by Sharon Kleve
They smelled the settlement before they reached it—a mixture of river mud, wood smoke and roasted meat underscored by a faint whiff of human waste. The sunlight continued to strengthen and the fog to clear as they went. Before long, they fell under observation. A group of three men, talking furiously among themselves, stepped forward to meet them.
At first glance, they appeared intimidating—powerfully built though shorter than Stephen. They all had dark hair and wore a strange array of garments including rough boots and what he identified with some surprise as animal skins.
Holy hell! How far back had they slipped?
Each man carried a spear but they made no threatening gestures. Instead they stared at Stephen and Bridie’s clothing, hair, shoes and the children in their arms.
One, with a spate of words, pointed at the time machine.
“Hello,” said Stephen, feeling foolish. As ancestors of the modern Cockney, it seemed he should be able to communicate with these men. Yet they regarded him blankly out of browned faces.
One said something in reply, a quick short word that sounded nothing like greeting. Little Rachel, staring at him, began to wail.
Stephen struggled to remember what this native city had been called before Roman times when, to the best of his knowledge, it had been Londinium. Rachel hid her face against his good shoulder and he jiggled her gently.
Thinking rapidly, he gestured at the river. Closer now, he could see several small vessels tied up to the shore—they must be boats though they looked like nothing so much as cups fashioned from hide.
“Thames?” he asked hopefully.
One of the men looked surprised. He stepped closer and reached a hand to touch Rachel’s hair tentatively.
The child lifted her face and stared at him in wonder.
Time froze. Stephen felt it coalesce and suspend around him. Suddenly, only the seven of them existed—connected by their humanity—with the new sun winking on the water. No reality, no understanding. Stephen realized he’d lost the threads of a lifelong timeline in that moment.
But he could feel this man’s kindness and see it in his eyes—not brown like his own but a smoky blue.
The spell held for perhaps ten heartbeats before a ragged group of children ran forward from the settlement. Like children everywhere, they fairly oozed curiosity.
The stranger withdrew his hand. Stephen saw that his skin bore a number of tattoos, strange symbols none of which he recognized save one—a rising sun just above the wrist.
He looked the man in the eyes. “Are you Chief?”
One of the children leaned against the man with the tattoos. In the manner of any typical father, he wrapped a cradling arm about the child and drew it close.
He spoke again, nodded and gestured at the time machine sitting on its rise, lit by the sunlight.
One of the other men spoke. Stephen wrapped his ears around the sounds, straining to identify them.
“Here,” said Bridie.
Closely watched, she opened the bundle in her hands and withdrew a loaf of bread which she held out to the men.
The child at the chief’s side snatched it. The man smiled.
“Perhaps,” Stephen said hopefully, “you can help me.”
CHAPTER NINE
Bridgetta glanced around the interior of the hut which smelled of many things, most of which she couldn’t begin to name. The children, exhausted, slept beside her on a fur rug and her hostesses—a pair of women who might well be mother and daughter—watched her carefully. More women observed them through the open doorway.
Stephen and the men of pre-Londinium—for she supposed she couldn’t disagree with him as to when they’d landed—had gone to repair the time machine.
Stephen. Her heart leaped at the thought of him. A man in a thousand—ten thousand. Strong, clever and courageous. He’d taken on this mad challenge and shared her predicament without a word of complaint. Using a combination of gestures and pictures drawn in the mud, he’d managed to communicate with their hosts even though wounded and no doubt feeling as daunted as she.
The women who’d offered Bridgetta and the children hospitality, had gone through the packet of food item by item. She wondered what they made of Bridgetta’s presence, how they explained her away in their minds. To the women of 1940s Warsaw, the time machine had seemed a miracle. To these…a divine advent, possibly.
One thing held true—they’d displayed no aggression. Their kindness, especially toward the children, proved warm and generous.
For all that, Bridgetta trembled with weariness and ached to go home. Home to her own time—home to Ireland. If she could get back and undo all that had befallen her, would she? Her gaze fell on the two children sleeping beside her.
Could she?
If she returned to 1962, would she ever see Stephen Longstreet again?
Courage, as she’d discovered, made a far from reliable companion. Sometimes it flared bright as a shield, ready for battle. Sometimes it shrank to a sliver and hid behind doubt and weariness.
How would she choose if she had it to do all over again?
The light flickered behind her. She turned and saw Stephen backed by his companions.
“Come along,” he called. “It’s time.”
She rose, cradling Jan in her arms. Stephen stepped in and picked up Rachel, who stirred sleepily.
To Bridgetta’s surprise, both her hostesses bowed their heads to her. She embraced them gently.
The elder murmured something that sounded like a blessing.
“Thank you. Thank you both.”
She followed Stephen out into the afternoon and the women followed. No fog here, at least not now. The light, to Bridgetta’s dismay, allowed her to see how the red stain that marked Stephen’s shirt had expanded.
A small party of tribesmen accompanied them to the machine. New shards of wood had been affixed to the largest gear—an attempt to rebalance it, perhaps.
For an instant, time stuttered. Bridgetta felt in full the irony of standing upon the site of future London with new—ancient—wood correcting the damage caused by a Nazi bullet.
Stephen helped her and Jan into the compartment, passed Rachel into her lap and squeezed in beside them.
“Is it repaired?” she whispered. “Do you think?”
“Pray,” he returned shortly and turned back to nod at the people gathered outside. The chief—if such he was—stood with one of the smaller children in his arms.
Bridgetta’s heart trembled and rose. So much had changed. And so much hadn’t.
“Thank you,” Stephen called. “Thank you all.”
He pressed the green button. Their audience took a collective step backward. All Bridgetta’s breath fled.
She gathered both children closer as the great gear above them began to turn, slow and then faster. Did it wobble? Bridgetta couldn’t tell as the others started spinning in counterpart. The clockwork lurched into motion.
Stephen turned and looked into her eyes. “I love you, Bridie Maguire, whatever comes.”
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock…
He punched the checkered button.
Bridgetta gasped. “I love—”
Reality wavered violently. The air seemed to tremble and time itself flexed. Not stable at all, it became a series of moments with pathways between and…
The watchers leaped away from the machine. Stephen clasped Bridgetta’s hand so tight it hurt. Rachel buried her face in Bridgetta’s breast and Jan made a thin wail.
They slid slowly, almost sluggishly, between the spaces of time. Always before, transportation had been swift, virtually instantaneous. Now they seemed to hover in a realm of gray mist. But perhaps not, for Bridgetta’s heart had ceased beating and Stephen’s face froze before her eyes.
Were they lost, dead?
Unable to bear the sensation, she squeezed her eyes shut.
She could still feel Stephen and the children pressed against her. Suddenly everything became still.
Light shone against her eyelids, far weaker than that of ancient Londinium. Was this the light of that yard in Warsaw? But when? 1962? 1942? If she opened her eyes, would she find them surrounded by guards with rifles?
Was anything worse than not knowing?
She sucked in a breath and opened her eyes. For an instant, wits scrambled, she failed to recognize the location. Tall windows and a soaring ceiling. The former admitted what had to be dim afternoon light. It showed piles of equipment, interrupted projects and two people staring at them, mouths half open—Caroline and a man who could only be Stephen’s uncle Anthony.
The breath left her in a rush. She turned to the man beside her. “Stephen!”
He lay slumped against the back of the compartment with his eyes closed and his complexion turned waxy. Unconscious? Dead? For a terrible instant, Bridgetta couldn’t tell.
Then she saw his bloodied shirt jerk as he inhaled.
“Call a physician at once,” she told Caroline. “I fear he’s dying.”
CHAPTER TEN
Crisp, clean sheets brushed Stephen’s chin and the faint smell of antiseptic floated in the air, making him think of an infirmary. Encouraging, on the whole—he wouldn’t expect to encounter that odor in either the crumbling yard in Warsaw or ancient Britain. But he lay perfectly still, counting his heartbeats and wondering how long it would be before he’d stop being afraid to open his eyes.
“Stephen?” a voice whispered very close at hand.
He opened his eyes and fell into Bridie’s gaze—warm, welcoming—a place of safety and belonging.
“You did it,” she told him. “You got us back to 1882—you’re a genius.”
“Not so much a genius as a lucky bugger,” said a disgruntled voice from behind her. Uncle Anthony stepped into Stephen’s range of vision. “I concede you may indeed possess a modicum of familial brilliance. But you’ve been using my machine without permission. And you’ve severely damaged it.”
Bridgetta turned to face Anthony. “That was my fault. He did nothing for his own sake.”
Anthony’s expression softened. “Yes, so Caroline explained. Difficult as it is to accept what our future world will become, I can quite see that saving the lives of innocent children far outweighs any other considerations. You, young woman, are a thief. But one with the best motivations.”
Stephen struggled to sit up in the bed. He could now see he was situated in the tiny closet off the workroom. Someone had brought in a cot complete with clean linens. The surgeon must have been to visit—his right shoulder sported neat bandages.
“Where are the children?” he asked Bridie.
“Caroline’s taken them to the foundling home with a letter from me to the matron. I didn’t want to leave you. I thought…” Tears flooded her eyes; she blinked rapidly.
“Takes more than a German bullet to kill me.”
“It wasn’t just the bullet,” Anthony said surprisingly. “The time machine takes a toll on the human anatomy. You two winged through time much more often than I would ever recommend.”
“Never mind.” Stephen grinned at his uncle. “We proved your invention works. What do you say to that, Uncle?”
For an instant Anthony went very still. His normally pale skin flushed. “I have to admit, it’s been a day of revelations. I didn’t know what to think when the machine winked into existence in the center of the room. By then Caroline had confessed all. All.” He leaned toward Stephen confidingly. “Did you know she was in love with me?”
“I knew it wasn’t me keeping her here,” Stephen replied.
“Good thing.” Bridgetta threaded her fingers through his. “Because you’re mine. Hear me, Stephen Longstreet?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They gazed into one another’s eyes. Anthony cleared his throat. “If you two intend to come over all romantic, I’ll excuse myself. I wish to begin repairs on the machine.”
“You’d better,” Stephen told him. “Because it isn’t just a machine, Uncle. It’s a force for good—in the right hands, at least. Our hands.”
Anthony stared. “Never say you want to go back after all you’ve been through.”
Stephen shrugged. “You said it yourself, Uncle—there’s too much at stake to let fear get in the way.”
Anthony wagged his head.
“And, Uncle, with you calibrating the controls I figure we can calculate our departures and landings accurately enough to get in and out again before I get shot.”
Anthony grunted. “You two have matters to settle. I’ll leave you to it.”
Bridgetta looked at Stephen through her lashes. “Do we have matters to settle?”
“I should say so. In whose time should we live once we’re married?”
Her eyes widened. “Are we going to marry?”
“Unquestionably.”
“I don’t remember anyone asking me.”
He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Marry me, Bridie Maguire. If you do I promise to follow you through time whenever you beckon me.”
Tears once more flooded Bridgetta’s eyes. “I don’t know if you’re courageous or just mad. I suspect a little of both.”
“Mad with love for you.”
“You’d give up your life here if I ask, and live with me in 1962?”
“There, here—anywhere. The place you are, Bridie Maguire, is where I belong. So will you marry me?”
She gave her answer in a kiss, one that sent a flood of strength through him. When it ended he bade her, “Here, help me get up.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea just yet.”
“But I need to make sure Anthony doesn’t go ahead and reset those controls. We have to send the machine to that yard, in 1962.”
“Why?”
“If we don’t, you won’t stumble upon it there in the dark. And this whole adventure will never begin.”
“Not so fast, mister.” She gave him a wobbly smile and plucked something from his chest—a single, long red tress. “I seem to have marked you as my own.”
“From the very beginning,” he assured her. “And for all time.”
ABOUT LAURA STRICKLAND
Cancer is a thief. It creeps in, often unnoticed, and steals the things dearest to our hearts: vitality, time with family, peace of mind. It can also be a teacher of amazing things: the ability to live in the moment, to summon astounding courage and faith against all odds. These two truths inspired my story dedicated to my brother-in-law Dan, who faced his battle with dignity, honesty and never a word of complaint. Keep believing in the light!
Award-winning author Laura Strickland delights in time traveling to the past and searching out settings for her books, be they Historical Romance, Steampunk or something in between. Born and raised in Western New York, she’s pursued lifelong interests in lore, legend, magic and music, all reflected in her writing. Though she’s made pilgrimages to both Newfoundland and Scotland in the company of her daughter, she’s usually happiest at home not far from Lake Ontario with her husband and her “fur” child, a rescue dog.
Author media links:
Author web site: www.laurastricklandbooks.com
Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/Laura-Strickland/e/B001KHSACW/
Author Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000002632317
Starlight Kisses by Sibelle Stone
A Victorian Love Story
CHAPTER ONE
New York City, January 1885
“She’s attractive enough.” Pierce Stimpson the Third glanced in the direction of a tall, elegantly garbed redhead and nodded. “Although with her millions, she’d be attractive if she had frog’s eyes and a duck bill.”
The other young man in their small group snickered, but Merritt frowned. He didn’t enjoy making casual remarks about the current crop of debutantes. Although to be honest, Tatiana Langdon, the woman Pierce had indicated, was a bit older than the society girls making their debut this season.
/> “It’s not Miss Langdon you need fear, but that valkyrie standing guard over her.” Andrew Caine stared at the older woman accompanying Miss Langdon. She wore a black silk gown, of the latest fashion, but as an obvious sign of her continued state of mourning for her brother-in-law.
“How long has it been since Larkin Langdon died?” Merritt asked trying to remember why the man’s death was a sensation in the newspapers.
“Nearly two years, an ugly business that,” Pierce stated, his glance snaking once again across the room to the two women. “Murdered,” he added, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Visiting one of his gold mines out in Colorado Territory and killed in a stage robbery,” added Andrew. “They say he didn’t want to give up his wedding ring, so the men robbing the stage shot him.”
“Damned foolish of him,” Pierce suggested, taking a gulp of his champagne.
Merritt couldn’t decide if his friend’s judgment meant that the man going to Colorado, visiting his gold mine, or refusing to give up his ring was the foolish downfall of Larkin Langdon.
“I think it must have meant a great deal to him if he stood facing a gun and refused to give it up. Perhaps it was sentimental, but men have died for less foolish things.” Merritt Barclay let his gaze wander around the room, taking in the elegant gowns, and the well-coifed women wearing enough jewelry to entice a pack of thieves. His glance also took in the men who ogled and judged those women. Should a lady meet the correct specifications of beauty, elegance, breeding, and most importantly, wealth, she’d be courted and wed by one of those male bastions of New York society.
The men standing in his group were all bachelors, and this was part of the ritual of finding a wife. They attended dinners, balls, the opera, the ballet, and even a cotillion once in a while in order to see, evaluate and eventually settle upon one of the wealthy heiresses in their circle of acquaintances.
It reminded Merritt of a horse auction, where the best bred animals were paraded around, their finest traits remarked upon and eventually—after settling upon a bidding price—the horse had a new owner and home.