by Jenny Lykins
Alec stomped across the room, took the bag, peered into it, then dumped the contents onto the floor.
A small, odd pair of boots, with intricate stitching, pointed toes, and odd-looking heels clattered to the parquet floor. A pair of faded, pale blue trousers of heavy canvas-like fabric landed on top of them. He picked them up and studied them. Too small for any man, too long for a boy, the knees had black dirt ground into them and a leather patch on the back with the name Ralph Lauren tooled into it. While he wondered about the meaning of the patch, he leaned over and scooped up a wad of white fabric. It was some type of shirt with short sleeves, surely an undergarment. He dropped the trousers and inspected the shirt, shocked to find the name Ralph Lauren again, embroidered in white across the chest. What manner of person walked around with his name emblazoned on his clothing? Not a man, for all these garments were far too small. And a lingering scent clung to them that had nothing masculine about it.
Alec dropped the shirt atop the heap, certain that the person walking around in Ralph Lauren’s clothing was the woman who now wore the emerald and diamond ring…as well as the name Hawthorne.
Who the hell had he married? Was he married? And why did she have on his great aunt’s ring?
The answer didn’t require a great deal of imagination. The woman obviously stole the ring from Phillipa’s effects. She’d come aboard after the ship had docked, found an empty cabin, then rummaged through the trunks. What else had she stolen from the dead women besides the ring and the clothing?
Alec’s anger, which had been smoldering since Ned’s first words, ignited into a full blown rage. He stomped to the door connecting the two chambers and slammed the panel back into the wall.
The curvy lump on the bed jerked, rolled over, and dragged a pillow over her head. He marched across the room and threw the pillow onto the floor.
“Get up,” he ground through clenched teeth.
She reached behind her and started to drag the other pillow toward her. He snatched it away, then grabbed a handful of covers and yanked.
She yelped and shot upright, grappling for the blankets and jerking them back to cover herself.
“What the heck are you doing? Are you crazy?” she yelled, burrowing deeper into the covers until only puffy, terror-filled eyes peered out at him. Hair sprouted in tangled lumps from her head.
“Who are you? You are not Phillipa Morgan.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot skyward and she blinked at him several times as she lowered the covers a fraction of an inch.
“If I remember right, I’ve been telling you that all along. Shaelyn Sumner? Remember?”
Alec had opened his mouth to cut down any argument she might have, but now his mouth merely worked, emitting no sound. Damn the woman.
The ring!
“What about the ring? Why are you wearing Phillipa’s betrothal ring?”
The woman brought her arms from beneath the covers, tucked the sheet tightly across her bosom, then yanked on the ring again.
“I found the stupid thing in the passageway of the ship, and I put it on so I’d remember to give it to the captain.” She grimaced as the ring refused to slip over her knuckle. “I wish I’d left the darn thing where I found it.”
Alec narrowed his eyes at her while she struggled.
“Why did you pretend you were Phillipa when we met? Why did you say your aunt was ill? Why did you lie? Do you realize that because of your lie, we may now be well and truly wed?” His voice had risen to nearly a bellow with his questions.
“I told you why I said I was Phillipa. I thought it was an act! I didn’t--” She stopped in mid-sentence, her eyes growing so wide, white surrounded their odd green color. “Married? What do you mean, married? It was all pretend! You have to have a marriage license to get married!” Suddenly her eyes narrowed to moss-colored slits. “You were going to marry someone you’d never met? How can you blame me for all this when you didn’t even know what she looked like? Why would you marry someone you’d never met?”
“She was betrothed to my brother in childhood--”
“Your brother? You were going to marry your brother’s fiancée?”
Alec could have bitten off his tongue. The woman was infuriatingly quick.
“Charles is in love with someone else, so I chose to--”
“Charles?” she bleated. “Charles?” Twin furrows etched themselves between her brows. “If your brother is Charles, then who the heck are you?”
This was not going at all as he’d planned. She seemed to manage to turn the conversation around every time he opened his mouth.
“Who I am is not important. What is important--”
“Not important? You bet your life it’s important, bubba! If I’m forced to go looking for an annulment, I want to know the name of the guy who tricked me into marrying him.”
Alec’s fingers itched to encircle her throat. With as much dignity as he could muster, he leveled a glare at her.
“I am Alec Hawthorne. And you needn’t seek an annulment. I plan to see to it personally.”
“Fine,” she said, lifting her chin in defiance, “but you’ll forgive me if I make sure it’s done right.” She threw the thin comforter around her and inched to the edge of the bed. “So if you’ll just get the heck out of here, I’ll dress and be on my way.”
Alec blinked at her high-handed tone. How dare she question his ability? How dare she order him around?
“You’ll not leave this house until the ring’s returned.”
She shocked Alec to the core by uttering a foul curse under her breath, then uttered another when the covers started to slip as she struggled with the ring.
He should have averted his gaze, but he found himself fascinated with the sight of translucent ivory flesh beneath a very low line of sun-bronzed skin. He knew from when the sheet dropped momentarily the night before that the white strip of skin crossed her breasts, but the skin on her stomach was as bronze as the rest of her. What manner of woman exposed herself to the sun in such a way as to darken her skin, let alone in such forbidden places? Had he married a woman of loose virtue? Her knowledge of curses certainly indicated as much.
“Would you please leave me alone so I can get dressed and try to get this ring off without you hovering over me the whole time?” she nearly barked.
He jerked his head back and stared at her, trying not to gape. If she did indeed steal the ring, she certainly wasn’t trying to wheedle her way into his good graces.
“I’ll leave you to dress,” he told her evenly, “but someone will be watching the windows and door, in case you decide to leave before removing the ring. As long as the jewelry is returned, I will not call the authorities.” He wouldn’t call them at any rate. The last thing he wanted was for this disaster to become public knowledge.
She rolled her eyes heavenward and shook her head. As he walked from the room he heard her mutter something about “anal retentive.”
Surely she couldn’t mean…
After her psuedo-kidnapper left the room, Shaelyn kicked off the layers of sheet and comforter and scooted to the far side of the bed, muttering to herself and trying her best not to cuss. Every time she cursed, she gave a hundred dollars to a charity. She had an awful feeling that by the time this fiasco was over, she was going to need a charity of her own.
At least her kidnapper didn’t seem intent on hurting her. He’d had plenty of time and opportunity to force himself on her, if that had been part of the plan. Instead, he’d been very gentle with her.
A dark red blotch in the center of the snowy white sheet caught her eye, and suddenly she owed another hundred dollars. She searched her arms until she found the deep scratch that had opened during the night and smeared the bedclothes. Blood had dried in several places on her arms, and now she noticed at least a dozen bruises all over her body.
She almost smiled. Having the chance to drive her knee home yesterday had been worth the bruises.
She turned her thoughts back to g
etting dressed, washing in the frigid water from a pitcher on an antique stand, scrubbing the scratches on her arms, purposely ignoring the lack of modern conveniences and all that implied.
She found her underthings on top of the rumpled heap of costume and cringed at not being able to put on clean lingerie. But it was that or none at all, and she’d already goofed once by sleeping without them. She’d never in her life been able to sleep with clothing against her skin, and she’d been so mentally exhausted the night before, she just hadn’t thought.
Just as she settled the hopelessly wrinkled gown over her head and was kicking herself for leaving her clothes on the ship, a quiet knock sounded at her door and the little red-headed maid who’d fled the room the night before entered with a tray.
The aroma of bacon and eggs and freshly baked bread reminded Shae that she hadn’t eaten in ages.
“Can I help you dress, ma’am?” the girl asked with twin spots of pink brightening her cheeks.
“Yes! Thanks.” Shaelyn presented her back and lifted the thick tangle of curls away from the buttons. “I nearly dislocated my arm the last time I tried to reach those things.”
“If you’d like, I could iron your gown for you, ma’am,” the red-head hesitantly offered.
“Oh, no, thanks…what’s your name?”
“Margaret, ma’am.”
“No, thanks, Margaret. I’m going to be changing into my own clothes soon.” Shaelyn stood quietly while Margaret worked at the dozen or so buttons. A thought that Shae had been studiously avoiding kept shoving its way to the fore as she stood still and studied her surroundings.
The view from the window wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it lacked something. Neon-colored buoys bobbing in the water? Motorboats dotting the blue expanse? The lack of noise almost screamed at her. No sounds of boat or car engines. No airplanes in the distance. No telephones ringing or TV’s blaring or even the muffled sound of a radio from deep inside the house. Even the air smelled different.
A spider of apprehension crawled up the back of her neck as her hands came together through her hair and she unconsciously tugged at the ring on her finger.
She cleared her throat once and looked at the ceiling.
“Umm, Margaret, what year would you say it is?”
The movement of fingers against her back stopped.
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“What year would you say it is?” she repeated, trying to act as if the question wasn’t as asinine as it sounded.
“Why, it’s the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and thirty.”
Shaelyn froze as her heart tripped and her breath caught in her lungs. Margaret finished buttoning the gown then stepped away, but still Shaelyn stood there.
“Are you all right, ma’am? Would you like for me to fetch Mr. Alec?”
Shaelyn dropped her arms and sank into the nearest chair.
“No, no. Don’t get Alec.” The last person she wanted was Alec, she told herself, refusing to think about how good his arms had felt the night before when she’d woken from her nightmare.
The little maid poured a cup of steaming coffee from a silver urn and handed it to Shaelyn, then turned her attention to making the bed.
She flipped the covers back, glanced at the blood, then pulled the sheets from the bed.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Shaelyn offered. “Last night I…I guess…” She stopped talking when she realized she was babbling. To be truthful, she didn’t think her spinning mind could put together a coherent apology anyway.
Margaret left the room, then reappeared in a matter of minutes with a fresh set of sheets.
Shaelyn hadn’t moved. Hadn’t even blinked. She just sat in the chair, twisting the stubborn ring on her finger and trying to pull her shattered thoughts together.
1830.
She wasn’t dreaming. She knew that. She always knew when she was having one of her weird dreams. This wasn’t one of them.
She hardly ever even drank, so she couldn’t be drunk. She didn’t remember getting sick or having an accident, so she couldn’t be in a coma. She was positive she hadn’t eaten or drank anything before or after meeting Alec, so he couldn’t have drugged her.
A dull throb started at the base of her skull. She closed her eyes and willed herself to relax.
She could almost believe she’d somehow traveled through time.
Since her earliest memories, she’d had strange things happening to her. Once she’d had dèjá vu so strongly, she’d known her way around a city she’d never been to. She had memories that included people she’d never met, yet she knew them in her memory.
She’d never quite felt that she belonged, no matter where she was or who she was with. At first she’d thought it was some sort of psychological thing from being adopted, but as she matured she realized her roots had nothing to do with her sense of displacement. She’d always felt as if she’d dressed for a part in a play but put on the wrong character’s costume.
Could she possibly have entered some sort of time warp? It almost made as much sense as anything else she could come up with.
*******
Alec refolded the marriage certificate, downed his second glass of whiskey for the morning, and resisted the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall.
The marriage document acclaimed to one and all that on the 29th day of July, in the year of our Lord, 1830, one Reverend Ezekial Forester joined Alec Hawthorne and Shaelyn Sumner in holy matrimony.
She’d signed her real name. If it was her real name. And he’d signed his.
And, blast it all, that traitorous Griffin had witnessed the document with his sweeping signature, no doubt never once looking at the names.
Alec sighed. Why should Griffin have looked at the names? Alec himself had not bothered to even glance at the paper once it’d been signed.
To make matters worse, Margaret had come to him just moments ago, telling him how the blasted woman had asked her what year it was. No doubt trying to prove insanity now that she’d been found out. Alec had given the maid some vague story about the woman having been ill onboard ship, and no doubt her thoughts were still muddled from the illness. He’d instructed Margaret to keep the information to herself, since their “guest” would be embarrassed if news of her irrational question got around.
He dropped into the chair behind his desk and massaged his forehead with his fingertips. What an absolute mess. Did he still have grounds for annulment? He’d deceived her as much as she’d deceived him.
“You have a caller, sir.”
Charles strode into the room behind Martin, looking as haggard as Alec felt, and much older than his twenty-one years.
“Thank you, Martin.” His brother turned and shut the door when the butler retreated. “Alec, we must do something. I refuse to marry this Phillipa Morgan. I’d resigned myself to the fate, but that was before I fell in love with Mary. I won’t give her up, Alec, because Father made a business deal fifteen years ago. He shall have to build his beloved shipping empire without using me as a sacrifice. I won’t marry her, even if Morgan Shippers were the largest in the world.”
Well, at least Alec could brighten one person’s day out of this mess. How macabre, he realized, to brighten one’s day with the news of a death. He shook his head.
“Charlie, you’re free to wed Mary. Phillipa Morgan is dead. And I suggest you wed your beloved before Father can shackle you to another fortune. God knows he’s been trying to find the highest bidder for me since Daphne died last year, even though I’ve warned him I’ll refuse to bow to his wishes again in the marriage mart Saint’s blood, an arranged marriage for a man of thirty years.”
Charles paled as he leaned on the desk with his fists.
“What are you saying? Phillipa dead? When? How? And how do you know of this?”
“Her ship docked yesterday.” Alec held up a hand to silence Charles’ questions. “I…um…I appropriated her letter. Fortunately it arrived while I was
visiting Mother and Father.”
“Have you gone absolutely mad? Father will have your head!”
“And he’s welcome to it,” Alec muttered. He looked up at his brother leaning over the desk and waved him into a chair. “I’ll worry about Father when the time comes. But for now, I’d suggest you find yourself a minister and get yourself wed. Phillipa Morgan and her aunt died during the voyage and were buried at sea.”
Alec didn’t bother to mention that he’d just been apprised of the facts himself less than an hour ago. Until he decided what to do about Shaelyn Sumner - or rather, Shaelyn Hawthorne - he would keep her existence to himself.
Color seeped back into Charles’ face. “How dreadful,” he said, more to himself than to Alec. “You know I wouldn’t have wished her dead.”
“Of course not. Her death isn’t your fault. She and her aunt fell ill. Four other passengers died as well.”
Charles leaned back into the leather of the chair and rubbed his temples. “I say, I feel guilty at this monstrous wave of relief I--”
“Alec!” The angry, booming voice echoed from the front door.
Alec fell back against his chair and rolled his eyes heavenward.
“Heavenly Father, I know you have a sense of humor, but must you be so zealous in displaying it?”
William Hawthorne stormed through the heavily carved door to the library, veins bulging and nostrils flaring. Alec’s mother, Jane, rushed in behind her husband, wringing her gloved hands and whispering, “Not in front of the servants, William!”
He ignored her, as if she were no more than a fly buzzing behind him.
He stopped in front of the desk. Alec and Charles rose, as they’d been taught all their lives to do.
In a roar that would have done the fiercest of lions proud, he demanded, “Explain to me why you have married your brother’s betrothed.”
Charles’ eyes bulged and his neck cracked when he jerked his gaze to Alec.
Their father stood there, trembling with fury, while their mother’s entreaties to remember himself went ignored.