by Cready, Gwyn
His shoulders relaxed and shook slightly, and she knew she’d made him laugh. He turned, giving her a small smile. “Tis very apt.” But then the smile was replaced with a look of quiet dread. “Tell me, did he hurt you? I was afraid Clare’s presence or even mine may have kept you from being honest.”
She wished she didn’t have to tell him what had transpired, but she also knew at this point she owed him the truth. “He didn’t hurt me. He was very drunk, and he believed we were going to make love. He touched my breast in the bath, and it scared me in the way a woman can be scared when a man is drunk and determined, but he had no designs on me other than to get me into bed.”
Bridgewater took a deep breath and released it. “Well, I suppose we can hardly blame him for that,” he said grumpily. She smiled.
“Come.” He bent by Clare’s horse and laced his fingers once more, offering her a foothold. She felt his strength as he lifted her like a ballerina. She wondered what it would be like to feel those hands on her knees or shoulders, or cupping her breasts.
He had called her a weapon. While it was no great compliment, she understood what he’d meant. But his words had a second meaning, one more important. He believed she came from the future. For some reason that made everything else easier.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked.
“Yes.” Comfortable enough, though she was not much of a rider, and she was sitting bare-bottomed on the blanket he’d put on the saddle. Fifteen miles is a long way, and tomorrow morning, wherever she woke, she knew she would be blistered and aching. She hoped it might not be just from the saddle.
Tomorrow. Sunday. Her regular routine—hazelnut coffee, the New York Times, whole wheat toast, and three slices of bacon—seemed so remote to her now. It was as if it had happened in a whole different universe.
He swung gracefully into his own saddle. “Are you sure?”
She realized she was clutching the saddle with both hands and let go. “Yes.”
He geed the horses to a trot, and Clare’s mount fell in obediently behind. Ducking his head to avoid a branch, Bridgewater led her onto a narrow path through the trees. “It’s a half mile to the road and then a straight shot to my castle. This time I am determined to make sure you can get back to where you belong.”
She was beginning to wonder if she knew precisely where that was.
TWENTY
Bridgewater Castle, Carlisle, Cumbria
The library keeper rocked on top of him, as practiced as a courtesan, her ripe breasts swaying as she moved. Adderly brushed her long hair from her face, watching the candlelight turn the tresses from gold to bronze and back again. His cock tingled with a pleasure so pure, it felt beatific.
She leaned forward, lifting her bottom, and he thrust deeper.
“More,” she whispered, gripping his shoulders. “More.”
“I’ll fill you to your throat.”
“Sir?”
The woman began to slip away, like mists at dawn, and he grasped for her arms to hold her there.
“Sir.”
“What?” He opened his eyes. The blonde was gone, replaced by a short, ugly man with a vein-splotched nose, holding a candle and shaking him awake. His servant, Ellsworth. “Jesus Christ, what is it?” Adderly’s head felt like a mortar had gone off inside it. The room was pitch-black. It was still the middle of the night.
“There’s a man here to see you.”
“Tell him to fuck off.” Then he remembered the girl. It hadn’t been just a dream. He sat up—too fast, for another mortar blast filled his head—and looked around. Empty tub, no woman.
“Where is she?” Adderly demanded.
“Where is who, sir?”
Good Christ, what was her name? “Carmichael . . . no, Carnegie. The library keeper.” He flopped back on the pillows.
“In her room, I assume,” Ellsworth said.
In her room? With her dress locked in his wardrobe? “Check on her.”
“My lord, it’s the middle of the night.”
“Check on her.”
“What about the man in the hallway? He said you’d want to see him. He said it’s about your ‘prey.’”
The muzziness lifted in a clap of thunder. Why would the fool have said that to Ellsworth? “Send him in and check on the woman; then let me know. Oh, and bring me some brandy.”
“Do you want, er . . .” Ellsworth gestured vaguely in the direction of his master’s loins.
“What is it, man? Spit it out.”
“Do you wish to cover yourself, sir?”
Adderly realized he had kicked the covers off and had a throbbing cockstand. While he’d never minded being unclothed around women, who he believed had a very narrow experience of such things, he had an uncomfortable sense that men were better informed as to the range of acceptable size in this area.
“For Christ’s sake, throw me my shirt.”
Ellsworth put down the candle and picked up the jacket and breeks. “There’s no shirt here, sir.”
No shirt? Adderly didn’t like this. “Get me a clean one, then, damn it.”
Ellsworth tried the wardrobe. “Locked, sir.”
“Throw me my breeks. Then let the man in and check on the girl. Hurry.”
“Aye, sir.” Ellsworth handed Adderly the breeks and hurried out.
Adderly lumbered to his feet and thrust one leg in his breeks. Had he fucked her or not? He certainly had in his dream. Surely, he’d remember if he’d done the same thing while awake. He thrust the other leg in and grabbed his cock. Dry, clean, and as hard as a maypole. Goddamn it, what had happened?
Ellsworth reappeared in the doorway and cleared his throat. “Lord Adderly, your visitor.” He bowed, waited for the new arrival to enter, and slipped back into the hall.
Mathias Gentry was a tracker. According to the story he’d told Adderly, he’d begun as a child in the Yorkshire hills, finding fox and deer for wealthy men in hunting parties before graduating to cannier prey for wealthy men with more dangerous amusements.
“What are you doing here?” Adderly demanded. “This is my home.”
Gentry chewed on his pipe and looked at the petals floating in the abandoned water. “It would appear you are in need of my services, my lord.” The corner of his mouth curled in amusement.
Adderly picked the coat off the floor and threw it in a nearby chair. “Thank you. I am perfectly capable of deciding when and if I need to hire you. And as far as I recall, I do not owe you money, so why are you here?”
“I happened to run into Jamie Bridgewater on his way to Drumburgh earlier this evening.’”
Adderly paused. He had assigned one his new recruits to follow Jamie Bridgewater and report any unusual movements, which would certainly include travel to Drumburgh, known to be the center of rebel activity. But Adderly had received no messages since morning. He should have known the man would muck it up.
“Oh?” he said with as much casualness as he could muster. Gentry usually demanded a pretty penny for his information, and the price only went up if you showed interest.
“I’d have been happy to follow him if I’d known you were interested.”
“Who says I am?”
“One of your soldiers. I ran into him at the inn in Drumburgh. Seems he let the man slip through his fingers. Thinks you’ll be angry with him.” Gentry moved the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. “It never pays to try to save money, Adderly. If the English army knew anything about tracking, the borderlands wouldn’t be in the state they are now.”
Adderly wanted to grab the man and shake him. He felt certain Gentry knew enough not only to put Bridgewater in a noose but to find and stamp out the rebel faction and quite possibly the Scots as well. If only he could crack open that ugly head and get at the information.
“Where is he, then?” Adderly said.
“Your brother, do you mean? Or the soldier? I have a feeling he will be drinking away his Sunday at the inn.”
“He’s not my brot
her. Would you like me to have you thrown out of here?”
“I think your father would be quite interested to hear about the money you’ve spent trying to discredit your fellow officers—were I forced to tell him, of course. Did he really think the colonel who held your office before you were promoted was accidentally discovered stealing gold from the army strongbox?”
Adderly’s vision darkened. The cockstand was gone, replaced by a burning anger.
Gentry shrugged. “If the matter is of no interest to you, I’ll be happy to see myself out—”
“No. What is your price?”
“For you, my lord, a few crowns. Ten, to be exact.”
“Jesus Christ, I could buy the inn for that much.”
“Unfortunately,” Gentry said, “that is not where you will find your man.”
“Where, then?”
Gentry waited. With a growl, Adderly went to his coat, withdrew a handful of coins and dropped them in Gentry’s palm.
“Do you know the yellow-haired witch?”
“The witch?”
“Witch, fairy, mermaid—whatever you borderlanders call her. The one who claims she can see the future.”
An odd tingle went down Adderly’s spine. “Undine?”
“Aye.”
Undine was the one who’d explained to him the magic that time holes hold and the limitations on their use. Of course, she hadn’t known then that he’d already discovered one in Jamie Bridgewater’s chapel. Once he’d told her what he’d found, her willingness to talk had vanished. “What about her?”
“All I can say is a ride betwixt her thighs is a magical thing, and clearly that’s what Bridgewater thinks as well. I saw him leaving her cottage as I was coming in.”
Adderly felt dizzy. Bridgewater was no whoremonger. As near as Adderly could tell, Bridgewater confined his carnal appetites to the occasional willing army wife and, if rumors were to be believed, to a woman over the border in Coldstream. No, if Jamie Bridgewater had been visiting Undine, it hadn’t been to blunt his lance. It had been for something else. What were the odds that a woman with the same name as a library in the future would arrive at Bridgewater’s castle and Bridgewater would go to see Undine, all in a matter of a few hours? Mrs. Carnegie must have told Bridgewater about the time hole. Perhaps he’d even found her coming through it—though, if he did know about the time hole, why would Bridgewater have had to talk to Undine?
Adderly felt his anxiety rise. The last thing he needed was Jamie meddling in his affairs. If Jamie were to find out that Adderly had simply made Clementina tell him how the Ramillies battle would be won, Jamie would undoubtedly tell the other officers, and the accolades that had come to Adderly because of his brave leadership that day would be gone.
Mrs. Carnegie was a threat, no matter how one looked at it. Adderly needed to find out what Jamie had learned, and then he had to ensure that Mrs. Carnegie kept her mouth shut—forever.
“What time was Captain Bridgewater at Undine’s?” Adderly asked.
“Five o’clock.”
“How long was he there?”
“As I said, I saw Bridgewater as he was leaving Undine’s cottage.”
“Where did he go after that?”
“I don’t know,” Gentry said. “But I do have a few thoughts on that topic.”
“Aye?” Gentry’s thoughts always cost more.
“Well, I don’t know for sure—and probably won’t until tomorrow—but knowing how generous your lordship is when you get the information you need, I sent a half dozen of my best men in different directions to keep an eye out.”
“Good. Let me know when you find out something.”
Ellsworth reappeared in the doorway. “She’s not in her room, sir. Shall I—”
“That’ll be all.” Flames of fury scorched Adderly’s cheeks.
Ellsworth bowed and exited.
Gentry gave a small chuckle, then deposited the coins in his pocket. “First the captain,” he said, walking to the door, “then the girl. You’re not having a very good evening, are you?”
Adderly made no reply. Gentry tipped his hat and left, closing the door behind him.
Damn it, somebody would pay. Adderly was going to drop by the cottage of his old friend Undine, and then he was going to find the library keeper.
TWENTY-ONE
Main Road to Bowness-on-Solway, Cumbria
Bridgewater watched Panna ride. Even with her gown rucked up like a milkmaid and some very questionable riding skills, she cut a handsome figure: straight spine, slim waist, loose tendrils of gold falling down her back. By the time they reached MacIver Castle, half the night would be gone. He let his mind drift, wondering what it might be like to salvage the other half—his wide, soft mattress; the warm evening breeze on their skin; the taste of her honey-kissed mouth—but he knew for her safety he must see her home as soon as he could, even if it meant saying good-bye. He would be like Charon ferrying his passenger across the river Styx.
He thought of the line from the Aeneid:
There Charon stands who rules the dreary Coast . . .
Aye, he was the Charon of the borderlands. He thought of the ferry that crossed to Annan, the Scottish town that sat facing Bowness like a matching gatepost, divided only by a mile of water and a millennium of political and cultural differences, and the number of times he’d crossed, trying to find a place of compromise where these warring nations could rest.
Would there ever be peace? He’d seen so many unnecessary deaths. According to what Panna had heard, there was a chance peace could settle over the borderlands by Wednesday. If the Scots didn’t attack. If the English didn’t provoke them. He dared not let his hope rise. It had been struck down so many times before.
Two starlings wheeled across the sky, and Panna’s laughter lifted him out of his reverie. He gazed at her, trying to memorize the graceful bend of her arm, the gleam of her skin, the way her collarbone spread like an angel’s wings across her chest. What was the other line he remembered about Charon?
His Eyes like hollow Furnaces of Fire . . .
His eyes were like furnaces when he watched her. He burned for her in a way he had never burned for any woman. But there was nothing to be done. She needed to leave his time. Even now, he listened in the quiet night for the sounds of his half brother’s horse or the horses of his guards. And if what Undine said was true, when Panna left this time, she would not be able to return. Three times, three opportunities. They had exhausted their chances.
The quiet of the night was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats.
“Ride into the woods,” he said, “and do not come out unless I give the word, no matter what you hear. If anything happens, follow this road to the water; then take the path there to Clare’s cottage. He will get you to the chapel.”
She obeyed reluctantly, and Bridgewater waited until she had disappeared before pulling out his pistol and laying it across his lap. Then he turned his horse and galloped toward the sound.
When he’d topped the rise, he pulled Romulus to a stop and waited. The other horse was thundering toward him. He knew he would kill Adderly if it came to that. He hoped it didn’t.
The rider’s head appeared, and a different fear came over Bridgewater. The rider was Clare.
“What on earth . . . ?”
Clare pulled the creature to a halt. “The Scots, sir,” he said, panting. “I ran into my cousin outside the inn at Drumburgh. She is married to a Scot from Galloway, and his sister works for your grandfather. According to my cousin, the clan chiefs have been called to a council of war.”
“What? Where?”
“Nunquam.”
His grandfather’s castle. “When?”
“It starts this morning at dawn.”
TWENTY-TWO
Ferry Dock, Bowness-on-Solway
The slivered moon shone in the water of the firth, the only thing visible in the darkness of the night. The breeze picked up, and Panna moved closer to the windbreak provided by
Bridgewater’s body. Even though they were not touching, she could sense his warmth.
“Promise me you’ll go to Clare’s house as soon as the ferry leaves,” Bridgewater said, removing his coat and putting it around her shoulders.
“I will. I promise.”
The ferryman, who had been roused from his bed, had pushed the vessel into the water and was now making room on board for Bridgewater and his clearly jittery horse.
“I shouldn’t have let you come here,” Bridgewater said, pulling her close. “I should have insisted that you go directly to Clare’s. But I can see his house from here, and I will watch you until I know you are safe.”
“I hate to break it to you, my friend, but you did not let me do anything. It would have taken more than you and Clare to stop me from seeing you off.”
He narrowed his eyes. “More than me and Clare?”
“Okay, okay. You I could have finagled. Clare doesn’t look like he finagles very easily.”
“I am uncertain of the exact meaning, but I’m sure Clare is quite unfinagleable.”
She laughed. Despite the upheavals of the last twenty-four hours, she did not want to leave him. She let the scent of his coat fill her head, a souvenir to keep the memory of him alive. The only thing that made leaving bearable was that she knew she could return.
“Clare will get you to Reeves,” he said. “Between the two of them, they will get you into the chapel, I promise.”
“Thank you. I can’t believe you’re going to your grandfather’s.”
“I’ve been left little choice. If a council of war has been called, I must speak to him. Tis the only chance I have to prevent an attack.”
“Will he even recognize you?”
“We have never met, but I have little doubt he knows me, just as I know him.”