder to just anyone, were you?

  But instead of speaking, Gwen bit her tongue and kept her thoughts to herself. She’d said it once and received a slap to her face. Many nights she’d lain quiet beside her younger brother, regretting that she hadn’t defied her father and stayed with Rhys. They could have eloped; in seven years, their marriage would have been as legal as any other. But her father was right and Gwen wasn’t too proud to admit it: Rhys had been a laze-about. She wouldn’t have been happy with him. Rhys’ father had almost cried when Meilyr had refused Rhys’ offer. It wasn’t only daughters who were sometimes hard to sell.

  “Father!” Gwalchmai brought their cart to a halt. “Come look at this!”

  “What now?” Meilyr said. “We’ll have to spend the night at Caerhun at present rate. You know how important it is not to keep King Owain waiting.”

  “But Father!” Gwalchmai leapt from the cart and ran forward.

  “He’s serious.” Gwen urged her pony after him, passing the cart, and then abruptly reined in beside her brother. “Mary, Mother of God…”

  A slight rise and sudden dip in the path ahead had hidden the carnage until they were upon it. Twenty men and an equal number of horses lay dead in the road, their bodies contorted and their blood soaking the brown earth. Gwalchmai bent forward and retched into the grass beside the road. Gwen’s stomach threatened to undo her too, but she fought the bile down and dismounted to wrap her arms around her brother.

  Meilyr reined in beside his children. “Stay back.”

  Gwen glanced at her father and then back to the scene, noticing for the first time a man kneeling among the wreckage, one hand to a dead man’s chest and the other resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword. The man straightened and Gwen’s breath caught in her throat.

  Gareth.

  He’d cropped his dark brown hair shorter than when she’d known him, but his blue eyes still reached into the core of her. Her heart beat a little faster as she drank him in. Five years ago, Gareth had been a man-at-arms in the service of Prince Cadwaladr, King Owain Gwynedd’s brother. Gareth and Gwen had become friends, and then more than friends, but before he could ask her father for her hand, Gareth had a falling out with Prince Cadwaladr. In the end, Gareth hadn’t been able to persuade Meilyr that he could support her despite his lack of station.

  Gwen was so focused on Gareth that she wasn’t aware of the other men among them—live ones—until they approached her family. A half dozen converged on them at the same time. One caught her upper arm in a tight grip. Another grabbed Meilyr’s bridle. “Who are you?” the soldier said.

  Meilyr stood in the stirrups and pointed a finger at Gareth. “Tell them who I am!”

  Gareth came forward, his eyes flicking from Meilyr to Gwalchmai to Gwen. He was broader in the shoulders, too, than she remembered.

  “They are friends,” Gareth said. “Release them.”

  And to Gwen’s astonishment, the man-at-arms who held her obeyed Gareth. Could it be that in the years since she’d last seen him, Gareth had regained something of what he’d lost?

&nbs
p; Gareth halted by Meilyr’s horse. “I was sent from Aber to meet King Anarawd and escort him through Gwynedd. He wasn’t even due to arrive at Dolwyddelan Castle until today, but …” He gestured to the men on the ground. “Clearly, we were too late.”

  Gwen looked past Gareth to the murdered men in the road.

  “Turn away, Gwen,” Gareth said.

  But Gwen couldn’t. The blood—on the dead men, on the ground, on the knees of Gareth’s breeches—mesmerized her. The men here had been slaughtered. Her skin twitched at the hate in the air. “You mean King Anarawd is—is—is among them?”

  “The King is dead,” Gareth said.

  ___________

  The Good Knight is available wherever books are sold.

  www.sarahwoodbury.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue