Timeless Desire

by Cready, Gwyn

  “Panna.”

  She didn’t want to let go.

  “Panna,” he said louder, and she jerked to alertness.

  She was not in her bed at home. She was still in the little room at Nunquam, and Bridgewater was stooped over her bed, completely clothed. The first gray light of dawn was spilling over the bed.

  She jerked her hand from the covers. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been shot.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Undine’s Cottage, off the Road to Drumburgh

  The pain in Undine’s body was inescapable, like a prison made of flesh and bone. And behind her closed eyes, more danger floated menacingly at the edges of her hazy consciousness.

  “I thought I might find you here,” she heard a man say.

  Of course he would find her there, she thought. It was her home, was it not? But the man was not speaking to her, for another voice answered—a voice that unleashed a cold fear in her.

  “Bloody witch. Tried to stab me while my back was turned, no doubt to steal my purse.”

  She recognized the voice as Adderly’s.

  “Greed is a nasty thing, my lord. Is she dead?”

  “Aye. Leave her.”

  Was she dead? There was pain—sharp, suffocating pain that felt like a flame held to every limb. And she knew she must not move. But it did not feel like death.

  “Where is the knife?” the other man asked. “I do not see it. Perhaps we should—”

  “I said leave her, Gentry.”

  “As you wish.”

  Gentry. She knew him. A greedy, mean-spirited man. She heard the splashing of water at the table. His lordship was washing her blood from his hands with the water meant for her coffee.

  “Why are you here?” Adderly snapped. “I thought you were going to find Bridgewater. Or did he elude you as well?”

  “Elude me, your lordship? Hardly. I have eyes over three counties. As I suspected, he boarded the Solway ferry some few hours ago.”

  “Scotland? He went to Scotland with the borderlands on the brink of war?”

  “Perhaps he does not see the situation as you do,” Gentry said.

  She heard a muffled rubbing near the door. Adderly must be drying his hands on her coat. Through the fiery pain, she felt the tingle of anger.

  “What the bloody hell does that mean?” Adderly said.

  “We are all aware of his ties to Hector MacIver.”

  “To whom he hasn’t spoken in his entire life.”

  “Until today,” Gentry said.

  “What?”

  “He was tracked almost to the entry of Nunquam Castle. My men couldn’t tell if he was visiting or spying. They rather hope spying, I think, for they would earn a handsome reward for shooting him and dropping him at MacIver’s feet. However, neither he nor the blonde he was with seemed particularly concerned with concealing their presence.”

  The woman. That’s why Jamie Bridgewater came here. Oh, gods of heaven and earth, what have I told Adderly that I shouldn’t have?

  “A woman?”

  Adderly said this with such forced indifference, even Gentry could not fail to miss the significance.

  “Aye. Blonde. Full lips. High bosom. Sharing Bridgewater’s saddle with him. She was, shall we say, showing no signs of being ill at ease in his arms. Do you know her?”

  “No.”

  In fact, Undine had told Adderly. She had told him that Jamie had asked about the woman and seemed to know or have guessed that she had come from the future. Undine shuddered as she recalled Adderly savagely beating her, and the information he had squeezed out of her with his viselike hands. She had to find Jamie and warn him, though how she would overcome these walls of pain, she did not know. Jamie was in danger and so was the woman. He had to be alerted to what his brother had discovered.

  “What do you want my men to do with him?” Gentry asked. “Kill him?”

  “No. Do not kill him. Bridgewater must be brought back to MacIver Castle. My father must see the man for the traitor he is.”

  “And the blonde?”

  “Her?” Adderly said with forced casualness. “Er, why don’t you bring her to me? There are things I should like ask her.”

  “As you wish, my lord. And for my troubles?”

  “Damn you and your troubles. You may take whatever you find here. The witch keeps her money in a box under her bed, I think. But be quick about it. I need to put out a warrant for Jamie Bridgewater’s arrest.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Nunquam Castle

  “How in God’s name . . .” Even though Bridgewater was upright and talking, Panna’s heart was going a mile a minute. He’d been shot? What sort of place was this? She looked at the pattern of holes up one side of the back of his shirt. Perhaps half a dozen. She touched one of the spots near his ribs, and he hissed from the pain.

  “I was visiting one of the clan chiefs. The chief of Clan Kerr is an acquaintance.”

  “The guards let you in there?”

  “No. I scaled the vines outside. Went in an upper window. I wanted to present my case. Find out what was being planned if I could.”

  “And he shot you?”

  Bridgewater hesitated. “No. That part was uneventful. But when I was going back down the vines, I heard footsteps in the courtyard. I dropped to the ground and started to run. The person yelled ‘Stop!’ and then a gun went off.”

  “Did the person who shot you see you? Does he know that the person he shot is you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. It was dark. I could barely see my hands in front of my face. I ran down the hillside and hid in the underbrush. I heard whoever it was looking for me. They didn’t find me.”

  “Take off your shirt. Are you bleeding?”

  He stripped it off. Five shots had penetrated the skin of his back, but there was almost no blood.

  “How did you get back into the castle?” she asked.

  He gave her a small lopsided grin. “Brewer’s wagon. I saw it coming up the hill and managed to throw myself into the back, though it damn near killed me.”

  “Elegant. And how did you get in here? I thought the passageway to the women’s area was locked.”

  “That was trickier. I’m afraid I had to boot the door in.”

  “Rather less elegant. What are we going to do?” She had once driven a neighbor who’d fallen down the stairs of his back deck to the hospital, but that was about the extent of her experience with emergency medical assistance. Charlie’s decline had been an endless progression of IVs, shunts and radiation, but no emergencies.

  Bridgewater pulled a knife out of a sheath in his boot and put it in her hand.

  “What do you want me to do with this?” she said.

  “Cut them out.”

  Her vision started to swim. “Are you serious?”

  “They have to come out. If they don’t, the wounds will become infected. Don’t worry. I’ve suffered worse.”

  The blade was four inches of burnished steel. The hilt felt slippery in her clammy hand. “I don’t think I can.”

  “No one can until they try.”

  “I’ll hurt you!” she cried.

  “I told you I’ll abide. Just take the knife, make a quick cut, then flip it out with the point.” He took the blade from her hand and found a ball in his side with a finger. Then he jabbed the point of the blade into the space just underneath.

  Panna felt her stomach rise as the rivulet of blood ran down his skin and stained his breeks. Face contorted in pain, Bridgewater wriggled the blade point back and forth for an instant, then made a flicking motion. She heard metallic sounds as the ball bounced off the rug and rolled to the floor.

  Bridgewater’s shoulders relaxed, though she could see the sweat on his brow.

  “There,” he said, handing her the knife again. “Do you want me to lie on the bed or stand here by the window?”

  She thought of her dream and flushed. How much more time was she going to lose to erotic fantasies w
ith Bridgewater? Fortunately, the real Bridgewater, with his black eye, treason, and buckshot, was doing his roguish best to keep her grounded in the reality of the moment. “Er, the bed will be fine.”

  Yet again she was wearing nothing but her linen shift. Bridgewater seemed to have a sixth sense about finding her in an unclothed state. Her gown was still on the floor where she’d undressed. Bridgewater stepped around it and laid himself carefully on the mattress, settling on his good side with his back toward the lightening sky.

  She went to the desk by the windows to look for something she could use for a rag but found nothing. “I wish the light here were stronger.”

  He turned to look and the corners of his mouth rose slightly. “It seems more than adequate.”

  She looked down and saw dawn’s glow had made her shift translucent, showing every curve clearly. She crossed her arms, and he lowered his head again.

  “I’m sorry this is what it took to get me into your bed,” he said.

  With his back to her, she couldn’t tell whether he was joking.

  “Hmm,” she said noncommittally, but her heart did a flip.

  Bridgewater’s back was warm but hard as iron under her touch. The dark puckered holes in his smooth skin looked like some horrifying constellation. She looked at the bloody blade and wished they had access to some modern medical care. “I wish I at least had some alcohol.”

  He chuckled. “Come, now. I’m the one who must endure the pain.”

  “Not for courage. For disinfecting.”

  “Disinfecting?”

  “Killing the—” She realized he wouldn’t know what germs were. “Killing the stuff that makes infections. We kind of cracked that nut a hundred or so years ago.”

  His eyes widened. “No infections?”

  “Well, not no infections, but certainly fewer.”

  He reached into his boot and withdrew a metal flask.

  “Good Lord, what else do you have in there?”

  “It’s quite convenient when one is riding.”

  She pulled the cork and dribbled the liquid over the blade. “Is this from the vineyards of Don Alfonso y Torres as well?”

  “No. Just good Lowland whisky, straight from the barrel.”

  She tipped the flask to her lips and took a long, surreptitious draught. Then she poured the whisky over his back. He gasped, clenching the sheet in his fists until the sting wore off.

  “Disinfection sucks,” he said.

  She laughed. “Yes, it does.” Thinking distraction was the about the only form of anesthesia she could offer, she scanned the wounds to choose her first hole and said, “So, what happened between you and the clan chief?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, instantly alert.

  She drove the knife into his flesh and he jerked.

  “I mean, what did you learn?” She could feel the metal shot under the skin, like a little ball bearing.

  “Twas not much help,” he said through gritted teeth. “The council is committed to going to war.”

  “What reason did you give him for coming here?” There was no avoiding what came next: She popped the point of the blade upward, and the shot broke through the flesh. His shoulders relaxed.

  “Hector MacIver is my grandfather, after all. I shouldn’t think I need more reason than that.

  She’d left a hole about twice as big as the original. Blood dripped down his back and onto the sheets. She jumped off the bed and ran to the wardrobe, hoping to find something to absorb the blood. An old blanket lay at the bottom. She returned and tucked it under his back.

  “This wasn’t exactly covered in my librarian training,” she said, half in apology.

  “You are doing well. I take it you really are a library keeper?”

  “Of course I am. I work at the Carnegie Library in Carnegie—part of Penn’s Woods.”

  His back tensed. “Adderly introduced you as Mrs. Carnegie. You have a husband, then?”

  “No, I do not. Andrew Carnegie was a wealthy industrialist—”

  “Industrialist?”

  “Man of industry. Like you. Only his industry was steel.” She aimed her blade at the second ball and pierced his skin. “He made a lot of money. More than almost any other man on earth at the time. And after he did, he decided to devote himself to making others’ lives better. He built more than two thousand libraries.” The second ball popped loose.

  “Two thousand libraries?” Bridgewater’s voice was filled with shock.

  “Some even nicer than yours, if you can imagine. He offered a library to any town willing to promise to maintain the institution into the future. The town I’m from was really once two towns, Mansfield and Chartiers. They wrote to Carnegie and said they would merge and call the new town ‘Carnegie,’ hoping he would be swayed to give them a library.”

  “And was he?”

  “Yes, he was.” She began on the third hole. “While there were a few free libraries before Andrew Carnegie and his efforts, he was the person responsible for making every person in my time feel he has a right to free access to books.” The third shot dropped onto the bed. She caught the edge of the blanket and wiped away the blood.

  “A right to free access to books.” Bridgewater shook his head, amazed. “What an astonishing development—and a very generous gift.”

  “Oh, I am not one to stand in awe of wealthy men.”

  “I have noticed.”

  She laughed. “But he did at least try to atone for his sins,” she said, starting on the fourth extraction. “He gave away almost all his money before he died. He said, ‘The man who dies rich dies disgraced.’”

  Bridgewater turned so he could see her. “You speak of a time that sounds so different than mine—a time when rich men give away their money, and access to books is considered a right. Is it also a time of great peace?”

  She shook her head with a sigh. “No. The same issues that provoke men now provoke them in the future. I’m afraid there will always be a need for men like you, Bridgewater.”

  He turned back to his side. “I wonder . . .” he began, and stopped.

  “You wonder what?”

  “I wonder if you would call me ‘Jamie’? Other than Clare and Undine, a friend I should like you to meet someday, there is no one who does.”

  She felt her eyes prickle. A man with so few to call him by his given name? “I’d be honored.”

  He caught her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Panna.”

  She squeezed back.

  “C’mon now,” she said, slipping free and dabbing at her eyes. “Let me finish. Lord only knows when Mrs. Brownlow is going to wheel in here. I’ve read enough stories of Gretna Green to know . . . well, to know that’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Stories of Gretna?” He looked at her again. “You know stories of Gretna? Tis only a few miles from here.”

  “Well, yes. It’s quite a popular theme in novels,” she said, extracting the fourth shot. “In one of my favorites, the wayward younger sister of the heroine is lured into abandoning her virtue with the promise of a forthcoming elopement to Gretna.” Panna found her cheeks warming as she told him. The world was a different place here, after all. “That would have been bad enough. However, the promise was a false one.”

  Bridgewater snorted. “They often are. I hope the blackguard got his due.”

  She smiled. “The hero forces the man to marry the girl, thus saving the heroine and her family from shame. It’s very romantic.”

  Jamie gazed at her, his green-gray eyes flashing. “It sounds as if some things about the world do not change: the pull of war, the pull of lust, and the pull of love . . .”

  “You’re right.” She eased the blade into the last hole, and the fifth and last ball dropped into her hand. She poured whisky over the puckered and bleeding holes.

  “Christ!” he cried. “I can stand the blade, but getting disinfected is worse than getting shot.”

  “Here.” She handed him the flask. “Drink up. We’r
e done.”

  His face changed from an expression of complaint to the look of a three-year-old hiding the broken pieces of his mother’s favorite porcelain figurine behind his back.

  “What?” she demanded. “We are done, aren’t we?” She looked again at his back, scanning the skin. Then she saw them. More tiny holes in his dark breeks. Ten or more.

  He sat up, his face contorted in pain. “Those can wait until I return to Bowness.”

  “Is your ass somehow less prone to infection than the rest of you? I mean, I think the quote is ‘War is hardest on those left behind, not those left in the behind.’”

  “I am not going to take off my breeks before you.” He struck an upstanding pose—or at least as upstanding as he could, given that he was bare chested, bleeding profusely and sitting on a woman’s bed. “Twould not be gentlemanly.”

  “Oh, is ‘gentlemanly’ our guiding principle here? Well, I am not completely dressed, as you pointed out in so gentlemanly a manner, so I see no problem in stripping you of your clothes as well.” He flushed—rightfully, she considered. “Off.”

  He made a long, reluctant growl and stood up, his back to her. He lowered the fabric carefully to his knees, then lowered himself even more carefully onto the bed.

  Her dream had not done him justice. His flesh was the color of apricots, his muscles sturdy, and the arrow-straight line of his spine bisected the shadowed dimples of the small of his back before disappearing into the shadowy place between perfect pale mounds of flesh. His buttocks were dusted with sparkling gold hairs that ran down his powerful thighs. Only the dark spots of the entry wounds marred the godlike perfection.

  She let out a quiet breath.

  “Is it bad?”

  She shook her head firmly before realizing she was responding to a different question. “Not too bad. You’ll be fine.”

  She would work from the shots highest on his buttocks to the ones more alarmingly placed.

  “Hand me the whisky, if you would,” she said.

  “No.”

  “Infection.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Surely, a big, grown-up soldier like you is not afraid of a little discomfort.” She snatched the bottle from his hand and dribbled more onto the knife, letting it run over his wounds.