A Murder in Time

by Julie McElwain

  That made Kendra laugh, though it made her face ache. “I was a horrible companion.”

  “Now that I ponder it, you have never once fetched my shawl or inquired after my health.” Rebecca smiled. “Yes, you were rather a wretched companion. Still, there was never a dull moment . . .” The smile faded. “Will you be returning to America?”

  “I don’t know.” As much as she wanted to tell Rebecca the truth, the less people who knew about her situation, the better. She’d already decided to tell the Duke. She would need his permission to stay in the castle, to walk through the doorway at the given time . . .

  Rebecca grabbed Kendra’s hands, her cornflower blue eyes brightening with tears. “I shall not say good-bye to you as my companion, Miss Donovan. I shall say good-bye to you as my friend.”

  Alec’s words came back to her. You are not alone . . . you are among friends.

  She’d always been a loner, a freak. Maybe she still was a freak. But she was now a freak with friends—real friends. The knowledge brought the sting of unexpected tears to her eyes.

  “Thank you.” Kendra gave her an impulsive hug. “That means more to me than you know.”

  The Duke took it upon himself to put Morland’s affairs in order. With no immediate family, distant relatives needed to be tracked down, assets redistributed. Because Tinley Park wasn’t entailed, Aldridge planned to buy it. Lady Anne, with Mrs. Marks and a couple of caretakers, would be relocated to a smaller house. The rest of the staff would be given severance packages and letters of reference. Coming from the Duke of Aldridge, that would go a long way.

  While Aldridge occupied himself with those weighty matters, Kendra concentrated on regaining her strength, walking around the gardens and doing simple yoga moves. It reminded her of the time in the hospital after the mission to get Balakirev had been blown to hell and back—minus the Terminator and the Pilates machines.

  With Rebecca’s departure, the servants once again didn’t know how to treat her. She wasn’t one of the staff. She wasn’t gentry. She had no place in Aldridge Castle. I don’t belong here.

  Ten more days and it would be one month since she’d found herself in this time line. The serial killer had been caught; there would be a full moon. If there was any chance of returning to her own era, that would be it.

  Two days after Rebecca left, Kendra entered the Duke’s study. He glanced up from his paperwork, and smiled. He hadn’t asked any questions about her staying behind. Just as he had when he’d found out that she’d lied to him about her arrival in England, he waited for her to come to him.

  She was finally ready.

  He pushed himself to his feet. “Good morning, my dear. How are you feeling?”

  “Nervous,” she admitted, and pressed a hand to her stomach. It was knotted with apprehension.

  His brows lifted. “Oh? Why, pray tell?”

  “I need to talk to you about why I’m still here at the castle—about how I came to be at the castle.”

  Aldridge’s blue eyes sharpened with interest. “It is a story that I would very much like to hear.”

  Kendra drew in a deep breath, aware that what she told him would change everything. The last time she’d taken such a chance, she’d been fourteen and telling her parents that she wanted her independence. When they’d let her go without a fight, she’d felt betrayed. She had never entirely trusted anyone after that, certainly not with her emotional welfare—too risky. Now, she was going to take another huge risk, and one that, if it went wrong, could mean the madhouse.

  But maybe it was time to trust in someone other than herself. “I’ll tell you my story, Your Grace. But you might want to sit down for it.”

  73

  Three days later, Kendra sat beneath an ancient oak on the hill overlooking Aldridge Castle. She remembered her first view of the mammoth structure, and how she’d been struck by its majesty, its incredible history. Who would’ve thought she’d have a small part in it?

  She saw a rider on horseback gallop toward the castle, and then disappear behind the stone walls. Though she should have been too far away to make out his identity, she knew, by the way her heart began to race, that it was Alec.

  That reaction worried her. And it was still worrying her when, twenty minutes later, the horse and rider emerged and did a circular dance, as though scanning the area, then began galloping toward her.

  Kendra tensed automatically and forced herself to relax as they came up the hill. Alec’s look was appraising as he pulled up on the horse’s reins, stopping a few yards from her, and then swung down from the saddle. He left the beast untethered, but the Arabian seemed content to munch on grass where he’d been left.

  “You are much improved, Miss Donovan.”

  “Thank you. You look tired.”

  He dropped down beside her, stretching out his legs and leaning back on an elbow. “It’s been a difficult week,” he admitted.

  “Gabriel?”

  “Buried . . . and hopefully at peace.”

  Kendra hoped so, too.

  Alec was quiet for a moment, then glanced at her. “I spoke with Duke. You told him.”

  “Yes. I should have told him from the beginning. He was quicker to believe than you—than even myself.” She had to smile. “It took me a full day to convince myself that I wasn’t in some sort of altered state of consciousness, or hadn’t just gone crazy. He had a zillion questions.”

  Alec laughed. “Yes, and he’s quite put out that you haven’t answered any of them.”

  “I’m not sure I can. Or should. Time travel is very much part of the theoretical world. And one theory says that if I gave you or your uncle information about the future and you act on it, it could change the future in unpredictable—possibly destructive—ways.” She sighed and shook her head.

  “That is one theory. What are the others?”

  “That certain milestones are set, unshakeable. No matter what I do, I cannot change them.”

  “Because it’s destiny?”

  She frowned. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “I was of the belief that we shape our own destinies.”

  “I was of the belief that there was no such thing as time travel.”

  “Fair enough.” He gave her an unreadable look. “Duke said that you plan to walk into the stairwell again during the next full moon. You believe your wormhole will open, and you will be able to return to your time?”

  “It’s the only thing I’ve got. There was a full moon during this time period when I came through the vortex. I’m going to re-create the experience—retrace my steps.” She gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  Alec plucked a blade of grass, and twisted it. “You could stay.” When she said nothing to that, he asked, “Do you have . . . close friends and family awaiting your return?”

  “I’m sure there are people wondering where I am,” she said dryly. The U.S. government, for starters. Going back meant living her life on the run. For the first time, Kendra realized what that meant. No long-term friends. Always looking over her shoulder.

  Then again, there was no guarantee that if the vortex opened and she returned to her time line, she wouldn’t be stepping into the assassin’s bullet. Time may have stood still on that end of the wormhole.

  “People you care for?” he persisted.

  She looked at him, and shook her head. “Not really. But I’ve got to go back.”

  “Why? The Duke has great affection for you.” He paused. “Bloody hell, I refuse to be a coward. I have great affection for you, Miss Donovan.” He startled her by picking up her hand, linking their fingers. “I want you to stay.”

  Kendra’s heart flipped at the expression in the green eyes. She forced herself to shift her gaze away, scanning the rolling hills and forest, the castle below. There were workers in the gardens, with their hoes and clippers. From this angle, she couldn’t see the stable yard, but she knew it would be teeming with the workers needed in a world where machines were scarce.<
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  This wasn’t her world. But could she make it her world? She couldn’t.

  Could she?

  “I’ve never met anybody like you,” Alec continued, tugging at her hand to bring her attention back to him. “I’ve never felt what I felt for you. This, I believe, Miss Donovan, is what the poets call love.”

  For just a second, everything seemed to stop moving. Then Kendra let out her breath. “That’s insane.”

  “Love has always been a form of madness, I suppose.” He smiled whimsically, and pulled her closer. “I realized it when I thought you might be dead. I thought I’d lost you. I don’t want to lose you to this damn vortex. I want to marry you.”

  “It’s impossible. I don’t belong here, and even if I stayed, I can’t marry you. You’re a marquis. I’m . . .” She lifted her shoulders in a baffled shrug. “Here, I don’t know what I am. It won’t work.”

  “Give me time, Kendra. ’Tis all I ask.”

  She bit her lip, as fear—and something else—churned inside her. “I only have four days.”

  “Four days.” He brought his lips to the inside of her wrist, where her pulse beat rapidly. “That is 96 hours.” He moved higher up, to a sensitive spot near the crook of her arm. “Or 5,760 minutes.” He nuzzled the side of her neck. “Or 345,600 seconds.” He kissed her on the mouth. “That may be plenty of time, I think, to persuade you to stay.”

  He kissed her again, taking his time. When he finally lifted his head, Kendra was breathless. “Is this your idea of persuasion?”

  There was laughter in the green eyes now. “Is it working?”

  Kendra smiled. “Well, it’s not a bad way to pass the time.”

  “Good.” He lowered his head, his eyes fixed on hers. “Because I plan to make every second count.”

  EPILOGUE

  Present Day

  The men were already waiting for him in the conference room. Philip Leeds was careful to mask his exhaustion and worry from their sharp eyes, placing his briefcase on the long table. The dark wood of the table was so polished that it acted as a mirror, reflecting the grim faces of the other three men as well as his own.

  “I apologize for my tardiness—”

  “You should be apologizing for your goddamn agent!”

  That outburst had come from Bradley Thompson, the CIA Associate Deputy Director. His leather chair squeaked as he leaned forward, chin jutting out aggressively. “Do you know how much your agent has cost us in intelligence?”

  “You wouldn’t even have had Greene without Agent Donovan,” Peter Carson, assistant director of the FBI’s New York field office, reminded him.

  Leeds knew of the animosity between the two men. He suspected Carson wasn’t so much defending Kendra as he was as poking Thompson.

  Thompson glared at Carson. “Well, we sure as hell don’t have him now. What’s wrong with your agency? The whole mission went south because your man was a traitor. And now a valuable asset was eliminated by Special Agent Kendra Donovan!”

  “Enough!” The order came from Dean Cooper, the deputy director of national intelligence. Physically, he was the least imposing man in the room, his wiry body reaching a scant five feet, six inches. But he still wielded the most power. “We’re not here to point fingers. In fact, we’re not here at all.” He smiled slightly, but it was a smile that didn’t reach the eyes behind his thick, horn-rimmed glasses.

  Cooper inclined his head toward Leeds. “Associate Director Leeds, give us your report.”

  “We know who is responsible,” said Thompson. “The production company coordinator, Mrs. Peters, identified the photo of Kendra Donovan—”

  “I must not have made myself clear.” Cooper cut Thompson off without raising his voice. “I specifically asked Associate Director Leeds to give us his report.”

  Thompson turned red at the rebuke. Pressing his lips together, he folded his arms in front of his chest and glared at Leeds, as though daring the FBI head to contradict him.

  Ignoring him, Leeds clicked open his briefcase. He took a moment to put on his reading glasses, and then opened a manila folder.

  “Special Agent Donovan set up a false trail to Mexico, but she actually flew out of New York’s JFK under an assumed name. She landed at Heathrow, rented a car, and drove to Aldridge Castle. There, Agent Donovan inserted herself into Stark Productions, posing as an actress. Several of the participating actors identified her as Cassie Brown.”

  “Do we know if any of them were involved?” asked Cooper.

  “We have run thorough background checks. I am of the opinion that Agent Donovan acted alone. While personable, Donovan tends to be a loner. She was estranged from her parents. She was friendly with her colleagues at the Bureau, but had no close ties. She was committed to her job, which is why I believe she took it especially hard when she lost members of her team during the raid to take down Balakirev—a raid in which she nearly died herself, it should be noted. I believe she was in a compromised state of mind.”

  Cooper raised his brows. “And yet she had the wherewithal to send you on a wild-goose chase to Mexico while she flew to England for her own purpose—a purpose in direct opposition to the United States of America’s stated interests.”

  “You no doubt have read her file, sir. Agent Donovan is a brilliant woman and an exceptional agent.”

  “And now she is a rogue agent.”

  Leeds frowned. He couldn’t argue with that. Still . . .

  “We have arrested Mr. Lupe Ruiz. He owns a cantina and has a side business of creating illegal IDs. He confessed to supplying Donovan with several passports, no photos. Donovan has the computer skills to do that on her own. Hell, she has the computer skills to forge her own passports.”

  “Why didn’t she?”

  Leeds shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t have time. Or she knew we were watching her. We’ve also discovered that she transferred money to a bank account in the Cayman Islands, which has since disappeared.”

  “She has no intention of returning,” said Thompson.

  “Donovan has been clever,” Leeds said slowly. “And yet several things puzzle me. Sir Jeremy was found shot in the heart. According to the coroner, he died instantaneously.”

  “So? She’s a good shot.” Thompson shrugged.

  “Yet three additional bullets were recovered. The fireplace was scored by one bullet and a second shattered a vase. The third was found embedded in the wall. What was Donovan firing at?”

  “Maybe she’s not such a good shot,” Peter Carson said. “It took her three attempts before she managed to kill Greene.”

  Leeds shook his head. “I personally know that Kendra Donovan is an excellent shot, and there was no indication of a struggle at the crime scene. Sir Jeremy was hardly likely to stand still while Agent Donovan shot at him.”

  Cooper frowned. “Perhaps someone else came into the room.”

  “Greene was the only body found. I can assure you, if Agent Donovan was the one pulling the trigger when a second suspect entered, they’d be dead, too. And . . .”

  Cooper prodded Leeds when he fell silent. “Yes?”

  “Agent Donovan would never shoot at an innocent bystander. She would not murder someone to—forgive me, but to put it crudely, to save her own ass.”

  “She murdered Greene!”

  Leeds looked at Thompson. “Greene was far from innocent.”

  Cooper steepled his fingers, his expression thoughtful. “You mentioned several things. What are the others?”

  “Ricin was discovered mixed into the wine in the room where Greene’s body was discovered. It would’ve been poetic justice, had Greene died of ricin poisoning. But again, we have a puzzle, gentlemen. Why shoot Greene when she had every intention of eliminating him with the ricin-laced drink?”

  “Plan A and Plan B,” Thompson suggested. “She planned to poison him, but he refused to drink it. She was forced into Plan B—shooting him instead.”

  “Possibly,” murmured Leeds. But he didn’t think so. He con
tinued, “The third puzzle, if you will, is that Special Agent Donovan left her bag at the castle. It contained clothes, money, and a passport that identified her as French citizen Marie Boulanger. She also left the rental car. Why?”

  “She had other transportation,” argued Thompson. “We already know she had other passports.”

  “But why bother securing other transportation? And who would have brought it to the castle? That would require a partner she trusted. It would also mean questions. And even if she arranged for someone to pick her up, why leave her things behind?” Leeds shook his head. “What we have here is a mystery.”

  “It’s no mystery if she had an accomplice,” snapped Thompson. “Maybe she had a lover that you were unaware of.”

  “In the eight months she was on the task force, Agent Donovan was not involved with anyone,” Carson said. “She devoted all her time to her work.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  Cooper raised his hand to preempt any further argument. A deep frown etched itself on his face. “Despite these inconsistencies, two facts remain irrefutable—Sir Jeremy is dead and Special Agent Donovan was there, but has now vanished. As far as the United States government is concerned, she is a rogue agent and will be treated as such. Her photograph, with several computer variations, has been sent to our embassies and respective agency bureaus, since she will undoubtedly attempt to change her appearance.”

  “She is not a threat to the United States,” Leeds said. He felt the need to protest, though he knew it would make no difference. Kendra was worse than a threat; she was an embarrassment.

  Cooper gave him a stern look. “We cannot let our agents determine their own brand of justice.”

  Whatever had happened in England, Kendra Donovan had most definitely gone rogue. Dammit, Leeds had liked her—he still liked her.

  Wherever you are, Kendra, I hope you stay there, he thought.

  Cooper pushed himself to his feet, a signal that the meeting was over. He gave them each a hard look. “Make no mistake, gentlemen: Kendra Donovan will be found. She can’t run forever. The United States government will find her. It’s only a matter of time.”