The Writer and the Rake

by Shehanne Moore

  “Goodness, Mitchell, I do believe you’re jealous.”

  “Me?”

  It wasn’t obvious from his voice. It wasn’t obvious from his face either, tanned in the dying rays of the sun, but she remembered what Mort had said, even though this wasn’t why he’d said it.

  “Yes. You.”

  She made doubly sure to lace her own voice with tones of mellowed sweetness. Stay here any longer and she was risking her soul. And that was hers to keep. “It’s what all this stuff about wanting me here, not wanting me here, dressing me like a blancmange, is really about, when all it’s honestly about is the sex we’ve had.”

  “Be careful there, Brittany. You’ll have me believing you care.”

  She failed to smother the laugh. “Why would you want me to, darling? Why would you care about me? This is a business arrangement. It always was, and unfortunately, where we were both concerned, we read a little more into it than we should, fought it too because that’s not just what we are, that’s where we are. But now, now, with all that’s at stake, for both of us—and yes, I have things too—it’s time to realize a business arrangement is all this is. So any fuss is negligible.”

  His impassive gaze flickered over the wall of trees at the end of the lawn. “Brittany Carter, brittle as porcelain, deadlier than shattered glass. An irresistible combination.”

  “I know, darling. Tell me something I don’t.”

  He faced her fully. “But, it’s not quite you, is it?”

  “Really? Oh, I think it is and if you think I can afford to muddy this, then you’ve never known me at all.”

  “Then tell me, why the hell are your fingernails always in that disgusting state?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Discomfort flickered that he didn’t raise his voice, that his eyes were dead as doornails. But, she couldn’t let him hold mirrors, or rip veils, strip her bare, this man whose eyes had been quite different when he possessed her body. Not now. Not tonight. Not ever.

  “Because I get hungry, Mitchell. I think it’s perfectly bloody obvious, being kept on short rations by Christian. Please don’t tell me you don’t?”

  “I know you, Brittany.”

  How could she help curving her lips? Knew her? It was more than she did. “If this is about what you saw in there, then I am not going to—”

  “No, it’s about the fact I saw you coming. If I’d known then the effect on myself I’d have walked away.”

  She lowered her eyelashes. “So walk. Oh come on, darling, you surely don’t think you’d be the first, do you? I mean, seriously now?”

  “No. I don’t. I don’t know the first thing about you. Not really. I’ve wanted to ask so many times, just as I’ve wanted to say. What these fools, these idiots did before me is their affair.”

  “Who says they were idiots? Darling, you really don’t know the half of me.”

  “Then tell me, Brittany.”

  “It would take years.”

  “It’s not every woman I give my heart to, do you understand? Which is why I will find you.”

  Knock her down with a feather—oh God, please. She couldn’t find herself. If she zinged back to her time he’d have even less chance. If she had known men were so poorly off back in 1765 as to want to find her, she’d have organised bus tours of lonely, desperate women who’d be clawing their way from the clubbing circuit to find love and romance. It would make them so happy.

  “Perhaps. I mean, you can’t find me. Mitchell, darling, I’m so sorry to disabuse you but I’m not to be found. That’s just something people think because they can’t get their heads round that fact. Now—”

  “Is that what you think? Well, here’s the sad thing. You’re to be found all right. The thing is I don’t just know you, I see you. I see you in all these moments you mount that bright smile, like a badly painted façade.”

  “When you’ve never said before.”

  “I see everything about you, even the fact you will waltz me to my doom.”

  “You think?”

  “It is still somewhere I go willingly.”

  “Darling, I really can’t think why.”

  Imagine? Words no man had ever said. Words she’d eaten her soul out in the darkness of the night to hear. Waiting, longing. Some of them anyway. ‘Her ladyship’s drunk again,’ was a bloody great cheek. Such a bloody great cheek, the torrent of words she prepared to spill, became tears at the back of her throat. “Mitchell . . . please . . .”

  She’d done so much to fight him. Now, he raised his head and his fingers brushed her face. They caught in her hair at the back of her head. She didn’t know if she could bear it, the look in his eyes either.

  “Just tell me what I saw was a lie. You weren’t talking to Francis Dashwood. You weren’t with him when you left me. And that other man means nothing.” His hand, under her chin, brought her mouth up to meet his. “That’s all I want to know.”

  “Mitchell . . .” She stiffened her spine. “Don’t . . . Because he does. And even if he didn’t, I’m not your wife. For God’s sake, I can surely talk to who the hell I want, when the hell I want isn’t being yours. I’m not your property. I never will be. I’m not any man’s. I belong to me. Do you understand? This was only ever a short-term arrangement. Now please, will you take your hands off me?”

  His smoky gaze swept her, burning asphalt in her heart. Nothing would stand in the way of her going home. Not his gaze, not him. The things they’d have been better not to say, to do, the things to cast away.

  “Forget Killaine House, Mitchell. You’ll get Killem. Don’t ask me how. But, you have to walk away. You can have me, or you can have that.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  “Yes you do. And I want you to have that. Whatever you think, this will never be more than a charade. Francis Dashwood, what you think you saw doesn’t matter a damn. I’m not staying. I was never staying. There are stars I can’t afford to hurtle towards here.”

  Young, beautiful, handsome, without a care and her clinging to his shoulder as she was earlier, that was what she’d take back.

  Fame, success, riches.

  She wasn’t home and dry yet. Mort had said, that would take Mitchell Killgower hating her. She’d no idea if he was capable. She’d no idea she was capable of any kind of love either.

  “I will never love you Mitchell. Now, will you get away from me?”

  Young, beautiful, handsome, without every care and her clinging to his shoulder as she was now, he stepped back. His face tightened. That stone she knew so well, creeping across it, as if it had been touched by death.

  “Once again, I apologize for my behavior. If that is your heart’s desire then, of course, mine is not to stand in your way. Not now. Not ever. That’s not what I am.”

  He turned away.

  She found her voice. “Thank you, Mitchell. I’m so glad you see it that way.”

  Chapter 18

  The ground swung, to the left, to the right. She snapped her eyes shut. These transitions occurred when she was lying down, except for that once at Killaine House. Then she’d felt she was wading through treacle, walking on shortening stumps instead of her feet. If she stood firm, eyes shut, breath held, hands at her side, surely she’d land where she was meant to be? Spinning head and all she’d land somewhere away from this darkling light. She’d end in Sebastian’s. She focused harder.

  “Yes . . . Yesss . . . Yesssss . . .”

  Was that her saying that? Or someone else?

  “Seebastian . . .”

  Obviously it was someone else. She wouldn’t exactly be saying, yes . . . yesss . . . yessss to him, unless it was the fact he’d finally taken her name off that mortgage. Then she’d sound trul
y ecstatic, not like a half-baked rag who just wanted this over with as quickly as possible. Of course Sebastian had never been up to much between the sheets. She blinked her eyes open.

  Right . . .

  Please God, don’t let them notice her. If she lay here very quietly, not moving a muscle—breathing either—just shrunk into herself, she just might get away with this, no-one would see her, hear her, or notice her presence in the bed.

  “Seebastian. Vot the—? Jeesos.”

  The mattress heaved. The floor too. At least it sprang up to break her fall. The light pinged on, blinding her.

  “Vot ees she doing here? Vot ees these? Ees these what you are eento? Meénage?”

  “Not with you, or him, darling. You’d have to be kidding. Now, if you’ll just excuse—”

  “Vot are you doing here, you feelthee, deerty troll-ope? Seeebastian . . .”

  Brittany ducked as the alarm clock crashed into the wall. What was this Seeebastian? A sea bass? A sea bastion? Or her ex fiancé lying in a drunken stupor. What was a feelthee troll-ope when it was at home?

  “Britney . . . S’helga . . . what’s s’goin— Britney, ‘swhat are you doing s’here?” Sebastian raised his forehead off the pillow and peered around. The headboard slammed the wall as he crashed back down.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Brittany edged towards the door on her haunches. The alarm clock was followed by an empty lager tin. “Why don’t you two just get a room?”

  “Vee haf room.”

  “Isn’t that gratifying?”

  “Vee have house.”

  “I think you’ll find he has house and I do too, darling. And would you please stop spitting?” She dabbed her eye with the hem of her dress. “What is this? Attack of the venom spraying goblins?”

  She was back. The thought she could set her life to rights was jarring. What the hell was she hanging onto this damned rabbit hutch for, for a start? She hardly needed it to come home to, not with her fame, success, riches. This had been another disappearance she could milk in terms of book sales. She might even write of her ordeal at the hands of her kidnapper.

  She really wouldn’t want Sebastian bleating to the press about how mean and awful she was. If she held onto the house here, he would. If she let it go now, just brought the mortgage up to date and kept it that way, even magnanimously gave him money to buy her out, wouldn’t that look sort of better? Befitting a best-selling author?

  And also, if a sale was forced, who the hell would buy a house with checked laminate flooring on the living room door and that shit awful 1970’s avocado green bathroom suite? With a pink cistern? Early spewing, not viewing, would be what the estate agents recommended. She smiled.

  “But, far be it for me to quibble about the house. All I want right now is a bed for the night—preferably alone. We’ll discuss the rest in the morning when you’ve both recovered from your alcoholic stupors.”

  She rose to her feet, stepped gingerly across the stew of empty lager tins, mangy tights and reeking boxer shorts. At least in 1765, people were cleanly dirty. She grasped the door handle. It came off in her hand. Now, she’d need to climb out the window. Look what had happened the last time she did that in 1765. The memory rose on dark wings. Stupid, stupid. She grabbed the spindle before it landed on the other side of the door, shoved the handle back on.

  Back in the spare room, having stopped being stupid, she clicked the light on and stood against the door.

  No Rab, thank God. No Mort either. Just her looking back from the fly-stained mirror, a ghost in a cream dress. Thank God for Seebastian and Helga’s intoxicated state. If they’d noticed it at all, they’d have thought it was a hallucination. She carefully toed off her shoe.

  If her feet weren’t killing her she’d have bounced on the bed. But she couldn’t. Not this time. Still she was home. Home. Home to her life and way of thinking, of doing things. Fags. Skinny Joe’s. Booze. Writing.

  She was home, wasn’t she?

  She peeled herself off the door. All right, the writing was probably as much as she was left with. Fags? Skinny Joe’s? What was a night there, the second on the list, without the third? Booze. When Skinny Joe’s and booze led to men and men led to 1765, she would forgo booze and Skinny Joe’s.

  She face-palmed her hand. Then she door-palmed the door. Obviously she would forgo whatever was asked. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the consequences and she did have her writing. She had the things she wanted most.

  Didn’t she?

  Her sacrifice would be noble, but the alternative was surely worse than any cold whisper in the dark.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Hello, Brittany. How are you?”

  Brittany froze mid-smile. She’d been fine, lavishing smiles on those fans’ backs as they walked away nourishing her latest book, ‘Conversations with a Rake,’ to their generous bosoms. Fine, sitting here fiddling with the loose strand of her hair at the back of her neck as she engaged in the full repertoire of her wit and badinage with the string of fans who had queued round the block, while modestly contemplating her latest television appearance and the fat royalties cheque which had arrived that morning. In fact fine did not begin to cover it. On a sliding scale it was inadequate.

  She flicked another loose strand of hair behind her ear, turned her head, nibbled her third finger. Now, that Mort stood there, a cloud with no silver lining on her horizon, she wasn’t fine.

  “What do you want?”

  She wasn’t polite. Although she could afford to be. Eight whole, wonderful, whirlwind months had passed since she’d landed back here. Her life was perfect. A bubble she was never going to burst. His raincoat brushed the edge of the table.

  “I’m just passing.”

  “You know, you were doing that the night we first met. I should never have interrupted the process.”

  He gestured at the book he was holding, My Viking Fantasy. Her last, but one. Book that was. She never fantasized about anything these days. It was safest. There were situations—this was certainly one—where she needed to keep every scrap of wit about her. Smile. Be nice. Move on. Had he been holding Conversations with a Rake, now she might have something to worry about. It opened with that little scene. The one he’d described in such touching detail the last time she’d seen him.

  “I see you’re doing very well.”

  “Yes. And I see you’re still alive.”

  Saying so was neither nice, nor moving on when she had.

  “I mean, I’m here, darling and I’m staying here, so I really don’t know how you can be in existence.”

  It was his turn to shrug. “It happens.”

  So did shit in her estimation. What he clutched along with her second but latest book, was the bull-baiting rag. It might have looked like her second but latest book, she knew exactly what it was. The piece of paper he wanted her to sign.

  It didn’t matter how many fans were standing there, or what she’d promised she wasn’t doing it. How transparent could someone be? Turning up like this so she’d no choice? Fortunately her new serenity flowed through her veins like a flatly warming river. He might think she’d no choice—he was such a great one for banging on about such matters—she’d every choice.

  “So, Mort, apart from not signing that book, what can I do for you?”

  “Who says you can do anything? I saw your photograph in the window over there the other day and I wanted to come and say ‘hello’.”

  “Well, now you’ve said it . . .”

  She glanced over his broad shoulder, then back.

  “Oh, Mitchell’s not here by the way, in case you’re wondering.”

  “I’m not.”

  She shifted on the chair. The door was there. Was she making a mistake not signing the silly bit of paper? What if he kept turning up at all her s
ignings? She could scream. She could have him arrested. Given the way he flitted all over the place like a vampire bat, the prison didn’t exist that would hold him. Signing would get rid of him for good. Signing would probably ensure none of this ever happened.

  “Actually, if you do want my autograph . . .”

  “Brittany, I’m not here for—”

  “I’ll give you it. I’ll sign your piece of paper too. It’s really no odds. You and your time-mutant friends want peace. That’s my choice and my pleasure. If not, don’t come back.”

  His gaze, dull as his eyebrows, flickered over her.

  “Do you really think you can stick to that?”

  “Me?”

  She reached forward. It was worth parting with another book to get rid of him, since he clung to his copy like a drowning mariner. She scraped the pen across the paper.

  “To Mort, with all my love, Brittany Carter. Will that do? Hmm? Or do you want something more personalized? Like . . . well, I forbear to say.”

  A shrug of his equally un-expressive shoulders. “Whatever suits you.”

  “Well, what suits me is for you to go away, Mort. So if you’d also care to hand me that bit of paper, I’ll also prove I’m as good as my word. Just make sure, you don’t go bursting into flames in here. Although they do say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

  “I’m not meaning, can you stick to signing the paper. I’m meaning something else.”

  She refused to raise her head. It was best to let these acidic drips run like water off a duck’s back even if that back was charcoaled, incinerated beyond repair.

  “Well, Mort. I’ve changed. I’m an all-round good girl these days, entirely untempted by life. You and your friends can sleep easy on that score.” She shut the book with a snap. “Now? The paper . . .”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “What is? The fact you almost certainly will never exist?”