Roses in Moonlight

by Lynn Kurland

She smiled a little. “Then Romeo and Juliet wasn’t just fiction?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I’ve never seen so many teens and twentysomethings with nothing better to do than roam in packs and vex innocent nursemaids.”

  “Did you brawl?” she asked casually.

  “It was only good sense that kept me from it,” he said dryly. He drained his tea, then smiled. “How about a nap?”

  “You go ahead,” she said with a snort. “The picnic table I’m wearing and I will just sit here and keep from getting wrinkled.”

  He laughed a little. “I have to admit some of the fashions of the day leave me baffled, but there it is. Isn’t that thing detachable?”

  “Not a chance,” she said with a sigh.

  “Not to worry, then. I’ll stay awake with you.”

  She pursed her lips. “Of course you won’t. Go lie down. I’ll just go lean against the wall and see if I can fall asleep without breaking my neck in the process.”

  “If I could, I would text Emily to have flannel pajamas waiting for you when we get home,” he said with a smile. “Let me get you settled as comfortably as possible, then if you don’t mind, I might close my eyes for a couple of minutes.”

  She didn’t mind and she was happy to have help getting herself reasonably close to the tapestry-lined wall where she could at least lean her head back without too much trouble. She had a kiss on her hand for her trouble, then watched Derrick walk comfortably across the floor and with equal ease throw himself onto the bed. He was asleep within sixty seconds. She knew, because she had counted.

  If only their mystery could be solved as quickly.

  • • •

  It had to have been pushing at least ten when she found herself standing next to Derrick, torn between admiring and wanting to go throw up.

  Well, maybe stood next to was an inaccurate representation of where she was. She stood as close to Derrick as possible, but what was possible with her enormous skirts wasn’t much.

  “This is fun,” she murmured. “What’s next?”

  “I’m afraid that would be supper,” he said, looking almost as green as she felt.

  “Hey, you’re supposed to be good at this.”

  “I am accustomed to this,” he corrected. “Good is still up for debate. I think, though, if we can get through supper, we’ll manage to get to dance together.”

  “That does sound like fun,” she said brightly.

  He shot her a brief smile. “I think so. I also think if we can hang on that long with this crowd, I’ll slip out sometime after the moon has set and do what needs to be done.” He nodded at the small purse dangling from her wrist. “There are things in there to get you through till the morning.”

  “Chocolate?”

  “I should think you would be hoping for pharmaceutical aids, but yes, just chocolate. Something sharp. Another thing or two.” He looked at her seriously. “Stay here and wait for me.”

  “Because of the fabric of time?”

  “That, too, though that doesn’t seem to stop your aunt Mary.” He shook his head. “Why Jamie hasn’t unfriended her for her illicit activities, I don’t know.”

  “I think they go to plays together when they’re here at the same time. She knows Shakespeare personally. I think she actually has seats.” She shivered. “I’m not even sure I can talk about this.”

  “I don’t think Granny wants you to,” he murmured. “Here she comes with a purpose.”

  Samantha couldn’t deny that. Granny Mary’s eyes were alight with something. Samantha had already heard about her great-aunt having acted in the Scottish play during her first trip to Elizabeth’s time. She could hardly wait to see what other tidbits the woman intended to favor them with at present. Mary stopped in front of them, then leaned in close.

  “Bingo.”

  “Bingo?” Samantha whispered. Heavens, not another thing she’d introduced to Elizabethan England that shouldn’t have been there. “Are you playing it?”

  “No, I have a lead in the case.” She looked at Derrick. “Get to know Walter Cooke. Lord Walter Cooke, rather. Minor baron. Not particularly wealthy, but he’s on edge about something and his son is a putz.” She smiled. “There you go, lad. Run with it.”

  Derrick opened his mouth—no doubt to thank her—then shut his mouth abruptly. Samantha understood. The man coming to a stop in front of them looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him. Perhaps he reminded her of someone she’d seen in a magazine, or on TV, or . . . or in a photograph.

  He looked remarkably like Edmund Cooke, actually.

  Sir Thomas appeared as if by magic and introduced them to Lord Walter Cooke. Mary shot her a knowing look that Samantha had no trouble interpreting. Derrick apparently needed nothing but his nose for old things to launch him into a friendly dialogue with the man in front of them. Samantha just nodded and pretended that she spoke only minimal English. It was just as well. She might have blurted out something unhelpful otherwise.

  Her very powers of tongue biting were taxed to the limit when Lord Walter’s son stumbled over to them as if he’d seen a ghost. She didn’t like to judge anyone too quickly, but she could safely say that that one gave her the creeps. He was short, greasy, and smarmy. Only good breeding—and, it had to be said, an intense desire to get back to her own time alive—kept her from punching him when he bent to kiss the back of her hand and slobbered on it instead. Derrick removed her hand from Junior’s and tucked it under his arm, then proceeded to make polite conversation with father and son.

  The younger Cooke, Francis, apparently didn’t have much patience for the rigors of polite society because he turned away from Derrick in the middle of a sentence and looked at her in astonishment. “You seem so familiar,” he said.

  She looked at him blankly, because that’s what she was supposed to do. Derrick assured him that wasn’t possible because there wasn’t a woman in London who was half as lovely as his wife.

  Samantha watched Francis Cooke watch her while he was listening to Derrick and had the overwhelming urge to run go take a shower. He just seemed as if he were trying to tell her . . . something. She wasn’t used to getting hit on, so—

  She felt her heart stop.

  Well, it didn’t stop, actually, but it definitely paused. He was looking at her as if he had lost her and he was absolutely thrilled to have found her again.

  “Of course,” he said, turning to look at Derrick closely, “it isn’t as if one would want to keep one’s lady wife anywhere near Blackfriars or even the Globe, n’est-ce pas?”

  Samantha put her hand over her ribs partly because she felt as if he’d just punched her and partly because that’s where the second set of gems, the ones that had been planted on her in Elizabethan England, were currently residing, secured to her skin with athletic tape. She was a duct-tape kind of gal, never leaving home without at least a yard of it folded up in her purse. She’d saved more than one actor’s trousers with that useful means of securing a seam. She supposed Derrick had stock in whatever company produced athletic tape in the UK. She also supposed she was babbling inside her head. It helped drown out the thought she was having that was so far-fetched, she could hardly think it.

  It wasn’t possible that Francis Cooke had planted those gems on her, was it?

  Dinner was announced. She walked through the gallery with Derrick, losing the younger Cooke in the process. She sat where indicated, considered supper, then wondered if there might be antibiotics in her purse, just in case. She had no idea what she was going to find on her plate, but she didn’t hold out much hope that it would be safe to eat, much less tasty.

  She realized a handful of hours after that, that dinner was perhaps the least interesting of all the things she was going to have to worry about that night. When she and Derrick went back to their room, servants followed, apparently fully expecting that they would be sleeping in the same bed. She supposed they were only lucky that Lord Walter and Sir Thomas weren’t joining them.


  “Oh, these are strange and wondrous fasteners,” the maid breathed.

  “French,” Samantha said with a shrug, hoping that said everything that needed to be said.

  She had to admit, though, that she was grateful Granny Mary had provided her with a heavy robe. It might have been summer, but it was cold. Or perhaps that was her nerves again, rearing their ugly heads. Whatever the case, she was happy to go stand by the fire and watch Derrick dismiss the maid, telling her he could see to his lady’s needs for the rest of the night.

  He shut the door, then leaned back against it. He was minus his boots and doublet, which left him standing there in a tunic, shorts, and hose. He smiled.

  “Long day.”

  “Very.”

  He pushed away from the door and came to take her hand. He saw her seated in front of the fire, then sat on the stool that had been her only option earlier in the day.

  “Jewels?”

  “I’m still wearing them.”

  He rested his elbows on his knees, then reached out and took her hands. He simply ran his thumbs over the backs of them for several minutes in silence. She would have thought he had fallen asleep if it hadn’t been for that endless motion. He finally looked up at her.

  “What did you think of Francis?”

  “He has beady eyes and he drooled on the back of my hand.”

  “It was all I could do not to flatten him, believe me.”

  “My hero,” she said with a smile.

  He smiled wearily, then rubbed one of his hands over his face. “I think I need a couple of hours.”

  “I’ll wait up.”

  He shook his head. “Nay, lass, you won’t.” He rose. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Ah—”

  “Trust me.”

  Well, she couldn’t say that she didn’t, which meant she supposed she did. She watched him bank the fire as if he’d done it several times before—probably in different centuries—then gulped when he took her by the hand and pulled her across the room. He pulled back the covers, frowned, then remade the bed.

  “We’ll try on top instead,” he said.

  “Bedbugs?”

  “Actually, no, but I like to be able to make a quick getaway when necessary.”

  He took the bolster and laid it down the center of the bed, then left her standing where she was and went around the other side. He stretched out, then looked up at her.

  “Well?”

  She smiled a little, then lay down on the other side. She propped her head up on her fist and peeked over at him.

  “Have an alarm?”

  “No, but I have a good idea.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it.”

  He laughed a little, leaned up on an elbow, then leaned over and kissed her. He pulled back, started to speak, then shook his head and kissed her again. He kissed her for quite a while, truth be told.

  “You’ll never get to sleep if I don’t stop,” he announced at one point.

  She laughed a little. “Project much, Lord Derrick?”

  “In this case, probably,” he admitted with a brief laugh. He kissed her once more, then looked at his watch. “If we go to sleep now, we’ll have a lovely two hours before I need to go.”

  She reached for his hand and held it, hard. “Please be careful.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her softly. “I have many reasons to want to be, not the least of which is right here in front of me.”

  She could only look at him, mute, because she had absolutely no idea how to respond. She couldn’t say anything, because she would have said too much. All she could do was close her eyes and nod.

  • • •

  She woke to darkness. Derrick’s hand wasn’t around hers any longer and she couldn’t hear anyone breathing but herself. She would have fumbled for the bedside lamp but she realized immediately that there was no bedside lamp. She got up, noted for posterity’s sake that even wooden floors could be very cold in the middle of the night, then made her way over to the fire. She brought it back to life, then lit a candle in the fire and set it on the table.

  Her little reticule was sitting there, but she was fairly sure that wasn’t where she’d left it. She frowned thoughtfully, then worked it open and peered inside it.

  There was indeed chocolate—a Kit Kat, as it happened—wrapped in paper that went right into the fire the moment she’d finished her breakfast. There was a pocketknife, a very small syringe fully loaded with something that was identified as knockout drug for thug, and a piece of paper. She left the knife and needle inside, then pulled out the piece of paper and unfolded it. She looked first at the title.

  All the Things I Like About Samantha Drummond.

  She would have smiled, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to. Derrick Cameron, the man she was perilously close to being inordinately fond of was quite probably at the moment floating down the river toward the Tower of London where he intended to break in and rescue her ancestor.

  Potentially for no other reason than it meant her life.

  She took a deep breath and began to read.

  Chapter 26

  There was nothing like a little breaking and entering to really bring the bloom to a lad’s cheeks.

  Derrick had to admit he would have preferred to have had another chance to run their current operation more than just in their heads, but there wasn’t time. At least whatever massive meltdown Peter and Oliver were planning on having, they were apparently planning on having later. They were nothing short of terrifying all dressed in black with masks over their faces, looking like something straight from one of Shakespeare’s worst nightmares.

  He supposed the main advantage they had was that they’d had the historical record to consult before attempting their assault. He knew exactly where Richard Drummond was being housed and only had to worry about getting there with a minimum of fuss.

  He couldn’t deny that it was the potential for a general-alarm-type fuss that concerned him, but what was there to be done? He wasn’t superstitious by nature, but he’d had enough of James MacLeod’s don’t-unravel-the-threads-of-times lectures to know that leaving Sir Richard in the Tower where he couldn’t woo and win some future ancestor of Samantha’s father was going to have unpleasant repercussions through the family tree.

  Besides, he wanted to know who had put Richard Drummond in the Tower. Knowing that might give them some clue as to who had planted those gems on Samantha.

  They had paddled along the edge of the Thames in the pitch black and glided to a stop several yards short of the Traitor’s Gate. He supposed he should have felt bad about swiping some poor lad’s boat, but he would compensate him handsomely thanks to Mary McKinnon’s jackpot she’d insisted he make free with.

  Peter looked at him expectantly. Derrick nodded, because there was no reason to put off the operation. Peter donned a snorkel, gave him a thumbs-up, then eased over the side of the boat into the water. Derrick had insisted that Peter pump himself full of a variety of Sunny’s herbs the day before and he would make sure the lad ingested vast quantities of her nastiest brew when they returned home. Swimming in the Thames was perhaps never a good idea, but in Elizabethan England it could be downright perilous.

  There was suddenly a little pop and the outer gate swung open. Derrick paddled into the receiving area, as it were, leaving Oliver the task of silencing any guards there who might find their clandestine activities requiring an announcement. Four men fell senseless, fortunately not into the water. He was actually quite relieved to see Peter crawl out of the water and up the steps, poor lad. The second gate swung open soundlessly. He and Oliver stepped out of the boat, leaving it for Peter to guard, and slipped up the steps.

  And from there, it was almost too easy.

  They made their way to Sir Richard’s cell with no less effort than he’d supposed they would need to make. He’d considered it very carefully beforehand and decided it was better to leave guards unconscious than slide by them and take the chance that they would r
aise the alarm. He intended to be in and out in less than six minutes, assuming Sir Richard was in any shape to run with them. They had contingencies, of course, if they found things not quite the way they expected them, but those alternate plans lasted no more than half an hour. The drugs would definitely have worn off by then.

  He honestly didn’t particularly care for guns though he certainly was proficient with several types. At the moment, though, he had absolutely no compunction about firing tranquilizer darts into each and every guard in his path. Oliver came along behind and collected the spent shots, continually looking over his shoulder for lads potentially following them.

  He lowered Sir Richard’s guard to the floor in the shadows, then stood guard as Oliver picked the lock to the cell. He was fully prepared to find more guards inside, but that wasn’t quite what he found.

  He found Francis Cooke sitting nervously in a chair, unfettered and obviously waiting for someone.

  Once Francis saw them, he started to hyperventilate. Derrick supposed he should have expected that given that he and Oliver were dressed all in black with just their eyes showing.

  “Drummond’s over here in the corner,” Oliver said. “Unconscious, damn him to hell.”

  Derrick holstered his gun and folded his arms over his chest as he looked at Francis. “And you?” he asked mildly. “What are you doing here?”

  Francis was apparently not so terrified that he couldn’t speak. “I’m waiting for Lord Derrick,” he said. “I overheard him saying he planned to rescue Sir Richard.” He took a deep breath. “I’m going back with him to that other place.”

  Derrick found himself rather glad that he was wearing a mask that covered his face. This was, he could safely say, not at all what he’d expected. “Other place?”

  “F-F-Faery,” Francis said, fighting to keep his teeth from chattering. “That secret world beyond L-L-London. By the Globe. Through that ring of mushrooms.”

  Perfect. How was it possible that out of all the souls who could have traipsed through time, it had to have been the fool in front of him to manage it? Derrick drew himself up.