Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  It almost made him feel bad.

  Kit cleared her throat behind him, still holding the rifle at the ready. Marc glanced at her. She obviously had a softer heart than him.

  “You’re going to beat Linwood senseless. Maybe you should have a handicap?”

  “Excuse me, Miss Ashton?” Linwood intoned, jumping into the conversation as he meticulously rolled up his sleeves. “I do not understand your meaning.”

  She gestured toward Marc with her chin. “Marc should limit some of his moves, like no roundhouse kicks to the head or something. Just to make things more fair.”

  Marc sighed. It was a sensible suggestion and would perhaps level the playing field. Though it would take so much of the fun out of the upcoming bout . . .

  “Fair, Miss Ashton?” Linwood arched an arrogant eyebrow. “I do not expect fairness. I expect an honorable fight. If Mr. Wilde is capable of such a thing.”

  Marc snorted. “Define honorable.”

  “Striking only and avoiding, shall I say, sensitive areas.” Linwood stretched his shoulders. “No holding or grappling. No touching an opponent if they are on the ground.”

  “Sounds easy enough.”

  “Then we are agreed.”

  With a nod, both men squared off.

  Linwood was several inches taller than Marc giving him a farther reach, though that hardly compensated for Marc’s superior muscle mass and years of training and practice.

  Marc raised his fists into a typical muay thai stance, as it seemed a good place to start. Linwood matched his position competently. So the man wasn’t entirely unaware of how to box, at least. Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon, anyone?

  They danced around each other for a moment, each looking for an opening. Linwood shot a punch at Marc who ducked and took instant advantage of the opening to deliver a punishing kick to Linwood’s side.

  Linwood grunted and danced back, fists still at the ready. Waiting for Marc to make the next move.

  Marc darted in, blocked a blow from Linwood with his forearm, kneed him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and then whirled and jumped, delivering a powerful kick to Linwood’s jaw.

  The viscount staggered backward. But didn’t collapse.

  Spitting blood out of his mouth, Linwood straightened and came again for Marc.

  Marc felt a grudging amount of respect for the man. He wasn’t a wuss.

  They feinted and punched for a moment or two, Marc blocking Linwood’s blows with his fists and forearms. Linwood landed a lucky blow to Marc’s shoulder, causing Marc to wince.

  But Linwood had reached too far with the punch, leaving him open. Marc moved in for the knockout, kicking Linwood in the solar plexus and then delivering a sharp right hook to Linwood’s head.

  With a moan, Linwood collapsed, landing on his hands and knees on the ground.

  Staring at the dazed viscount, Marc was suddenly tired.

  Why was he here fighting this jerk?

  As Linwood gasped for air, Marc turned to see Kit beside the gig, rifle in one hand and taser in the other.

  She stood like an avenging angel, ready to do battle. Hair loosened from its pins and tumbling down her back, cloak twisted, but eyes bright and fierce.

  In other words, utterly magnificent.

  So many unanswered questions.

  He just wanted to find Daniel, get back to the portal, take all three of them home. Put this entire incident behind him.

  The grooms and footmen had roused themselves, eyes darting between Marc and their fallen master. Each of them watching Marc with a healthy amount of respect.

  “Good fight, men.” Marc nodded at them.

  Kneeling beside Linwood, Marc dug into his pocket for a handkerchief and handed it to him. Linwood took it and began to wipe the blood from his face.

  “I don’t think you are a truly evil human being, Linwood. But you need to let go of your precious pride for just two minutes and realize you do not understand everything that is going on here. There is a lot more at stake than merely something stolen from Kinningsley which the French might or might not find useful. For once, trust someone else. Trust that others are intelligent too and can solve problems. We have your interests and the interests of Great Britain at heart. Miss Ashton and I are leaving. We will return to Haldon Manor when we have something to report.”

  Not caring to hear Linwood’s reply, Marc stood and walked over to the gig and Kit. He shrugged back into his tailcoat as she stared at him.

  “You were incredible out there.” She handed him his caped greatcoat. Hesitantly. As if she, too, were afraid he would bite.

  He drew on the long greatcoat, unsure of how to respond.

  He handed her into the gig and then climbed up himself, taking the reins, clucking the horse into a walk. He skirted around Linwood, who had staggered to his feet with the help of a footman, and continued down the road.

  Kit sat silently at his side, leaving Marc to mull his next move.

  So she was from the future. That was great.

  But why had she reacted like that when she realized who he was?

  He was an actor. So what?

  Kit sat nearly motionless beside him, chewing on her cheek.

  As soon as the gig rounded a corner, leaving Linwood out of sight, she pulled on his arm.

  “Stop for just a moment, Marc. I need to say something.”

  Obligingly, Marc pulled on the reins, turning his attention to her.

  Kit placed a hand over his and then raised her enormous brown eyes.

  “Let me just set one thing straight, Marc Wilde. You misunderstood back there. You are incredible. And this is precisely how I feel about you.”

  Without giving Marc a chance to catch his breath, Kit grabbed hold of his coat, pulled him to her and kissed him.

  An extremely thorough, hot sort of kiss.

  The kind of kiss that melted a man’s bones and scattered every other thought from his brain.

  A very twenty-first century kiss.

  Not one to hold back, Marc gathered her close and pressed a hand between her shoulder blades, clasping her to his chest. Losing himself in the soft give of her lips.

  With a sorrowful gasp, Kit pushed away shaking her head.

  “I don’t have an issue with who you are. But I’m afraid you might have an issue with me. That was why I reacted the way I did.”

  Marc frowned. “Why would I have an issue with you?”

  She took a deep breath and then covered her face with her hands.

  “Ugh! Why is this so hard?” She lifted her head. “Remember that I told you as soon as I could. That I abhor secrets, and I didn’t want to keep this one from you. Even though it would have been so easy.”

  “Is your name not Kit Ashton?”

  “My name is Kit Ashton, but that’s not how you know me.” She took a deep breath, eyes pleading for understanding. “I usually go by the moniker La Pochette.”

  Chapter 17

  Kit watched all the blood drain from Marc’s face.

  He blinked, looked at the road. Went to cluck the horse back into a walk. Stopped. Turned back to her. Shook his head. Took up the reins again, this time clicking the horse into action.

  Basically, he obviously had no idea what to do or think.

  Kit sat silently, letting him sort through it.

  Marc Wilde! She had been laughing and kissing and generally falling hard for Marc Wilde.

  What were the chances? She had been so relieved to realize they could actually have a life together. That maybe their obstacles weren’t as huge as she thought . . .

  And then this.

  No wonder he had looked familiar. Without those awful blond dreadlocks and completely out of context, she hadn’t recognized him. But now, it seemed so painfully obvious.

  And that article she had written . . . yikes. She cringed just thinking about it.

  It had been such good fun at the time. But at the moment . . . face-to-face with him . . . maybe not so much.
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br />   After driving in silence for a minute or two, Marc cleared his throat.

  “So . . . let me get this straight. You, Kit Ashton, are in actuality, La Pochette? The website owner, editor and snarky voice behind FauxPause?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, personally, wrote that scathing article about Croc-namii and, more specifically, me?”

  Kit winced at the cool tone of his voice. But she squared her shoulders and nodded.

  “Yes.”

  A lengthy pause.

  “And . . . you don’t wish to add anything else?”

  Her shoulders sagged. “What do you want me to say?”

  “A defense of your actions? An apology, perhaps?”

  “I am genuinely sorry. Sorry that a decent person like yourself got caught in the middle of everything. But, in reality, I was just doing my job, Marc—”

  “You own the company, Kit. It’s not like someone was going to fire you—”

  “True. But it’s the brand we’ve built.”

  “Mocking others’ hard work?”

  She flinched. “I deserved that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  He drove in silence, eyes on the road. His expression shuttered and withdrawn.

  All vestiges of happy-go-lucky Marc gone. Not even a spot of meringue in sight.

  So she had broken through his defenses. That was good, right? But now he had completely shut her out. Rightfully so.

  A farmer guided two cows along the road, using a switch to direct them. Marc carefully steered the gig around the animals, face impassive.

  An ache twinged in Kit’s chest, spreading through her heart . . . a heavy, burning sensation. Her breathing sped up, and she chewed on her bottom lip to stop its trembling.

  She never cried. She could just imagine it. La Pochette crying over Marc Wilde.

  It was almost too funny.

  Except it so wasn’t.

  You are such an idiot, Virtuous Angel murmured.

  Agreed, Wicked Angel chimed in. You didn’t have to tell him. He would have found out eventually regardless.

  That’s not what I meant. We don’t lie, remember? Virtuous Angel said.

  Blah, blah. Who cares? Wicked Angel snorted. We could have been snogging that gorgeous hunk of manliness for much longer if you two would just shut it—

  “Enough,” Kit whispered, sniffling quietly. “I made the right decision. It’s better to be honest.”

  “What did you say?” Marc asked.

  “Nothing.” Kit pulled her cloak tighter around her.

  “Talking to yourself?”

  She shrugged, blinking back her tears.

  Marc continued, “Is that guilt talking? Or did you decide to carry on a conversation with the voices in your head?”

  That was uncomfortably close to the truth. And, fortunately, instantly shut down her waterworks.

  “Look, Marc. All barriers are gone. I kept my mouth shut about my past . . . well, for obvious reasons. But I am an open book now. So yes, for your information, I actually was carrying on a conversation with the voices in my head.”

  He swiveled his head to stare at her. Raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Why does that not surprise me?” His voice ironically dark.

  Kit swallowed and stared into the leafless, winter trees which lined the road.

  Why hold anything back at this point?

  “For as long as I can remember, I have broken inner thoughts into Virtuous Angel and Wicked Angel—”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you? You actually do hear voices?”

  “Well, it’s not like I’m schizophrenic or anything. I think I just subconsciously divide thoughts into good, bad and neutral. So when it came time to start writing the ‘Review of the Preview’ column for FauxPause, it was simple to have it be a conversation between my ego, id and superego—”

  “Do you ever think about the people you diss on? How your words affect their careers?” Marc shook his head and then turned toward her.

  Kit paused, taking in a deep breath. Did she think about them?

  Probably not as much as you should, Virtuous Angel pointed out.

  “No man—or woman in this case—is an island.” Marc gestured. “Everything you do . . . it’s like making waves in an ocean. You may not mean to swamp someone else’s boat, but it doesn’t excuse your responsibility either. ”

  He paused, but he wasn’t done. “It’s easy to stand ringside and heckle those of us who show up day after day, slogging through our work and dreams. But at least have the courage to hop in the ring yourself from time to time. Own your actions.”

  Kit bit back a hefty sigh. “First of all, I do try to own my actions. Second, I would hop in the ring with you, but I understand it’s crocodile-infested so—”

  Marc gave a sharp bark of laughter. Not the amused kind.

  “Wow. You are sooooo not in a place to go throwing jokes like that around,” he said.

  “Too soon, huh?”

  “Way too soon.”

  “Good to know.” Kit straightened her cloak. “This is not funny yet.”

  “Nope.”

  “Will you ever find it funny?”

  Marc fixed her with a long look, eyes disbelieving. Every line of his body communicating outrage and indignation.

  Not humorous. Duly noted.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?” He shook his head, probably in disgust. “What is funny about this?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Kit knew better than to answer it.

  They crossed a small stone bridge to see a town a short distance ahead. The white-washed wattle and daub walls gleamed between dark cross timbers.

  “Look, I know I’m a B-list actor—or D-list wannabe, as you so unkindly branded me—”

  Kit flinched again. “Marc, I am really sorry—”

  He held up a staying hand. “I have a plan for my life. Or, rather, had a plan before your little stunt. Millions of people the world over will only ever know me as ‘that Croc-nami guy.’ Who knows where my career will go after this? Do you even care?”

  “Marc, of course, I care. You are so much more than just ‘that Croc-nami guy’—”

  “I mean, you can’t write some insanely viral post and expect everything to be butterflies and roses for the target of your vitriol—”

  “Whoa, wait. What? The post went viral?” Kit’s eyes widened, his words sinking in.

  “When I left, it had more hits than anything else you had ever written . . . and that’s saying quite a bit.”

  “Wow, really?! I had no idea. That’s amazing.” And then she saw his eyes nearly bugging out of his head and realized he might not see the situation in quite the same way. “I mean, that’s . . . not good . . . maybe. Don’t they say all publicity is good publicity?”

  He shook his head, ignoring her question. “How could you not know the post went viral?”

  “Uh . . . well, I have been here for a while now. Six weeks-ish and counting. I left a backlog of articles for my assistants to post.”

  He frowned. “How is that possible? I’ve been here for only two weeks. When I stopped your horse, I had just arrived. How can you have been here for six weeks?”

  Kit sighed. “It’s such a long story—”

  And then her stomach growled. Long and loud.

  The village had drawn closer, and Kit realized she knew this place. Knew this village. It had altered quite a bit over the intervening two hundred years, but some landmarks remained the same.

  Like the Golden Rose Inn.

  “Look, Marc. We’ve been traveling all day, and there probably won’t be any food where we’re going. I’m hungry and I’m sure you are too. Let’s stop, grab some lunch and I will tell you everything.”

  Marc nodded tightly. Kit placed a hand on his arm, drawing his attention.

  “And, for the record, I want to know everything about you too.”

  His arm was steel under her hand, but his expression did softe
n slightly, giving Kit hope that they could work through this.

  Marc guided them into town. Kit smiled at the farmers and laborers they passed. Marc tipped his hat.

  The Golden Rose Inn had changed somewhat. In 2014, only the front main building remained, sitting flush with the busy road which cut through town.

  In 1814, it was set back from the street a pace and encompassed a two-story galleried yard and stable to the right. That said, the actual building looked nearly the same with its white-washed walls and exposed dark cross-beam timbers. A wooden sign swung from chains over the front door, yellow wild roses painted on it.

  An ostler ran out to take charge of their horse and carriage. Marc tossed the reins to the man and then turned to help Kit down, frowning.

  “Do you have any idea how this works?” he asked, gesturing toward the inn with his chin. “I haven’t a clue.”

  Kit’s mind blanked as she took Marc’s hand and stepped down. That was a very good question.

  “I . . . don’t know. I think you give a coin to the ostler there.” Kit subtly leaned her head, indicating the man holding the horse’s head, waiting expectantly. “Though if we hit a snag, I will just pretend to faint and that should smooth things over.”

  Some of the tension eased from Marc’s face. A smile tugged at his lips. “See, I had this idea that you were from the nineteenth century and so had experience navigating situations like this.”

  “There you were so wrong, Lord Vader.”

  Marc offered her his arm, which Kit greedily took. Lightness settled into her chest. If he was finding humor in the situation, perhaps he could forgive her and move on.

  For her part, there was no way she was giving up on him.

  In the end, ordering lunch was surprisingly simple.

  Kit watched as Marc, in his stuffiest British accent, hailed the innkeeper and introduced them as Lord and Lady Vader. He then, quite pompously, requested a private dining room and hearty luncheon. It was an impressive performance.

  “I learned all that from Pride and Prejudice. Emme always makes me watch it with her,” he whispered to Kit as the innkeeper led them into a dark-paneled parlor with a fire burning cheerfully in the hearth. Light streamed through the mullioned windows, rendering the room quaint and cozy.