James

by L. L. Muir

  What were the chances of a wrong delivery to the very apartment she’d been expecting a floral arrangement to be delivered that morning?

  Clever man. But not clever enough.

  She wished she could have seen the look on James’ face when his minion reported that a bunch of elderly yoga students had answered the door. She and the housekeepers were thinking the fun was over, but then James suddenly climbed out of the back of the van, unfolded to his full height, and headed their way.

  It was crazy how the sight of him could stop her heart.

  It took them only a few seconds to make a plan, then Phoebe had taken a nervous Stephanie upstairs while they left Debbie to do all the talking. Phoebe had hidden in the closet when he sprinted up the stairs. And when he ran into the bathroom, she had to act quickly or she knew he would keep at it until he found her.

  She’d held the door while Stephanie grabbed the cord from the broken window blind, then they’d tied the knob to the closet door handle. If he’d really wanted to, he could have broken the cord with one kick to the door, but thankfully, he hadn’t tried.

  She was almost disappointed.

  Almost getting caught had restarted her heart, and now, sitting in the car, she could just imagine what he might have done if he’d gotten his hands on her. There was a chance—a slim chance—he might have kissed her.

  It wasn’t completely out of the question. Would a guy go to that much trouble just to prove he could outsmart her? He had to be a little bit interested, didn’t he?”

  Of course there was that nagging voice in her head that asked what she would do if he was just a well-dressed creep.

  Well, it won’t matter now.

  She watched the buildings grow progressively older and more charming as they neared Old Town, but her imagination kept inserting a fantasy of that bathroom door bursting open and those long arms reaching for her…

  Ahah! I caught you, he would say, then he’d pull her close and kiss her, beg her to go with him to whatever exciting place he was headed for. “Come with me. Be my wi—” Her fantasy skidded to a halt. Her imagination never got that sappy.

  She had to remember that James, who was clearly out of her league anyway, wasn’t the man for her. Even if he was now interested in a relationship, and the Muirs were right, she might have a happy life with him. Joyful, maybe. But if she wanted true love, if she wanted to live the fairy tale, she had to go where the Muirs were sending her. Poor old James was on his own.

  It didn’t matter what he did to her heart when something inside told her that true love was the only thing that could save her—fix her—she was almost sure of it. And she so desperately wanted to get fixed…even more than she wanted to tease James into chasing her a little longer.

  She tried to imagine what this true love would look like—tall, dark, handsome, with the chemistry that could reach her from across the room—but every time she tried, the guy’s hair turned red, got a little curly, he got a little taller, then a lot taller. And his jaw…

  Gah! Stop it!

  She told herself that once she found her mystery man, he’d make her forget all about the guy she once had tea with—from across the room.

  The late morning light turned the rain-spattered Cockburn Street into a shiny, dangerous-looking slide. But she was pretty sure it was just an illusion. Just the same, she climbed carefully out of the car, grateful for the fingertip assistance of the driver, who was determined to treat her like she was something special.

  She had to admit that sending a Town Car was a nice touch, even though she figured it would be added to the cost of her trip, somehow.

  They’d insisted the bottom line would be much less than a Mediterranean cruise, so she was confident she could afford it. She’d saved more than that for a rainy day, and the way she’d been tripping over herself lately, she wouldn’t survive long enough to need that rainy-day fund if she didn’t do something drastic.

  She didn’t have money to burn, but if it meant a major change in her life, she had money enough.

  She half-expected one of the sisters to come out and meet her, but they didn’t. The driver opened the green door, left her to enter on her own, then went back to get her bags from the trunk. Before she had a chance to tip him, he was gone and she was left standing in the front of the cash register with two large bags at her feet, her fat purse slung over her shoulder, and her hands suddenly cold and bloodless.

  She rubbed them together, wrapped them into a ball and blew in the center, but nothing seemed to warm them. Eventually, she stuck them into her armpits and hoped the wool of her long jacket would do the trick.

  When she’d entered, the bell above the door had clanged loud enough to wake the neighbors on a quiet Thursday morning. Apparently, the shop didn’t do as much breakfast business as she expected, but it was just as well. She was too excited to wait patiently in line.

  “Come into the tea room,” one of the sisters called out. “Bring your bags, dear.”

  The Muirs were setting up a tea service at one of the tables. She noticed her specially chosen cup right away, but held back. She didn’t want to move any closer to something so breakable until she’d put her bags safely out of the way.

  A sister pointed to the wall behind her. “Set them there, Phoebe. No one will disturb them. Then join us.”

  She did as she was told, then carefully stepped between the other tables to reach the seat meant for her. “You’re sure we have time for tea?”

  One of them snorted. “We’ve got all the time in the world. You, on the other hand, have a few moments before our brother, Wickham, arrives. He’ll be the one to get you on your way.”

  She nodded. That explained why the car and driver hadn’t waited to take her where she needed to go.

  She opened the little tea box and picked out a simple lemon tea that looked bright and cheerful, and something to chase away the mugginess that hung in the air. The sisters concentrated on their own choices, and in the silence, the rain picked up and tapped loudly on the roof.

  “I hope the weather won’t be a problem,” she said.

  Loretta shook her head. “Wickham’s a Scot, dear.” As if that explained everything.

  Wickham’s a Scot, therefore he won’t notice it’s raining? Or won’t be affected? Maybe he’s such a good driver the weather won’t matter?

  The humidity felt as heavy as if someone had draped the green velvet curtains over her shoulders, and Phoebe realized that, with all the excitement of trying to get away from James, she hadn’t had much of a chance to mentally prepare for the trip. Since she’d agreed to go three days ago, she’d been way too busy with the physical stuff. She’d checked everything off her list, sent her belongings off to storage, and eliminated all her obligations so she could leave for a few months, if necessary, and not have to worry about what she was missing at home.

  But she hadn’t had time to take a deep breath and brace herself for this mysterious trip. They’d promised to have it all organized for her, but insisted it be a surprise. She wouldn’t need anything, they promised. No hints. Only trust. The only thing she worried about was human trafficking, which was no joking matter, but the idea that their teashop might be a front for such an evil operation was laughable.

  Wasn’t it?

  Lorraine chuckled and patted her hand. “Relax, my dear. I promise we are not about to sell you off.”

  Witches. Mindreaders. But did that prove they were trustworthy?

  Too late now was turning into her personal motto.

  With the tea finished, the sisters showed her through the doorway beyond the brown curtain, down a short hall, and into a room with a stack of small safes against one wall. They pointed to the top one, showed her how to set the combination to whatever she wanted, then told her to put her money and passport inside. Anything she might worry about, they told her to lock away, that all her needs would be seen to. Then they told her, unbelievably, that she wouldn’t need her luggage, either.

  They
handed her a soft wool gown the color of coffee beans, with a sleeveless muslin tunic to go over it. They left her alone in the room to change into it, ignoring her questions, promising she’d understand soon enough.

  She was starting to worry that she’d made a horrible mistake, but decided she’d gone to too much trouble not to at least see what they had planned for her. They hadn’t taken her money. She could always back out.

  She felt pretty silly when she stepped out of the room wearing the thick socks and slippers that had been wrapped in the medieval costume. She was even more embarrassed when Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome, dressed in a kilt, waited along with the sisters.

  He gave her a warm, friendly smile, then came forward and took her hands. Thick leather arm braces covered half his forearms. His warm strong fingers could probably crush hers if he sneezed. “I think ye should sit down. Phoebe, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Phoebe, I am Wickham Muir.” He led her back to the table that was now cleared of all things tea-related. The sisters smiled at him with crinkled, teary eyes like proud mothers—not sisters.

  “You can’t really be their brother, right? I must have misunderstood something.”

  “No misunderstandin’, lass.” The three exchanged secret smiles. “We’ve had a few...adjustments made, is all. I assure ye, Lorraine and Loretta are my sisters in truth. And we are all much older than ye might imagine.

  She doubted it. He couldn’t be more than a year or two older than her, and maybe even younger. There was something about him, though, that made him seem very mysterious—not a look around his eyes so much as in them.

  Tall. Dark. Handsome. Check, check, and check. Could Wickham Muir be the guy she was meant for?

  One of the sisters waved her fingers to catch her attention, then gave her head a shake as she pointed to her ring finger. Phoebe looked at Wickham’s hand and realized he was already taken.

  Mind-readers. Witches. She needed to remember that.

  While a fissure of chills worked its way up her spine, Wickham took the seat next to her with his sisters on the opposite side of the table. He turned his body to face her and took her hands in his once again. “Allow me to tell ye a little something about my sisters.”

  “Okay.”

  “When I was but five years old, we went to the burn near our home, to play in the water on a warm summer’s day.”

  The sisters bit their lips like they knew exactly what story he was about to tell, but they said nothing.

  “The water was deeper than normal that year, and I refused to get in, sure I would drown. They realized that, unlike my brother, I had not yet learned to swim. And without any warning, they shoved me into the deepest pool.” He made it sound like the betrayal still bothered him.

  “They probably knew you’d live,” she said. “They are fortune tellers, right?”

  He laughed. “Try to remember ye said that.”

  “Are you trying to tell me they’re going to push me into a deep pool?”

  “I am informing ye that this is their modus operandi. But luckily for you, it is not mine.”

  She assumed that was a good thing and relaxed a little. “Okay. So. You’re here to teach me to swim?”

  He shook his head and made a face. “No. No. I am here to drop you into the deepest part of the pool, to be sure. But I would rather tell ye ahead of time just where this pool is, and give ye the chance to refuse, ye ken?”

  “Okaaay.” She took a deep breath and stopped trying to guess. The guy would get to the point quicker if she just listened.

  “My sisters told me what ye’re hoping to find, and make no mistake, I think it’s grand.” He bit his lips for a few seconds. “I’ll cut to it, shall I?” He leaned close. “There are no guarantees, Phoebe Jones. The matching half of yer heart and soul are out there, and I’ll do my best to start ye down the path to finding each other, but ye may just…miss. Ye may rue the day ye ever came into The Enchanted Tea Cup, aye? And now, knowing that, ye must consider carefully.” He straightened in his seat, took a deep breath, and nodded to his sisters. “Now, I think.”

  One of them turned away, then turned back with a tray in her hands that she’d taken from the next table. She placed it in front of her, then winked at Phoebe. Instead of a teapot, a tall bottle of Dalmore whiskey stood in the center of four shot glasses.

  Phoebe let out a laugh. “A little early in the morning to be drinking, isn’t it?”

  The sister ignored her and poured the golden-brown liquor in all four glasses. Her twin took one and passed another to Phoebe. “You’ll be glad for it, I’m afraid.” She leaned toward her sister and mumbled. “I say, much easier to just push them in, let them figure it out.”

  “Lorraine,” the man rolled his eyes. “Phoebe?”

  “Hmn?”

  “Lorraine said she’s already explained to ye that sometimes, soulmates are born in different centuries?”

  “Yeah...”

  “Well, sweeting, yer man awaits ye in the past. Far in the past. And ye must consider carefully whether or not ye wish to look for him...there.”

  Phoebe looked down at her costume. She was strangely relieved, actually. She’d been worried that she’d be expected to put on some kind of performance on High Street, some impromptu act for the tourists or something. But no...

  “Wait a minute. Just a minute.” She was suddenly light-headed, but she couldn’t sit still, so she jumped to her feet. Her chair toppled over behind her and she stumbled away from the table. Yes, she had to put some distance between herself and the guy in the kilt while she waited for the room to stop moving. “Wait a minute,” she said again. At that moment, they were the only words she could put together and still be coherent. “Wait a minute.” It was that, or start babbling.

  They wanted to send her into the past? Like on some geek show? What was she supposed to do, convince some kilted Scotsman she wasn’t a witch, so please don’t burn her, but would he mind coming into the future with her?”

  “Hah!” Her voice startled her all over again. “Wait a minute.”

  Wickham stood up and came toward her with one arm up in surrender, the other one holding out one of the glasses of whiskey. He stopped when she pointed at him, like her finger was some kind of dangerous weapon, then he stretched forward with just the glass.

  She took it and backed away a couple of steps, made sure no one was standing too close, then threw it back. When she tried to breathe again, she coughed as if she might have thrown it into her lungs.

  “Calm, now,” Wickham crooned. “Calm now. I ken this has been a shock, but remember, lass, ye need not choose to go. No one will be shoving ye into the pool and expecting ye to swim.” He cocked his head. “Unless that is what ye wish.”

  She shook her head and kept on shaking it. There was no other way to take back control of herself. “These things don’t really happen,” she said. “This is just a joke, right? Time travel goes against nature. It isn’t possible.”

  While she spoke, one of the women brought the bottle from the table and put it in her brother’s waiting hand. Then he held it out to her. “Another?”

  Phoebe extended her arm. “I don’t usually—”

  “But this isn’t usual, is it?”

  “No.”

  His smile was kind. Why was he being so kind? “And ye’re correct. Moving through time has nothing at all to do with Nature. It is beyond Nature. Which is why it is always referred to as super natural, aye?”

  That made sense. “Okay.”

  He held out his arms and backed away, leaving a clear path for her if she wanted to sit down again. Someone had righted her chair. “The whisky might need a wee while to take effect, if ye’d like to be seated when it does.”

  Panic reached for her throat again. She shook her head. “Wait a minute. Just give me a minute.”

  He nodded and backed away again, until he was backed up against the wall of cups, and her panic ebbed a little.

  He’d said she did
n’t have to go. They wouldn’t force her. But if they were going to give her a choice, why did they insist she change her clothes before they told her what they expected her to do? How could she trust them?

  “Phoebe, dear. Listen to me.” Lorraine, she thought. “You believe we are witches, so you must believe we can make this work for you. But Wickham’s right. We won’t force you. It’s your life after all. The problem is—”

  “Problem?” Phoebe snorted. “Just one?”

  Lorraine didn’t seem to appreciate the humor. “The immediate problem is…you need to decide before the whiskey decides for you.”

  Chapter Nine

  Seated calmly at the table with the others with her initial hysteria behind her, Phoebe tried to think reasonably about the most unreasonable proposition of her life. And she didn’t have much time—or so they said. For all she knew, they might be rushing her and plying her with whiskey just to get her to vote their way.

  When she demanded to know why they’d even offered their crazy matchmaking service in the first place, they claimed they had a responsibility—no, The Responsibility—to repair the universe where they could, as compensation for damages done by their Muir kinsmen in the past. All her money would supposedly be waiting for her when—or if—she came back for it.

  Though they seemed incredibly sincere about the whole thing, it was still just too incredible for a reasonable person to believe. All of which turned it into a question of whether or not she wanted to be reasonable.

  Too bad they hadn’t told her about the whole time-travel plan in the first place, or she might have been weighing the options for the past three days while she got her life in order.

  Then again, if she’d have had that much time to consider, she wouldn’t have been confident enough to give up her flat, empty her account, and quit her job. She would have questioned every decision and ended up copping out, and she’d be right back where she’d started the week before, wishing something dramatic would come along and change her life completely.

  Dramatic? Check.