A Lady Out of Time (Helen Foster)

by Caroline Hanson

  I hit her. The bonus, of course, was that any desire she’d had for him would undoubtedly be gone now. In that moment, he hated himself. Not her. It was easy to blame her and say she provoked him, but this was him. She was Helen of Troy torturing him and exposing his weaknesses.

  “That’s quite the right hook. Maybe I should get some boxing lessons.”

  He started at the sound of her voice, lost to his own thoughts as he’d paced the room. She sounded serious. As though, where she came from, she could go into a gentleman’s club and have boxing lessons. Perhaps she’d blackmail the trainer to get those lessons.

  “I’ve tied you securely,” he said, his voice too rough. “I’ll leave you here, meet with that overgrown German barbarian and then I’ll come back, with the plans, and you and I will do the exchange.”

  Helen jerked against her bonds, which made her breasts tremble. He ripped his gaze away from her. What about castration? It wasn’t a pleasant option, but at least he wouldn’t ogle her any longer.

  “Overgrown German?” she asked.

  “Colchester,” he said.

  She leaned forward, suddenly squinting in thought. “Colchester…blond, muscular guy from last night? He’s German?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you know?”

  “Why the hell would I?”

  He shrugged. “Good point. Sometimes I’m amazed you know that the sky is blue. You do know the sky is blue, don’t you? I’d hate to ruin it for you, but that is one of those basic things people are expected to know. Having manners or abiding the law are a few other obvious things most people know.”

  She glared at him. This wasn’t helpful.

  “It was quite a scandal, but through a series of unfortunate deaths, the title passed to a relative in Germany. He’s only been in England for a few months.”

  “What about Ms. Wells? The woman with the dress and the symbols? Is she German too?” Helen asked, pulling against the bonds as if she had somewhere to go and was late. A train out of town perhaps.

  He walked over to her, checked the bonds to make sure they were tight before stepping back. “Yes, she’s German too.”

  Helen almost screamed in shock. Just like that, the pieces clicked together. Colchester, the fucker, was from the future too. No, he couldn’t be. The implications were disastrous. It meant the Germans were capable of time travel and not only that, they knew what her mission was. Did they know who she was? What she looked like? Or were they just expecting someone to come back in time who would attempt to destroy the plans?

  Men and women could go back. They were ahead of the US.

  “You are out of options,” she heard him say. Wait. He was going to go to Colchester to get the plans? Colchester would kill him! Colchester would assume the Duke was working for her side, or maybe even that he was from the future.

  Helen stared into his eyes, willing him to see just how sincere and earnest she was. Yeah, that’s going to work. “You cannot go to Colchester. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “More dangerous than you?” he replied silkily.

  She gave a bitter laugh, hollow and desolate. Baron Colchester was a Nazi from the future. “The evil that he has undoubtedly committed…oh yes, he is much more dangerous than me.”

  “Your treacherousness is all that I am familiar with, so I shall have to take your words with a certain amount of skepticism.” He crossed his arms and planted his feet as though he were on a ship, bracing himself.

  “No, you don’t understand. Did you tell him you want to buy the plans? He will—”

  Edward interrupted her, voice hard. “You are still attempting to direct the conversation. You’re tied to a chair. You direct nothing.”

  She shifted on her chair as though trying to get comfortable, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously as if he knew she was testing how secure the ropes were. They were irritatingly secure. She licked her lips and looked around the room. Would the Baron kill him? Did he have orders to leave people alive and change the timeline as little as possible, like she did? “Please, please listen to me…” You have to untie me. Colchester is dangerous. I’m telling you the truth. He would not believe a word she said.

  She felt a fluttering at the back of her throat, as if she might cry or puke or scream and her body just hadn’t made up its mind on what was going to come out. What were her choices? Let him go to Colchester and be killed, which would change the timeline and tank her mission.

  Or...or she could tell him the truth, as much as she was able, and hope that her honesty would convince him to untie her. What if he didn’t believe her?

  Well, if he didn’t believe her, he’d go to the Baron, ask to buy the plans, and probably get himself killed. The Baron wouldn’t hesitate. But first he would torture Edward until he told him where Helen was. She’d be tied up, helpless, sitting here like a gift when Colchester showed up. She could almost feel, like a ghostly finger touching the center of her forehead, how he’d kill her. The very spot he’d rest the gun before blowing her brains out.

  She took a halting breath in. Was her only option to tell him? Really? Fuck. “Where I come from…the Baron and men like him, have been responsible for…terrible things. Honestly, I didn’t expect to see him here, and the fact that he is here is…bad.” She grimaced at the understatement. “In fact, I thought it was impossible for him to be here.”

  “And where is that?”

  “What?”

  “Where is it you come from?” he said slowly, enunciating every word as if she were a simpleton.

  “The United States. California.” He gave her an expression that somehow said 'stop bullshitting me’ without uttering a word. “That part is true…the rest is a little…fantastical. Part of the reason I’m so hesitant to tell you anything is because you won’t believe it.”

  He reached over to her, grabbing her chin in his strong, lean fingers and forcing her to look at him. “And that is my decision as well.”

  She jerked her head to the side, and he let go of her. “This isn’t about me and what I want to tell you or want to keep from you.” Her voice trembled, and she pulled as hard as she could against the bonds. “I’ll be as honest with you as I can, but you should understand, knowing this information puts you in more danger.” She strained forward, voice breaking at the end as she tried to convince him that she spoke the truth. “And if he found out that you knew who he was, or why he was here, he’d kill you in your sleep.”

  “You are so sure?” he asked quietly, disbelief and doubt etched into his aristocratic features.

  “Trust me, he comes from a long line of torturers.”

  He smiled coldly. “That was the wrong thing to say. I do not trust you.” His gaze dropped for a moment, his cheeks hollowing.

  Just tell him.

  The timeline was altered. The Germans had the plans, and she had to stop them now. Today. The hard part would be getting him to believe her. And that meant getting him to believe she came from the future. “Okay. Here you go. Next year, your sister will marry Charles Goodkind, a man she’s known all her life, but who is currently engaged to another. She’s already engaged, but the engagement will end in three months, and after a scandalously short amount of time, your sister will be wed. You dabble in architecture and are much taken with Watt, who invented the steam engine, as well as Singer, who made changes to the sewing machine.” Helen thought about continuing, mentioning his interest in epidemiology, and how he went on to fund John Snow, the man who proved cholera was spread through water rather than air. But that might give him a hint to the future. She wouldn’t do that unless she had to. His spine was rigid, and he was watching her as if she were a snake, one he was expecting to strike.

  “How do you know this?” he asked, voice lethally quiet as he interrupted her.

  “The same way I know about your birth; not because someone told me, but because I read it in a book. Your relative discovered the diary in the wall in 1925. And once it was determined that I would come here, you were chosen to blackmail
because we knew about your secret.”

  He recoiled, his dark brows slashing down as he thought through her words. “1925…You’re telling me you come from the future?” His tone had no inflection.

  “You tell me what I need to do to prove it, and I’ll see if I can convince you,” Helen said, feeling overexcited. Like this was a game of Russian roulette, and she’d already survived too many rounds.

  He went to the window, looking down at the street below, his elbow resting against the window frame. It made his body look lean, emphasized the fact that he had a magnificent ass, and was so irrelevant to what was happening now that if she could have slapped herself, she would have. “Everyone knows the Goodkinds are family friends.” Great, he’s going to rationalize everything I’ve said.

  He turned back to her, his face cast in shadow. “What year do you come from?”

  She gave a sad smile. “2089.”

  He gave a disbelieving laugh and turned to the window again, as though he could think better if he didn’t see her. “And I assume you have no proof?”

  Helen chewed her lip, trying to come up with something. “No. That’d be too easy,” she said, trying to make a joke of it. “The only thing that could come through was me.”

  Wait a minute. She knew something about herself that would convince him. Hopefully. Otherwise, she was going to feel pretty darned embarrassed. “How about a scar?”

  He turned back towards her, the sun on his face making his dark, clean hair shine. “Why would a scar make me believe you?”

  “Because it was fatal during this time—your time. Now.” She hated how flustered she sounded. “The only way someone could have survived is if they came from a time when medicine was far more advanced.”

  He didn’t say anything for a few moments, then changed the subject. “And the Baron is also from the future?”

  She nodded.

  “And he has the same goal as you, to get the plans for this weapon that Black says cannot be invented?”

  “It can be invented—just not right now. I don’t know if Colchester has another agenda for being here besides the plans. I’m here for the plans. I was told no one could come through. Just me.” Another horrendous realization hit her. “Wait. Did you say he’d been here for months?”

  Each word was precise; the weight of his gaze so heavy it felt oppressive. “No one…but you. So you are alone?”

  And just like that, she lost. She couldn’t bring herself to nod in confirmation, but she felt tears gathering at the back of her throat, and she dug her fingernails into her hands hard, willing them away. Willing herself to be stronger than this. She wished he would hit her. Do something really violent so that she could react with anger rather than this female bullshit.

  “You are working alone,” he repeated.

  “The technology is new.”

  He inclined his head as if he hadn’t heard her clearly. “I don’t know that word.”

  “Oh. Technology? Yeah, I bet. It means, um…crap I don’t know how to define it.” Helen tried to shrug. “How about a type of science for new things. No, that’s not right. I think it came about because of industrial creations. So it’s like the science of industrial stuff.”

  His expression changed, as though he were deciding whether or not to jump off a ledge into deep water below. “That is the second time you have said the word industrial.”

  “Your ability to keep track of what I say is disturbing.” In any other circumstance, she would have found his ability to remember their conversations amusing. Potentially hot. It was nice to be remembered.

  “Yes, it used to drive my governess mad.” He nodded as if he’d reached some conclusion. “Show me your scar.”

  “Well,” she blushed. “You’d have to untie me.”

  Then he laughed, the jerk. A bitter laugh. “Of course I would.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “No. You’d undoubtedly attack me.” He ran his hand through his hair, “And from what you’re telling me, you may be a madwoman.”

  She made a harrumphing noise and jerked on the bonds so hard her hands went numb.

  “Where is the scar?” he asked, raking her body as though he might have missed it.

  “Under my ribcage. It goes from my ribs across my abdomen to my hip bone on the other side.”

  He frowned at her. “A mortal wound indeed. How did it occur?”

  She had no sense of whether he believed her or not. “It was a shrapnel bomb in a school. Africa.”

  She could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t understand what she meant. It was almost nice to have someone confused by her words for a change.

  “It was a device that exploded. A futuristic bomb, but bits of metal and nails went with it. It hit me in the stomach and ripped me open.”

  “And you survived,” he said, not really a question.

  She hoped he was thinking about how believable her story sounded.

  “I won’t untie you, but I want to see the scar.”

  “Then you’re going to have to cut this dress off me,” she said, hoping she could embarrass him into letting her go. His eyes narrowed contemplatively. He came towards her, lifted the ottoman before her easily, setting it out of the way so that there was a clear space around her. As if he were actually going to cut her dress off her.

  He pulled out a pocket knife, clicking it open, then dropped down to his knees in front of her.

  Holy shit. Is he actually going to cut my dress off?

  Her stomach performed a slow somersault forward, anxiety mixed with desire and a dash of fear roiling through her. She was tied to a chair. He wanted to see her scar, which was only visible sans corset. And he was going to cut her dress off her. It will be another fantasy for when you’re a cat-lady.

  She took a breath but didn’t exhale, her heartbeat accelerating as she watched his hand hover near her left side. The large ruby stone in his signet ring winked at her. She’d never thought about men wearing jewelry, but if someone had told her that a man wearing a large antique ring was sexy, she wouldn’t have believed them.

  She did now.

  “Is it here?” he asked, his large hands still poised to touch her. Desire gave the fear a beat down, and she let out a breath as soon as his hand settled below her breast, jerked into action by oxygen deprivation. Their eyes met, his nostrils flared, and he looked at her lips. It was heated, knowing, a blatant sexual perusal. If she were free, she would have kissed him, leaned forward and grabbed him by his damned cravat and crushed her mouth to his. And that’s why bondage is a good thing. It’s protecting me from myself.

  “It starts there.” Helen grimaced when her words came out a whisper. His touch was light, fingers splayed as though he might feel the scar through her silk dress. His nails were trimmed and buffed, his fingers belonging to an artist. The pads of his fingers slid across her torso gently, coming inwards towards her belly button and continuing onwards…and down.

  He lifted his hand, only his index finger touching her as he reached her hip. Even through the layers of fabric she thought she could feel that faint touch.

  She forced herself to stay still, the feeling of anticipation curiously similar to being in a bunker and waiting for a shell to drop. Every moment was tense with horrendous expectation. His hand drew away from her, and he looked down at the knife curiously, as though he wasn’t sure where it had come from. He blinked, his focus sharpening so he was looking at her analytically, his gaze roaming her torso and chest, the hem of her dress then back to the bodice, as he tried to figure out where to part the fabric of her dress.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to release me? I won’t attack you or run. I promise.” Unless he let her go, and she jumped his bones. Was a sexy attack exempt from that promise?

  He chuckled darkly as if they were discussing something far more intimately amusing. “We are beyond your promises.”

  In that case… “You could cut it from the bodice downwards. Or start at my feet and s
lice the fabric up past my ankles,” her heart was pounding so loudly and nervously she could barely hear her own words, “up my calves, over my thighs, and then you can rip the fabric open—”

  “Stop.” He shot her a glare, and she widened her eyes, going for innocence rather than prick tease.

  “Hey, I told you to untie me and let me go. This is your fantasy here.”

  Except for a flattening of his full lips and a tightening of his jaw, he didn’t react. She heard her petticoats rustle, felt a slight tug on the hem, and then heard the fabric part. He leaned closer, his head bowed almost over her lap, so she could see his thick hair and the nape of his neck. She could smell him: soap, cologne and him. What his skin would smell like in the morning if she woke up next to him. Damn she wanted him.

  The fabric ripped abruptly, the sound loud and somehow deviant. Helen gasped, and he looked up at her, his lips a few inches below hers. Helen made herself hold still, desperately trying not to lean down and kiss him.

  She didn’t see invitation on his face, no indication that he was as moved to passion as she was. Maybe she had imagined the whole thing. His expression was cold and unyielding.

  Edward pulled hard, his strong biceps flexing under his dark coat. The material gave, splitting up to her thighs, cold air on her skin. Helen realized she was panting and tried to stop, tried to pretend that he wasn’t making her damp and frustrated as hell.

  With a dark glance, he yanked again, the dress opening and exposing the corset she wore under her clothes. Her drawers were thin, and she knew he could see through them to the shadowed vee between her legs. Helen pressed her thighs together, desire pulsing through her core.

  The laces of her corset were tied in front, and with the briefest hesitation, he pulled the tie, opening it.

  “Lean forward,” he demanded, voice low and commanding.

  She did, so close that her breasts were almost in his mouth. Her bindings were tight, only a small gap created between her back and the chair as she leaned forward. His fingers slipped around her waist and she felt him pulling deftly at the laces behind her, his fingers trapped against her back. He loosened the corset, the two halves becoming flexible enough so that he could undo the eyehooks in front.