Once Upon a Time Travel

by Sariah Wilson

  “Why do you keep throwing things at me?” he demanded.

  I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t a thrower. Before I met him, I’d honestly never thrown anything at anyone. This wasn’t his fault. It was mine. I was upset and worried, and I’d taken it out on him when I’d had no reason to.

  The fight in me fled, leaving me feeling hollow and ashamed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” I went over and started picking up the pieces, piling them up in my skirt.

  He let out a long sigh. “Stop. I will have one of the servants . . .”

  Although I guessed he was going to tell me that he would have one of the servants clean up the mess, I picked up a particularly sharp piece and sliced my index finger from top to bottom. Blood began to well along the incision. “Oh wow. I cut myself and . . .”

  Then the world went dark, and I felt the back of my head hit the hardwood floor.

  When I woke up, I was back on the couch, with my finger bandaged and Hartley towering over me. “Why does blood make you faint?”

  “It’s called a vasovagal response. That accident that killed my par—my mother, I was there, too. It was during a thunderstorm, and there was apparently a lot of blood. I don’t remember either thing because I was so young, but I’m scared to death of thunderstorms, and blood always makes me pass out.” I looked up at him from under my lashes. “Thank you for taking care of me.” I didn’t deserve it, especially after I ruined his pretty vase and acted crazier than a coked-out wolverine.

  Hartley sat down on the table next to me. I could feel the delicious heat emanating from his body, and I wanted to reach out and have him hold me.

  Even though I knew it was impossible.

  “Miss Blythe . . .” His words sounded strained, as if he couldn’t or didn’t want to say them.

  “Yes?”

  Then he did something unexpected. He took my injured hand, warming it with his own. He had such fantastic, strong hands. Heat spread from them to mine and then traveled along every vein in my body until I again had that feeling of being burned alive. But in a good way.

  He leaned in even closer, with that look in his eyes. The one he’d had outside my door when we kissed. I couldn’t help it. My breath hitched in response, and my heart pounded against my chest. Hard.

  His gaze drifted down to my lips, and I bit the bottom one in response. His eyes heated with blue flames.

  Finally. My body wanted to cheer from absolute joy. He was going to kiss me.

  Here. In his library. In the middle of the day. Where anybody could walk in on us.

  When I became aware of our surroundings, I took my hand from his and tried to even out my breathing. I sat up and backed away from him. I couldn’t look at him. If I kept playing with fire, it would be only a matter of time until I got completely consumed. I didn’t fully understand what had just happened or why I had stopped it. Maybe Charles’s lessons had more of an effect than I realized?

  He didn’t seem to understand, either. After a few heartbeats of silence, he said, “I wanted to ask you to let Aunt Charles know that I will be at my club for the evening.” He sounded distant, cold.

  Such a contrast to what I had just seen and felt.

  I nodded. We were supposed to all go to dinner at the Worthingtons’. Hartley didn’t usually ditch out once Charles had made plans. I wondered whether he was angry with me or with himself.

  Because I was currently having the same internal struggle. I needed to stay away from Hartley and get back home.

  But every time he got close, all I wanted to do was get lost in him again.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THINGS I’M GOING TO INVENT IF I GET STUCK IN 1816

  Noise-canceling headphones. Or earplugs. Anything to block out the sound.

  Hours later, Hartley sat at a table by himself. A glass of port rested in front of him, but he did not partake. Despite being tempted to drink until he could no longer remember his name, he refrained.

  He had to keep his wits about him. James would be home soon, he would marry Emma, and his life would return to normal.

  Even as he thought it, he knew it to be untrue.

  White’s was as boring that evening as it was any other evening he’d stopped in. He had no interest in drinking to excess or smoking or betting on which raindrop would fall down the pane first on the window nearest the door. He had even less interest in card playing, given that his current sobriety gave him the upper hand over every foxed sot in the room.

  But he had to be away from the house. It was too difficult to sit in any room knowing that Emma would be somewhere in the house, just tantalizingly out of reach. He could not act on his wants or impulses as he nearly had earlier that afternoon. She was going to wed James, and that was that. Not to mention that she was a guest in his home and under his protection, and honor dictated that he rein in his impulses.

  So he did the only thing he could—removed himself from the situation entirely. Which meant that instead of enjoying the comforts of his home, he found himself surrounded by blabbering fools in a smoky, musty room that smelled of sour wine. The thunder outside shook the room, lightning illuminating the darkened sky. The storm perfectly matched his raging emotions and uncontrollable thoughts.

  It was why he refused this night to drink. To stay master of himself. To remain in control. Because when it came to Emma, the self-control had all but disappeared.

  He found himself entertaining thoughts of her that were neither appropriate nor welcome. And even worse, he no longer felt as if he was betraying Libby when he had them.

  Without his consent, his mind began to compare the two women. Where Libby was worldly and sophisticated, Emma was refreshingly wholesome and unaware. Libby knew how the societal game was played, and she had been a master player. Emma was at the mercy of the protection he, Charles, and the Duke and Duchess of Warfield had given her. While her manners had improved, she still sometimes seemed at a loss, never quite sure what to do or what to say.

  A smile crept up on his lips as he thought of her often-outrageous pronouncements. Which he didn’t want. He wanted someone calm. Soothing. Libby would have been such a wife. A perfect helpmeet, a domestic goddess like Hestia who would have kept the home fire burning and his life running perfectly.

  His ruminations on Libby Amesbury were interrupted by thoughts of Emma in the robes of Artemis, deliberately stirring up the tempest. She was no keeper of the hearth. She would cause the sea to roil and crash, the wind to blow, the skies to lightning and thunder.

  She’d already had such an effect on him. Stirred him up. Challenged him. Questioned him. Baffled him. Confused him. She was unlike any other woman he had ever known. And while he found himself slightly annoyed by her a large percentage of their time together, he found that when they were apart, he was always thinking of her. Of what would make her laugh and bring a smile to her lovely green eyes. Of what things might amuse her, how he might baffle and confuse her in return.

  Most disturbingly of all, he found that far too often his mind drifted to what it would be like to try to tame that whirlwind, to again feel the fury and the passion of the storm on Emma’s lips, in her embrace.

  She made him forget his mistakes, his regrets. She so filled his mind and soul that he had room for only her. Despite his vow to never forget, he hardly ever thought of Libby any longer. It was an effort to do so. Because she had been crowded out by the wily, tempestuous Emma, who was upending his life. He couldn’t even conjure up an image of what Libby had looked like. There was only Emma.

  The women were not the same. And he found himself exceedingly glad for it.

  He wondered if this were all his fault. If he had set himself up for failure without even realizing it. By proclaiming Emma untouchable, by marking her as his brother’s, he had created the type of challenge he had a hard time resisting. Perhaps this was the reason for her desirability. She had become a forbidden fruit.
/>   Nothing else made sense. She did not behave as a woman ought to behave. She fancied herself his equal. She didn’t defer to him or try to use her wiles to manipulate him. She had no title and no money and acted as if it didn’t matter.

  Perhaps it doesn’t, something whispered inside him.

  His pensive mood was interrupted when a footman from his home entered the room. The young man looked panicked. What had Emma called this boy? Tommy? George? He grit his teeth in frustration. William was bloody good enough before Emma came, and it would be bloody good enough now.

  “William!” he called to get the lad’s attention. The footman rushed over, and Hartley saw that he had not been mistaken about the fear he thought he’d seen. Hartley got to his feet immediately.

  “My lord,” the young man bowed. “Mrs. Meriweather sent me. Miss Blythe is missing.”

  Missing? An inexplicable terror seized his heart. Hartley grabbed his overcoat and ran to the door, out to his waiting carriage. As soon as the door closed behind him, the carriage darted out into the street.

  Was this his fault? Had he scared her with his ungentlemanly behavior? He tried to dismiss the welling sense of fear that wanted to overtake him. Missing? Where could she have possibly gone? Would she leave without telling him? Without saying goodbye?

  Why did it matter so much to him if she had?

  Time seemed to slow down despite his impatience, and he was aware of every drawn-out moment that passed, how every hurried heartbeat exacerbated his fear. The carriage came to a sudden halt. From the exchange of angry voices outside, he knew it might be a while before the streets cleared. He contemplated whether it would be faster to unhitch one of the horses and ride on his own until he realized how close they were to home. He threw open the door, jumped to the sidewalk, and began running through the downpour.

  The raging thunder matched his heart, filling all his senses, making it impossible to think.

  The front door of his townhome was open, and the sight filled him with dread. He bounded up the steps and called out, demanding to know what was happening.

  Because Emma couldn’t be missing. She wouldn’t leave him without saying a word. She wouldn’t.

  A gaggle of servants had gathered in the foyer, all looking concerned. Stephens approached him, reaching for his soaking coat. “Rosemary went to check on Miss Blythe and found her bed empty and was unable to locate her anywhere else. She woke the household, and we have been searching for her ever since.”

  Lightning flashed through the still-open door, and Hartley didn’t want to imagine Emma out alone in a storm like this. Especially with how much she feared them. He ran his fingers through his soaked hair, shaking off the excess.

  “Have you searched every room?”

  “We have only just begun to search room by room, my lord.”

  Hartley nodded, and Stephens left him. He heard the sound of the servants upstairs calling her name, moving aside furniture, opening doors. The ones still standing in the foyer were receiving their search assignments. He intended to go upstairs to help, but he noticed that his study door was slightly ajar. Something pulled at him, leading him in that direction. He pushed both doors open. A great fire roared in the fireplace, but the room had no other light.

  “Emma?” he called out, his concern so great that he didn’t notice he’d called her something he shouldn’t. His heart beat heavily. He didn’t like this sensation, this worry, this sense of protectiveness he felt for her.

  The room had probably already been searched. That was why the door was open.

  Then he heard the sniffle.

  It came from his desk. He sprinted across the room, pulling out the large chair. Emma was curled up in a ball underneath the desk, her arms wrapped around her legs.

  The relief that flooded his chest was palpable. He murmured thanks to the Almighty and crouched down next to her.

  She had been crying. Her entire body seemed to be shaking.

  Relief was replaced with concern. “What happened?”

  Emma shook her head, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders.

  “I cannot help you if you will not tell me what happened.”

  Still she said nothing and only trembled as an answer.

  Trying one last time, he said, “Please, come out.”

  She didn’t respond, didn’t look at him. Concern gave way to the same sort of fear and panic he’d felt earlier. This was so unlike the woman he knew. So he reached out and took her, hefting her up into his arms. As he had countless times before, he carried her over to the sofa near the fireplace, setting her down gently. Given that she was in her nightclothes, he meant to stay a respectable distance away from her, but as soon as he tried to move she tangled her hands into his shirtfront and refused to let go.

  He tried gently to pry her hands off. “I have to tell the others that I found you.”

  “Don’t go,” she whispered.

  His heart did a queer flip. “I will be right back. I give you my word.”

  That seemed to satisfy her, and she loosened her grip. He went out into the foyer, calling for Stephens. The elderly butler appeared at the top of the stairs. “I have found her in my study, but she is in need of some blankets.”

  “Shall I have tea sent in as well?”

  “Yes.”

  Stephens nodded and went off to procure the blankets and tea. Hartley turned back into his study and saw Emma curled up in the corner of the sofa, her head tucked down. She rocked back and forth.

  He sat down tentatively next to her, unsure of what was wrong or how he could fix it. Was it only the storm? She had been afraid of a storm before, but she had not behaved like this. Although this storm was much worse. Thunder slammed against the side of the house, and she jumped, making a scared, mewling sound. He hated that he could not help her. And he hated that she was suffering.

  One of the maids rushed in carrying a pile of blankets. Hartley took them wordlessly, wrapping one after another around Emma’s shoulders. “Would you please have someone fetch my aunt?”

  The maid nodded and quickly left.

  Mrs. Farnsworth came a few moments later, disapproval etched deeply into her features as she set the tea service down. She looked as if she might want to say something, but Hartley never tolerated impertinence from servants, which she well knew. He almost wanted her to be disrespectful, to speak out of turn, as he would have liked nothing more in that moment than the chance to rebuke her. He needed a release from this worry.

  But the housekeeper left wordlessly, and he was still alone with a silent and shaking Emma.

  The rain drummed against the windows in a constant rhythm, and the thunder seemed to peal continuously, one right after the other.

  “The thunder . . . ,” she finally managed.

  Of course the storm was to blame. He hoped it was the only thing making her this afraid. Terrified. This was not his Emma. Instinct guided him to move closer to her, to wrap his arms around her. He settled her onto his shoulder, running his hand over her unbound hair, whispering soothing, nonsensical words to her.

  Hartley judged himself to be the worst kind of cad. Here she shivered in fright, and all he could think of was the silky softness of her hair, how he loved her orange-blossom-and-vanilla scent. How he wanted to kiss her into mindless oblivion until she forgot all her fears.

  Instead he sat quietly, holding her. It was inappropriate, but he couldn’t help himself. He tried not to react when her arms stole around his torso. He ignored the slow thudding of his heart, steeling himself against the desire that swirled inside him.

  “You’re all wet,” she murmured.

  “Yes. I got caught in the rain. Would you like me to go upstairs and change?”

  Her grip tightened around him. “Please don’t leave me.”

  “I will stay with you for as long as you need me,” he reassured her.

  They sat that way for a good while longer in their silent embrace while the storm raged around them. He found himself acu
tely aware of her soft, sweet breaths, of every movement she made, every time she shifted her head or moved closer to him. He enjoyed every second of it.

  And to his great consternation he wanted more of it. Much more.

  Where was his aunt?

  The storm finally began to abate, the thunder slowly rolling off into the distance, leaving them in quiet and darkness. He could sense how her body relaxed, hear how her breathing evened out.

  “I’m sorry I’m so stupid,” Emma finally spoke, looking up at him. He tried not to look at her lips, to be a friend to her. A future brother-in-law.

  But his feelings in that moment were anything but brotherly. “Not in the least.”

  She let out a little laugh before bowing her head. “I’m a complete and total mess, and I think we both know it.”

  He put one finger under her chin and made her look at him again. “I think you are a brave, fascinating, intoxicating woman.”

  Hartley regretted the words as soon as he’d said them.

  Not because he didn’t mean them.

  But because he did.

  Her lips parted in response, and it was very nearly his undoing. He felt a desperate need to change the current and dangerous topic of conversation. “Why did you hide in my study?”

  “I don’t know. It’s usually locked, and I’ve wanted to get a key or maybe pick the lock or break it or something because it’s always locked, but tonight it wasn’t. I just ran from my room and ended up here. And I stayed because . . .” Her words trailed off, as if she stopped to choose them carefully. The emotion in her eyes stunned him. “I stayed because it’s your study. It made me feel safe. Because you make me feel safe.”

  * * *

  Of all the many things I had not intended to admit, that one was pretty high up on the list. Even if it was true. Because I’d never, ever felt as safe as I had in this home.

  Or, more importantly, as safe as I felt now in Hartley’s arms.

  His jaw clenched. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”