LADY EVER AFTER: A Medieval Time Travel Romance (Beyond Time Book 2)

by Tamara Leigh

  “Aryn’s engagement ring?” James said.

  Collier nodded. “She walked out on me before I could give it to her. And just when I thought I could win her back, I received her mother’s letter.” He glanced at it. “It broke me worse than my climbing accident, and in ways I hadn’t thought possible. As I prayed for another chance with her, Catherine’s portrait was revealed, and in it I saw Aryn.”

  “I knew they looked the same.”

  Was James warming to the possibility of time travel? “A strong resemblance,” Collier said, “but they aren’t the same.”

  “The only real difference I see is eye color.”

  “It’s more than that. Aryn is not Catherine. And Catherine is not Aryn.”

  James considered the portrait. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but perhaps Catherine was in your future all along—or should I say your past?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That you were drawn to Aryn because she looked like Catherine.”

  Collier would have laughed had he the strength. “Impossible. The face in the portrait was hidden all these years.”

  “No more impossible than time travel.” James gave a satisfied nod. “You’re her knight in shining armor, braving a journey five hundred years into the past to save her.”

  Collier started to take offense, but it was said with teasing rather than derision. As for being Catherine’s knight in shining armor, that he would be—in the derogatory sense—if he didn’t prevent Walther from harming her and their child.

  He drew breath to speak, and grimacing at the pain lancing his chest, said, “I don’t know what’s at work here—how and why our three lives converged. I just want back the second chance I was given at a life worth living.”

  “A life worth living,” James mused, then said, “Careful, you’ll make me jealous. And that’s not a good place for me.”

  Collier was surprised by the admission. He knew jealousy brought out the worst in his brother—and it certainly didn’t bring out the best in himself—but he hadn’t believed James was aware of it. Nor had he realized his brother was dissatisfied with his life. Because he was more of a loner than Collier? Because, like Collier before Aryn, his relationships with women were so shallow it took little neglect to drain them dry?

  “The sword,” James said. “Tell me why you grabbed hold of the blade.”

  It took Collier some moments to adjust to the change of topic. “Just something else that could be thrown.” He frowned. “Where is it?”

  “I’d like the answer to that, too. Though it was taken into evidence, when it wasn’t returned with the other items, I requested it, but the police said they had no record of a sword.”

  Why? Collier pondered. He didn’t know if seconds passed or minutes, but he finally had an answer. “Since I stopped the sword from ending Catherine’s life, it became irrelevant.” And having claimed it for his own weapon, he had removed it from Strivling.

  James lingered over his coffee, then said, “All right, Collier, tell me what happened to you.”

  Unfortunately, it appeared he had plenty of time. Still, he was brief, it taking too much effort and discomfort to reveal his journey that ended with his final confrontation with Walther.

  “You love her,” his brother said.

  Was he still being humored? “I do.”

  “Does she love you?”

  “She does.”

  He slowly nodded. “My turn,” he said, then shared what had transpired while Collier was comatose. From the folder he removed newspaper clippings detailing the accident and speculation over James’s involvement. He spoke of the interrogations he had endured. He told about the letters written to relatives after Catherine Algernon’s unveiled portrait and resemblance to Aryn had piqued his interest. Unfortunately, of the few who recalled anything about the medieval lady, it could only be said she had orchestrated the defense of Strivling Castle before it fell to the Yorkists. No mention of her being slain in the winch room. No legend.

  “This came today.” He held out an unopened letter.

  Collier squinted to bring the return address into focus. “Geraldine Morrow.”

  “You remember Great-Aunt Gerry?”

  “Of course. She told us stories about Catherine and the fall of Strivling.”

  “Open it, and let’s see what the foremost authority on the legend has to say.” From his tone, James expected the dotty old woman to beg off knowledge of Catherine’s death in the winch room.

  Hands shaking, Collier peeled open the envelope and removed the handwritten pages. It was slow going, his failing eyesight causing him to pause often, but he declined James’s offer to read it for him.

  The first few paragraphs were idle chat, then Geraldine answered James’s question.

  There is little I can tell you about Catherine Algernon, since not much is known of the lady, but I hope what I know will satisfy your curiosity. Once Strivling fell to Lord Montagu, Lady Catherine was forced to wed a Yorkist by the name of Gilchrist.

  Though Collier needed no proof he had been with Catherine, he silently rejoiced at finding himself in the ink of Geraldine’s pen.

  A commoner, he was knighted at Strivling and somehow found favor with Edmund Morrow, who awarded him Irondale Castle where Catherine’s family resided. Though it was hoped the lady would settle down and pose no more threat to King Edward, it wasn’t long before Lancastrian rebels seized the castle and clashed with the army of Edmund Morrow. As you know, our ancestor won the day, and when the dust settled, Lady Catherine was nowhere to be found. What became of her is a mystery, but it stands to reason she let the rebel forces into Irondale.

  Though it would appear that way, how wrong she was. Catherine was also a victim, and unless he returned to her, Walther would surely be the one to make her disappear.

  As for her Yorkist husband, since he also went missing at the same time, it’s believed he died in the conflict. If I can be of further assistance, dear James, do write. I will continue to pray for you and the recovery of your brother. As ever, Geraldine Morrow.

  Collier looked up.

  “Knows nothing about the lady of legend, does she?” James said.

  Collier extended the letter. “She says Catherine disappeared from Irondale after Edmund won it back from the Lancastrians.”

  James began to read and soon shot his gaze to Collier. “Gilchrist,” he said.

  Collier had forgotten to mention his change of surname. “Aye. Edmund Morrow being our ancestor, it seemed best I use my middle name.”

  James shook his head. “This is crazy, Collier…”

  “Keep reading.”

  When next he lowered the letter, James said, “You think Walther is responsible for her disappearance?”

  “I know he is.”

  James dropped the letter on the table, removed the cigar from his shirt pocket, and clamped it between his teeth. “Explains a lot,” he spoke around the mouthful. “But why am I the only one who remembers what made Catherine Algernon the legend she no longer is?”

  Good question, and Collier could think of only two possibilities. “Perhaps because Strivling Castle means as much to you as Catherine’s portrait means to me. Or perhaps because once we were close—before our father pitted us against each other and transformed us into rivals. Before he sought to make us into his image.” Collier looked pointedly at the cigar. Though James rarely lit up, he had adopted Winton Morrow’s foul habit.

  James pulled the cigar from his mouth, considered it, then tossed it on the bedside table. “One vice I can live without.” He reached for the Scotch. “Good thing dear old dad’s poison was Vodka.”

  “Are you an alcoholic?”

  James’s hand froze on the bottle’s belly, and Collier felt a shift in the air, then his brother drawled, “Wondering if I share your problem?”

  He knew about Collier’s addiction, several of the newspaper articles having headlined his abuse of painkillers. As if uncomfortable with the subjec
t, he hadn’t commented on it. But now, himself accused of addiction, he struck back.

  So is it still a problem? Collier wondered. Outside of hesitating over the aspirin, he couldn’t remember the last time he had even thought of painkillers. “I believe my addiction is under control.”

  James gave a scornful chuckle. “As was mine—until you went comatose.”

  Collier closed the enameled box and set it atop Geraldine’s letter on the table. “I’m sorry to have put you through this.”

  James released the bottle. “Determined to break me of all my vices?”

  His attempt at humor tugged at Collier’s emotions. “Someone has to.”

  After a time, James said, “So tell me, how do we get you back to Catherine?”

  Grateful they had moved their relationship back from the edge, Collier quipped, “Had enough of me?”

  James harrumphed. “To last a lifetime.”

  It would have to, Collier thought and marveled at how much he had learned to feel these past months. In loving Catherine for Catherine, he had discovered a depth of emotion of which he had not believed he was capable.

  “Regardless of whether or not I make it back to Catherine,” he said, “you have to retrieve the coin and valuables.” Earlier, he hadn’t elaborated on the fate of what Catherine had tried to smuggle to the Lancastrians, and from the surprise widening James’s eyes, he had assumed Collier had kept Strivling’s wealth or given it to their ancestor.

  Hoping its hiding place had weathered the centuries, Collier revealed where he had buried it.

  “You think it’s still there?”

  “If it is, you should have it.”

  “I could certainly use it.”

  Feeling as if one burden was lifting, making room for the most pressing of all, Collier returned his thoughts to Catherine.

  “Collier.”

  “James?”

  “I know you’re anxious to…return to her, but it’s well over twenty-four hours since you awakened. You’ll think clearer if you get some sleep.”

  Strange, but as ill and weak as he was, he didn’t ache for rest. Just as he hadn’t for days following his receipt of the letter telling him of Aryn’s death. “What’s that line? I’ll sleep when I’m dead?” Collier smiled wryly. “But don’t feel you have to sit with me.”

  James raised his eyebrows. “This time if you need me, I’m here.”

  James the rival would have been off to dig up the storeroom—providing he truly believed Collier’s tale.

  “Thank you, James.”

  As his brother crossed to the opposite side of the bed, something occurred to Collier that should have sooner. “Was I comatose the entire time?”

  “You were.” The chair creaked as James settled into it.

  “Then I never came to, not even briefly?”

  James’s eyebrows jumped. “Actually, you—” He cut out abruptly.

  “Tell me, James. It’s important.”

  His brother groaned. “While you were in the hospital, your vital signs improved and the machines registered a heightened state of brain activity. But it didn’t last long.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t know…a week after you were admitted to the hospital?”

  Then that event could line up with finding Catherine’s portrait in her chamber. Remembering the voices and feeling the portrait’s pull, he said, “You were there when it happened?”

  His brother shifted as if uncomfortable. “I was.”

  “I believe I heard you. I couldn’t make sense of what you said, but you were angry.”

  James’s gaze sharpened, and Collier was fairly certain of what he didn’t want to discuss.

  “Before you, I heard what sounded like our mother. She was calling to me.”

  James was on his feet again, the anger in his voice from the other side of time now in the stride that carried him toward the window.

  “It was our mother,” Collier pressed.

  James shoved his hands in his pockets, and standing before the writing table, gaze fixed on what lay beyond the window, said, “She had no right. After all these years to find her sitting at your side, clinging to your hand, crying for her baby to come back to her…” He growled, a sound not unlike a dog’s warning before it attacked. “It made me sick.”

  Thank you, Lord, Collier silently praised as a piece of the puzzle, then another, forced itself into place. Though the portrait and answered prayer seemed to have played some part in his travel to another time, there was something more. When the portrait had fallen on him, the deep, sleep-like state of a head-injury-induced coma had sent him to the fifteenth century. And he had remained there only as long as the coma persisted—once nearly pulled from it by his mother, now snatched from it by James.

  It made sense, especially in light of Catherine’s ability to travel forward in time through dreams that haunted her when she succumbed to stress and little sleep. The same as Collier had experienced during his grieving over Aryn.

  Too, there were the words Tilly, also known as Matilda, had spoken to him—Just as you cannot be in two places at one time, neither can your heart be devoted to two women at the same time.

  “God!” James nearly shouted. “Why are we wasting time on that sorry excuse for a mother?”

  My time, Collier silently claimed ownership of the clock that was winding down.

  His brother returned to the bed, and standing alongside Catherine’s portrait, surveyed Collier. Then he closed his eyes and drew a breath that broadened his shoulders as if in preparation to bear a greater burden.

  “I know,” Collier rasped. “The nurse’s timing was off, but it’s happening.”

  “Then we had better get you back to Catherine.”

  Definitely humoring him. If he did believe Collier had time traveled, he didn’t think it would happen again.

  “Promise me something, James.”

  “What?”

  “First the promise.”

  “Do you really think me a fool?”

  Collier tried to moisten his lips, but his tongue was dry.

  James snatched up the bottle of water and held it to his brother’s lips. “Slowly,” he said.

  Three sips was all he could manage, and when James drew back, Collier said, “Promise me.”

  James glowered.

  “Think of it as…granting a dying man his last request.”

  James’s eyes moistened. “I know I’ll regret this, but I give you my word.”

  “When I’m gone”—it was little more than a whisper—“find our mother and tell her—”

  “No.”

  Collier lowered his lids. “Tell her I forgive her, and that I…loved her.”

  “No.”

  Collier tried to smile. “Thank you, James.”

  “I said no.”

  “No, what you said was…I give you my word.”

  “Collier!”

  So much desperation in his voice. And in the hand that gripped his.

  Though it seemed Collier’s greatest hope of returning to Catherine was in the loss of consciousness toward which he was moving and sleep so deep it would be permanent, there was comfort in knowing that if he didn’t make it back to the woman he loved, he had crossed another impassable divide. And surely there would be some peace for their mother, and perhaps she and James would be reunited.

  Collier raised his lids only enough to focus on the face above his, and seeing how brightly James’s eyes sparkled, was thankful for their time together.

  “I should have called the doctor,” James choked.

  “Nay, this is not where I need to be. Please…don’t try to pull me back. Let me go.”

  “Where?”

  “Her.”

  “Catherine?”

  Or Aryn, he supposed. But he prayed—how he prayed!—it was his wife he would hold again. He wheezed air into his lungs. “Catherine…Algernon…Gilchrist.” He heard the slur of the first and second names, could only feel the las
t on his tongue and lips.

  Then warm moisture on the back of his hand. And the easing of James’s grip as he let Collier go.

  One last chance, Collier silently pleaded. Bring me back to Catherine and our child. I won’t fail them. Ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  At first, he thought it water, that clear, tinkling sound as it rushed over and around rocks in a stream.

  Next, he thought it tiny bells, that soft peal of metal on metal most often heard at Christmas.

  Then he thought it chain mail, that ominous ring of thousands of joined links that portended a man was prepared to shed blood and die to defend what he held dear.

  “Catherine,” Collier said out of a throat that didn’t thirst or ache, then praised God the sound was, indeed, chain mail. In the twenty-first century, he was either near death or had died with James at his side. But here he lived.

  Rising from the hay that had cushioned his fall, accompanied by the music of thousands of links that would protect his arms and torso from keen-edged blades, he saw he was in the stables.

  By the dim light the moon cast between the slats of wood, he descended from the loft. It was quiet, the only sounds those of horses shifting in their stalls.

  Ducking the unshuttered window, he crept to the doorway. Walther’s men were out there. To reach Catherine, he must get past them.

  He felt across his waist and inwardly groaned. He had his dagger, but that was all. Fortunately, he also had his fists. Pulling the dagger from its scabbard, he peered around the doorway.

  Fifty feet out, a soldier dozed against a wall.

  Collier picked out the others and planned the order in which he would take each one down. Unfortunately, crossing from the outer bailey into the inner would prove a greater challenge with at least a dozen men stationed before the portcullis.

  Crouching low, he stole from the stables.

  With barely a sound, the first soldier fell to the blow Collier landed with the dagger’s hilt. The two after him cooperated just as nicely, but as he approached the fourth, the snapping of a branch underfoot brought the man’s head around. Before he could sound the alarm, Collier slammed a fist into the soldier’s mouth, causing him to stagger, then struck again with the dagger’s hilt.