It's About Time

by Charlotte Douglas

  Emma nodded. “I’m the one who placed you in Tory’s bed.”

  “And drugged my tea so I’d dream of him and not awaken until you’d put him there,” Tory added.

  “And doctored your drinks and coffee at the Bellevue and the wine I left in Atlanta. Once I broke your initial preoccupation with making money—” she nodded to him “—and avoiding commitment—” she looked at Tory “—your natural instincts took over and drugs were no longer necessary.”

  “How dare you manipulate our lives?” Tory snapped.

  Emma’s wise gaze pierced them both. “Can you honestly tell me you wish you’d never met each other?”

  Rand tightened his hand on Tory’s shoulder, and she covered it with her own. Neither spoke.

  “Just as I thought.” Emma nodded with a self-satisfied air. “It would have been much simpler if I could have found two people in the same time period who fit the requirements, but at least my Superior allowed me limited access to temporal disturbances to achieve my goals.”

  Tory’s head lifted and alarm glimmered in her eyes. “Limited access?”

  Rand considered life without Victoria, and the knot in his chest made speech difficult. “If she helps save Angelina, will you return her where she belongs?”

  “I have one time passage left,” Emma said. “I can send her back once Angelina is safe.”

  If he refused to help Angelina, he could keep Victoria with him. The thought tempted him—until he realized any happiness they found would be built upon Angelina’s torment. And would Victoria ever forgive him if he ruined her one chance to return to her own time?

  “What do we have to do?” he asked.

  “Tonight is Thursday,” Emma said. “Saturday will be the day Angelina dies. You can begin by canceling your meeting for that day with Jason Phiswick.”

  He contemplated his future. How could Emma believe she would redeem him from unhappiness without Victoria? Until Victoria had shown him what love could be, he hadn’t realized how lonely and unhappy his life had been.

  He studied the woman beside him, who appeared uncomfortable and overdressed in her stylish gown. Her golden hair tumbled haphazardly from the coronet she’d attempted to fashion in the style of his day. Attempting to live as a stiff and proper lady would make her miserable. She was too accustomed to her freedom and independence, going her own way without assistance, wearing delectably few clothes, heading her own business. The customs of his day would stifle her, condemning her to a slow, unhappy death.

  Blast Emma and her busybody facilitating! In her attempt to rescue him from his unhappy life, she’d succeeded only in calling attention to how miserable he really was. Victoria, at least, had a chance for happiness—if they did as Emma said and saved Angelina, so the little woman would send Victoria forward in time where she belonged.

  “I’ll tell Phiswick tomorrow that the meeting has to be postponed,” he promised.

  “And you?” Emma turned her amethyst gaze on Victoria.

  Ignoring Emma, Victoria raised her head and stared at him. The love reflected in her face deepened his torment at the thought of losing her forever. He steeled himself and answered for her. “Of course she’ll help. She wants her own life back—the sooner the better.”

  The sooner the better. If she stayed too long, he might not let her leave.

  Chapter Ten

  Tory’s foot caught in the train of her riding habit and she stumbled. If Rand hadn’t grabbed her by the waist, she would have pitched headfirst down the broad stairway. The pressure of his arms around her was the only compensation for the torture of nineteenth-century fashion.

  “Thanks.” She smiled at the look of alarm on his face. “I might have broken my neck.”

  With a well-placed kick and a stifled curse, she knocked the voluminous train behind her and adjusted the flowing veil that secured the hard-crowned hat to her head. “I’m wearing enough fabric to clothe a small army—and everything in depressing black. Mourning, Emma calls it.”

  His lips curved upward in response, but he seemed preoccupied and the strong planes of his face glowed pale in the brilliant morning sun streaming through the windows of the landing.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  When they descended into the crowded lobby, he tucked her arm more firmly through his. “I’m fine, although I had some trouble sleeping—alone.”

  She reveled in the fact that he’d missed her. “You’re lucky you didn’t have Emma snoring away in the next room.”

  “Where is our facilitator now?”

  “Once she laced me into this straitjacket and skewered my head with pins, she disappeared.” She stopped to breathe but could take in little air against the strictures of her whalebone stays. “No wonder the women of your era are so repressed. Their clothes hold them prisoners.”

  She booted her skirts again, drawing a disapproving frown from an ample-bosomed matron. The older woman’s censure turned to blushes of pleasure when Rand tipped his hat and greeted her by name as they passed.

  He bent and spoke softly in Tory’s ear. “A gallop in the fresh air will make you feel less like a captive. I’ve requested a gentle mount for you.”

  “Fresh air won’t help if I can’t breathe,” she grumbled, wishing for a T-shirt and shorts. Her foot twisted on the high heel of her boot and she longed for sneakers, as well.

  “You were much sweeter tempered when you were sleeping with me,” he observed. “Perhaps we should return to our former arrangement.”

  “That suits me fine—as long as we return to the 1990s.” She stepped onto the wide veranda and looked east across the golf course.

  “Mr. Trent! How nice to see you. You’ve been gone for several days.”

  A warm, bubbling voice drew her attention from the wilderness, which stretched inland from the hotel grounds, to Angelina Fairchild, who approached them on the porch twirling a lavender parasol that matched her stylish gown. Vibrant color flushed her cheeks, and the hand she extended at Rand’s introduction gripped Tory’s warmly.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Caswell.” Her heart-shaped face lighted with animation. “Will you and Mr. Trent join us at our table for dinner this evening? Mama is gathering a small group for the meal and a soiree afterward.”

  The attractive, vivacious girl held little resemblance to the tortured spirit Tory had met before. She considered the purpose of her journey back in time. If she was to prevent Angelina’s death, she must become better acquainted with her. After a confirming nod from Rand, she presented the young woman with her best smile. “We’d love to have dinner with you, Miss Fairchild.”

  Angelina inclined her head, stirring the egret plumes on her wide-brimmed hat, and strolled gracefully away, unencumbered by her restricting skirts.

  When Tory descended the veranda stairs, her boots tangled in her skirts. With a savage wrench, she freed them.

  “I like Angelina.” She attempted to match her steps to Rand’s long stride. “I hope we can prevent her accident.”

  “So you can return to your time?”

  “Because she deserves better,” she insisted.

  The broad brim of his hat hid his expression, but the emotionless tone of his question nagged at her. How could she make him understand she couldn’t stay, that the restrictions of his time would suffocate her and destroy their love?

  Her foot caught again and she grabbed his arm like a drowning sailor clasps a lifeline. A lifeline. That’s what he was. Without him, her life wasn’t worth— She closed her mind against the expletive. In this time and place, proper young women didn’t even think such words.

  She attempted to keep her voice light. “I hope my horse has steadier legs than I do, or I may never see the twentieth century again.”

  “You’re worried about your Money Man campaign, aren’t you? And what will happen when I don’t return?” His bland tone frightened her, as if a stranger spoke from beneath the shadow of his hat.

  “No.”

  Sh
e kept her voice as colorless as his, afraid to disclose how strongly she felt about losing him, afraid he’d try to keep her there. Afraid she’d want to stay.

  But she had spoken the truth about her ad campaign. To hell with the Money Man. Her assistants could scour the country, using Rand as a standard, and come up with a suitable model for Benson, Jurgen and Ives. But where would she ever find a man who made her senses reel, who cherished her as Rand did?

  A groom led two horses into the stable yard, a chestnut stallion that danced against the bit and a docile gray mare.

  “The gray’s yours,” Rand said. “Would you like a hand up?”

  She eyed the gentle beast warily. She’d ridden only a few times before at a riding academy in the country when she was a teenager. The back of the small gray looked a long way from the ground.

  “What’s that scrap of leather it’s wearing?” she asked.

  He pushed back his hat with the tip of his index finger and grinned at her. “That’s a saddle.”

  “No.” She shook her head and pointed to the chestnut. “Your horse has a saddle. Mine doesn’t.”

  “It’s a sidesaddle.” Amusement glinted in his flint gray eyes. “A lady always uses a sidesaddle.”

  She studied the unfamiliar equipment, then tugged at her soft leather gloves. “I’ll need some help.”

  His strong hands spanned her waist as he lifted her onto her precarious perch. “Hook your leg around the saddle horn. It’ll hold you steady.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.” She swayed on the horse’s back as she arranged the train of her habit across its rump. “God, I miss my Toyota.”

  “Toyota?” asked the groom holding her reins.

  “My own little gray.” She attempted a smile in the haughty fashion of a Victorian lady. “You’d be amazed at the horsepower—”

  “Victoria,” Rand warned.

  “Sorry.”

  She should have known better. She’d watched enough Star Trek to know one mustn’t do anything to change the course of history when one travels through time. Just the thought made her roll her eyes skyward while she doubted her sanity. Surely she’d awaken soon in her own comfortable bed at the Bellevue to discover this had all been a crazy dream.

  Rand placed a foot in the stirrup and mounted with the fluid grace of long practice. Leaning down, he accepted a pair of wicker hampers from the groom and slung them before him.

  “A picnic.” He nodded toward the baskets. “I thought we’d make a day of it.”

  She smiled. “I should have known you wouldn’t go far without food.”

  “It won’t be filet mignon and candlelight, but there is champagne.” His expression made eloquent promises of things to come, sending the butterflies in her stomach into kamikaze dives. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and moved out of the stable, heading south, and she urged her horse cautiously behind him.

  He reined in his mount to a slow walk, and she had no problems with her gray. They followed a trail that skirted the golf course, then entered a thick pine forest. The resinous scent of pine mixed with the salty tang of the gulf, the sun shone brighter, the sky burned bluer and the wind blew fresher than she’d ever experienced. Was the perfection of the day due to the absence of twentieth-century pollution or had the man at her side heightened her awareness?

  “We have a problem,” Rand announced.

  She pulled her gaze from the scenery. “Only one?”

  “I spoke with Jason Phiswick this morning and told him our Saturday meeting was canceled.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I did too good a job selling him on my proposal. He insists on meeting. Says the whole deal is off unless we meet as planned.”

  She tugged at the reins, hauling her horse to a halt. “What now?”

  “Instead of meeting with him, I’ll join you in keeping an eye on Angelina. Perhaps, between the two of us, we can keep her safe until she tells Jason about their child.”

  She shifted on her saddle. “What if he’s not happy about impending fatherhood?”

  “Phiswick is an honorable man. He’ll do the right thing.”

  Rand indicated a narrow trail through the trees, descending to the bay where the outgoing tide left the flats exposed. She flicked the reins and followed him onto the wet sands, where great blue herons, white ibis and roseate spoonbills scattered at their approach.

  Over deeper waters, squadrons of brown pelicans swooped and dived and the silver flash of mullet broke the rippled surface of the bay.

  She inhaled the invigorating salty scent. “I can’t believe how clear and clean the air is.”

  A cynical smile lifted a corner of his mouth. “At least there’s one thing about my time that you approve of.”

  “It’s not a question of approval. I just don’t belong here. I’d never fit in. If I were a man, it might be easier—”

  Rand reached out and placed his hand over hers on the reins. “If you were a man, I wouldn’t care if you stayed or not.”

  His smoldering expression ignited a responsive flare within her. “If I were a man, Randolph Trent, I might beat you at your own moneymaking game.”

  “I’d give every cent I own if you could stay here with me and be happy.” He squeezed her fingers gently, and she despised the gloves that deprived her of the feel of his skin against hers.

  “Even the magical Emma can’t grant us that,” she said with a sigh.

  “Then we must make the most of the time we have.” He pointed to an oak grove on the bluff above the bay. “The perfect spot for a picnic.”

  * * *

  RAND SECURED the reins of his horse to a low branch and turned to assist Victoria in dismounting. He grasped her waist as she leaned down, but her skirt tangled in the stirrup and she fell toward him. The length of her body slid against his, and even through layers of fabric and unyielding stays, he could detect every soft, delectable curve.

  His yearning for her, born the day he’d awakened in her bed, coursed through him with new life at her touch. His heart pounded against his ribs, threatening to burst from the strength of his emotion. He swallowed the bitter irony that now he’d learned to love, he’d soon lose forever the woman who’d freed him from his lonely, loveless existence.

  Her hands grasped his shoulders for support, and he felt himself drowning in the depth of her sea green eyes. When he bent to kiss her, swaths of veiling and the brim of her riding hat blocked his way.

  She pushed him back with a musical laugh. “First I’m going to get rid of all this.”

  “All what?” His mouth went dry.

  “You’ll see.” She swung the heavy train of her habit over one arm and pirouetted in the shady clearing beneath the oaks. “There isn’t another human being for miles, so I can be myself without worrying about the approval of your Victorian contemporaries.”

  Her declaration shocked and excited him. He delighted in her independence, her rejection of the constraints of his society, her free spirit; but all the qualities that made him love her were the very traits that prevented her happiness in his world.

  “Will I approve?” he asked with a teasing grin.

  Untying her veils, she tossed her hat aside and confronted him with glowing eyes. “You’re definitely going to approve.”

  While she tugged off her gloves, he removed the wicker baskets from his horse, took a tartan from one of them and spread it beneath the oaks.

  She settled on the blanket and lifted one foot, exposing a shapely leg encased in a black stocking. “I’ll need some help with these boots.”

  Instinctively his body responded as, with his back to her, he straddled her leg and gripped her small boot in his hands. She braced her other foot against his backside as he yanked off first one boot, then the other. When he turned to face her, she lay back on her elbows with a smile of invitation and acceptance and a warmth that melted his heart. Falling to his knees, he gathered her in his arms.

  His lips moved against her hair
, nibbled at her earlobe, traced the curve of her cheek. As he kissed the pulsing vein at her throat, savoring the salt and sweetness of her skin, her quivering response stoked the fires of his passion. Cradling her face in his hands, he drew back, devouring her with his gaze.

  “How can I live without you, Victoria?”

  She placed her small hands over his and gently pushed them away. “We must store up memories, enough for a lifetime.”

  While he reclined on one elbow, her agile fingers, unfastening the covered buttons of her riding jacket, mesmerized him. She sketched his mouth with a fingertip, then laid her jacket aside and struggled with the waistband of her skirt. When it sprang apart, she rose to her feet, stepped out of the voluminous garment, tossed it across a low branch and turned back to him with a smoldering look.

  Tension built within him as she unwound the white stock at her throat and shrugged off her blouse. His body ached from the pressure of his longing when her petticoats fell in a mound around her feet.

  She sank beside him and turned her back, pointing to the laces of the corset that nipped her waist and thrust her breasts upward.

  “Our Emma must be something of a sadist,” she grumbled. “I haven’t been able to breathe since she laced me into this thing this morning.”

  He fumbled with the laces with fingers stiff as fence posts. As the stays fell away, her sigh of relief rocked him with tremors of delight. Clasping her back to his chest and nuzzling aside the straps of her shift to kiss her shoulders, he drew her to him. Through the thin linen, her breasts pressed against his forearm, where his pulse hammered against her heart.

  When she spoke, the breeze caught her words and flung them away from him.

  His lips moved against her ear. “What did you say?”

  With her eyes glowing like sunlight on water, she turned to face him. “I love you, Randolph Trent. No matter where—or when—I am, I will always love you.”

  His chest tightened with tenderness until he could hardly speak. “Always is a long time.”

  She rested her forehead against his chin. “By this time next week, I will have loved you for almost a hundred years.”