by Cready, Gwyn
Panna stopped.
“Than what?” Marie said.
“Than someone with footprints on their back. Listen, I’m going to check something here. Are you going to be okay without me at the desk for a bit?”
Marie crossed her wrists, flashing the ever-present rubber bands she kept there. “These may look like plain rubber bands, but in a library they have the power to deflect all manner of evil.”
“Truth, justice, and the American way.”
“You’ve got it, sister.”
Panna wondered if she, too, should strap on some rubber bands. She felt a satisfying supervillain ass-kicking coming on.
FIVE
THE SECOND TIME THROUGH THE DOOR WAS AS EASY AS THE FIRST, and Panna was not surprised to find herself back in the blue silk gown. All the better to be wearing the tools of my trade when I stuff his accusations back down his throat. And while she had taken care not to close his door when she left earlier, she saw that he had made an effort sometime in the last fifteen minutes to get off his imperious English buttocks and shut it himself.
The effort was probably good for him. Like listening to opera or taking cold showers. It built moral fortitude.
She knocked on the door.
He didn’t answer.
She knocked again.
“Go away,” he said huskily.
Damn it. She opened the door. He was seated at his desk, head in his hand, studying a paper closely.
“Please go away.” The tone of his voice had changed completely from her earlier visit. It was flat and polite but on the edge of pleading.
The sleeve of his crimson coat had been rent, exposing a narrow sliver of white. Then she saw the drop of blood fall from his face to the paper on his desk.
“Bridgewater?”
“I don’t know who you are, tis best if you go. Your colleagues have done their job.”
“I have no colleagues. Look at me, please.”
He turned his head, and she took a step back. His lip was bleeding, as was his brow. There were contusions on his cheek and chin. And the way he hugged his side troubled her.
“As you can see,” he said with a weak grin, “tis not the ideal time to talk.”
She looked around the room. A decanter filled with an amber liquid sat on a small table. She grabbed it and the runner on which it sat and went to him. She balled up the runner and poured the liquid into it.
“I’d prefer it in a glass.”
There were two glasses on his desk. She pushed one toward him with the decanter and filled it. Then she held the cloth before his brow. “May I?”
“As you wish.”
He hissed when the wetness came in contact with his skin. She did what she could to clean the blood away and poured more liquid on the cloth. He radiated an unmistakable intensity—like a caged panther.
“You do realize,” he said, “that’s a brandy de Jerez from the vineyards of Don Alfonso y Torres. It was a gift to me from the Prince Eugene of Savoy.”
“If you’d care to call for something else, I’m happy to wait.”
He took a sip and waved her on.
“You haven’t told me what happened.”
“Tis what happens when one plays with fire,” he said. “I got my fingers burned.”
“Hmm. I wasn’t gone more than fifteen minutes.”
“I am a very quick study.”
The gash ran an inch though his wide brow and a quarter inch into his flesh. In her world, she would have sent him to the hospital for stitches. She had no idea what to do here. She saw there was blood on his shirt.
“Is that yours or his?” she asked.
“Mine. I’m certain of it. I did not get off a single punch.”
Bridgewater, the hero of the Battle of Ramillies, had not gotten off a single punch? Six foot two, broad chest, sizable hands, and arms long enough to outreach most opponents? He had made this statement without a touch of shame, though she saw he was watching her for a reaction.
“You do not exactly recommend yourself as a fighter,” she said.
He smiled—a smile that sent a surprising warmth through her. “Do you find yourself in need of one?”
“Thankfully for both of us, no.”
He was handsome, there was no denying it. And whatever her feelings might be at present for the man before her, the attraction she’d felt for his marble likeness hadn’t wavered.
He finished his brandy and poured himself another. He held the decanter over the empty glass. “May I pour one for you?”
She hesitated. Brandy was a big drink. She was more of a light beer sort of gal. Besides, between time travel, fistfights, and her uncertainty about Bridgewater, this seemed like a good time to stay clearheaded.
“Do not miss an opportunity to sample Don Alfonso’s harvest,” he said. “I promise you will enjoy it.”
“All right. A little, I guess.”
He poured, obeying her wish.
When he lifted the decanter, she held out the cloth. He poured another measure of brandy on it, sighing regretfully.
His lip had been split along the arch of his Cupid’s bow. She daubed it clear of blood, admiring the pink fullness. Who would have savaged him like this? And why had he not fought back?
It dawned on her belatedly that her breasts were not only at his eye level but dangerously close to falling out of her dress. However, his gaze had not strayed from her face. She flushed.
“I hope by now you’ve realized I’m not a prostitute.”
“I’m not quite sure what you are.” He said this without rancor, but also without clear acceptance. He took another sip of brandy.
Panna decided no response was necessary, which was just as well, since she didn’t know what she would say if she did answer. He was having a different effect on her than she’d expected.
“You have an exhilarating view here,” she said, tilting her head toward the windows. His lip was starting to swell, an eye was turning black, and that brow was going to have a Frankenstein-like scar running through it, but she’d cleared away the dried blood and nothing was actively bleeding anymore.
“Exhilarating, aye.” The tiniest hint of self-mocking hung in his voice. “And I have paid dearly for it.”
“It is a castle, after all. I would think the price is dear for any castle.”
He chuckled. “You are quite correct, though that is not the price I meant.”
She tried to untangle his meaning while he drank, watching the calculation on her face. His gaze was both appraising and faintly desirous. She felt the reverberations of it to her toes.
“I see the wall at the edge of the water,” she said quickly. “Borders can be places fraught with challenges.”
“They can, indeed. This one in particular. The Scots are edifying neighbors.”
Then it was Hadrian’s Wall, just as she’d thought. She tried to recollect what she knew of Scotland, England, and the early eighteenth century, but other than a romance novel that took place during the last Highlander uprising; the Sir Walter Scott stories she’d read in high school; Mary, Queen of Scots, who was too early; and the crime novels of Ian Rankin, which were far too late, her knowledge of Scottish history was rather limited. Clearly, she’d have to spend a little more time in Nonfiction the next time she was in the library. What she did know was that Scotland and England did not get along and, from the dozens of Regency romance novels she’d read in high school, that people didn’t generally beat up a viscount.
“Come,” he said, “you haven’t tried your brandy.” But when he reached for the glass to hand it to her, he winced and clutched his side.
She gave him a stern look, which he tried to ignore; but when she didn’t relent, he stood with a groan and reluctantly untucked his shirt, lifting it high enough for her to see his side.
No bleeding, but bruises blossomed from his shoulder to his waist.
“I think you need some fighting lessons.”
He laughed. The shirt went down, but not
before Panna had seen the broad, tan pectorals and finely cut abdomen. This was not a man of idle pursuits.
“And the only use Don Alfonso’s brandy can be to my side,” he said, gathering the sodden cloth from her hand, “is to baste it from the inside. Please.” He gestured toward her glass.
She picked it up, and he held up his. “To the transformative power of a quarter of an hour.”
Did he mean the change to his appearance, or the two of them? The way he looked at her made the answer clear. She lifted the brandy with a flush and drank. The liquor was smooth and full-bodied, with the faintest hint of oranges. “It’s marvelous.”
“The plains of Castilla–La Mancha. One can’t do better for brandy. Or battle.”
The boom of a nearby cannon pierced the quiet. Bridgewater didn’t move, but Panna hurried to the closest window, one deeper and taller than the rest.
“There are troops in your courtyard,” she said, noting the regiment of redcoats marching through the castle gate. More of them walked the castle ramparts, tending to fires in the large, deep pots that dotted the perimeter.
“Aye. The English army has been sampling my hospitality since the beginning of March. I’m beginning to think I should be a little more circumspect in my invitations.”
“But you are a soldier, too, are you not?”
He regarded her with an odd expression. “For now.”
“You’d leave?” She supposed there would be nothing keeping a nobleman in the army. Certainly not a need to earn one’s living. She wondered what it would be like to have the riches of a man like Bridgewater and the ability to feed and house several hundred guests or build a two-story library.
“If that was the only way I could do what I needed to do,” he said.
“The troops are hooking the cannons to wagons.”
“Fools.” He rose, wincing, from his seat at the desk and limped to her side. “They intend to form a line behind the wall, from Bowness-on-Solway halfway to Carlisle. And when it’s dark, they will pelt the Scottish hills with cannon shot.”
She gazed into the collection of houses across the river. “But there are so few homes. It hardly seems worth the trouble.”
“There is one of some interest.”
He turned her gently to the west. There, beyond the wall, on a rise nearly as high as Bridgewater’s castle, stood another castle. It had two towers and a rampart flying a yellow flag. Panna could see its rhythmic flap against the purpling evening sky.
“Ah.” Two castles, one English, one Scottish, situated so each owner could keep the other in his sights, preserved from violence only by the exigencies of Hadrian’s bucolic wall. She thought of the line from that Robert Frost poem. Good fences make good neighbors.
Panna watched him as he observed the gathering troops. The light from the firepots reflected in his hair. His profile was so like the one in her library. How had a sculptor in 1901 captured someone who’d been dead a hundred and fifty years with such accuracy?
“Will they destroy it?” She pointed to the other castle.
Bridgewater laughed. “They might wish to, but it would be even harder to take that castle than this one. And destroying it would be damn near impossible. Instead, their cannon fire is meant to be a show of unity and strength. Tis a bloody waste of gunpowder, if you ask me.”
It sounded as if no one had. “I take it you don’t agree with the decision.”
“A soldier always agrees with the decisions of his commanding officer,” he said, his finger tracing the edge of the wound to his brow. “Especially when one’s commanding officer also happens to be an earl.”
“At some point do you intend to tell me what happened?”
He gave her a look. “I don’t know. Do you intend to tell me how you managed to get into a locked and guarded castle?”
She opened her mouth and tried to formulate some fabulous lie, but even after a frenzy of mental acrobatics nothing materialized.
The corner of his mouth rose. “So I thought. Tis best if we stop asking questions, since neither of us seems very good at lying, aye?” He held out his glass.
She clinked her glass against it and they drank. His lips curved into a full smile. “The evening is taking a turn for the better,” he said.
“I’d say that was a compliment, but you had nowhere to go but up.”
He laughed.
Don Alfonso’s brandy was loosening her tongue. “Okay, personal questions are forbidden, but surely not every sort is? I have a number I’d like to ask.”
“Good heavens. Shall I sit down?”
“Quite possibly. First, may I say I love your library?”
“You may, but it’s not really a proper question.”
She went to the bookcase beside the wide hearth. The space above each row of books seemed to sparkle, and only after a moment did she realize that the backs of the cases were leaded glass, too. Her eyes ran excitedly over the titles, a number of which were in Latin or Greek. “History. Greek. Medicine. Maps. A biography of Saint Peter. Oh, my goodness! A copy of John Donne’s poems!”
She pulled the handle of the case, but it didn’t budge. She gave him a look. “Locked,” she said sadly.
“Good Lord, the look on your face. Twould shame a saint.” He made his way to her side and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. He found the one he needed and, with a quick turn, the door was open.
She pulled out a handful of books and placed them on a table at the edge of the hearth. A volume entitled, Animals of the Orient was the one on top. She plucked it from the stack and sank to the floor. The illustrations had been hand-colored. The endpapers were trimmed in gold leaf. The crackle of the page sent happy shivers down her spine.
“Have I lost you?”
She realized she hadn’t said anything in a full minute. “It’s stunning,” she said. And priceless. The sale of a single book like this might save her library. Not that Panna was the type of woman to steal, of course. But, oh! If she were . . .
“I’ve seen a look like that once before,” he said. “Twas on an adder—just as it was about to swallow a weasel whole.”
She laughed. “I should like to swallow this whole, consume every last page of it. Look at that mongoose. Look at that peacock.”
“I have a peacock, you know.”
“You do?”
“Aye. He walks the upper courtyard, and a more ill-natured fellow you have never met. But he is the color of snow. Tis very rare.”
This place was magical! The stuff of dreams. She felt like Dorothy in the Emerald City.
A voice sounded in the hallway, and the look of concern that came over Bridgewater’s face made her stop instantly. He held a finger to his lips and pointed with the other hand to a small alcove out of the direct sight lines of the entryway. She complied at once, abandoning the book. He returned to his desk and picked up a piece of paper there.
Someone knocked, and the door opened. Bridgewater’s shoulders relaxed. From where Panna stood, the visitor seemed to be a servant carrying a tray of food. Of course, she’d also learned things were not always what they seemed in this place.
“Please, if I may say, sir,” the man said in a low voice, “this is an outrage. They are—”
“Reeves,” Bridgewater said sharply, and the man stopped. Panna felt the stabbing realization that Reeves was about to say something Bridgewater didn’t want her to hear.
“Leave the tray there.” Bridgewater gestured to the table next to the hearth.
Reeves deposited the tray as directed. Then he raised the hanging leaf on the table and drew out a narrow gate leg to support it. As he did, Panna saw the back of a red-coated soldier come into view at the door. Bridgewater stiffened visibly. Panna withdrew farther into the alcove to ensure she could not be seen by the soldier, nor by Reeves unless he turned.
“Make it quick, man,” the soldier said to Reeves. When Reeves finished laying out the place setting, he began to look around the room. It dawned on Panna that he must be
looking for a chair.
Then she spotted the cane-backed chair beside her. She gasped. There was nowhere to go. She backed against the wall and said a small prayer.
Reeves reached the entrance to the alcove and did a stutter step when he saw her.
The soldier straightened. “What? What is it?”
For a long moment there was silence, then Reeves said, “This is filthy. I’ll flay the girl who cleaned this room.” He grabbed the chair and gave Panna an apologetic look.
“Nobody cleaned it, you fool,” the soldier said. “No one’s allowed in. Not until my orders change.”
“Let us hope that is soon,” Reeves said, sniffing. He set up the chair at the table. “Will this be enough for dinner?” Reeves asked Bridgewater carefully. “I can certainly bring more if you require it.”
“He’s not getting more,” the soldier bellowed. “He’s under arrest.”
“Thank you, Reeves,” Bridgewater said. “This will suffice.”
“May I recommend the soup, sir? Tis most appetizing this evening.”
Bridgewater’s brow rose. “I look forward to it.”
The man bowed and exited, followed, Panna assumed, by the soldier, for she heard the door close and Bridgewater appeared at the alcove’s entry to wave her out.
“Are you being held here?” she demanded. “In your own house?”
He held up a hand, listening. “There,” he said after a long pause. “You can talk. He just closed the door at the end of the hallway.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And you’re being held?”
“Is that a question?”
She began to protest and then saw his smile.
“Aye.” He offered her the chair at the table. “I am. The English army has accused me of collaborating with the Scots.”
She declined the chair, too unsettled to sit. “Are you?”
He gave her a thoughtful look. “Of course not. I am an English citizen. My grandfather is a Scot, though, and that may have given them some pause.”
A marriage of mixed nationality. Odd at the time. Odder still for a nobleman. She grabbed a hunk of cheese and a fig from the tray. “But surely they knew that when you joined.”