The Twisted Tale of Stormy Gale

by Christine Bell

  The Twisted Tale of Stormy Gale

  By Christine Bell

  I’m a time pirate—born in 1810, now a 21st-century woman. I travel through time trying to right wrongs without disrupting the fragile balance between what is and what can never be.

  That’s why it’s vital that I go to 1836 and find the man who conned my brother out of his Time Travel Mechanism as quickly as possible. If the technology falls into the wrong hands, it could change the world as we know it. The notorious Duke of Leister definitely qualifies as the wrong hands. An amateur scientist of the slightly mad variety, he’s bound to figure out how to use the TTM sooner rather than later.

  I knew this wouldn’t be easy. But I wasn’t counting on him being as sexy as hell. Or winding up chained to his bed…

  25,900 words

  Dear Reader,

  A new year always brings with it a sense of expectation and promise (and maybe a vague sense of guilt). Expectation because we don’t know what the year will bring exactly, but promise because we always hope it will be good things. The guilt is due to all of the New Year’s resolutions we make with such good intentions.

  This year, Carina Press is making a New Year’s resolution we know we won’t have any reason to feel guilty about: we’re going to bring our readers a year of fantastic editorial and diverse genre content. So far, our plans for 2011 include staff and author appearances at reader-focused conferences such as the RT Booklovers Convention in April, where we’ll be offering up goodies, appearing on panels, giving workshops and hosting a few fun activities for readers. We’re also cooking up several genre-specific release weeks, during which we’ll highlight individual genres. So far we have plans for steampunk week and unusual fantasy week. Readers will have access to free reads, discounts, contests and more as part of our week-long promotions!

  But even when we’re not doing special promotions, we’re still offering something special to our readers in the form of the stories authors are delivering to Carina Press that we’re passing on to you. From sweet romance to sexy, and military science fiction to fairy-tale fantasy, from mysteries to romantic suspense, we’re proud to be offering a wide variety of genres and tales of escapism to our customers in this new year. Every week is a new adventure, and we want to bring our readers along on the journey. Be daring, be brave and try something new with Carina Press in 2011!

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to generalinquiries@carinapress.com. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

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  Dedication

  This one is for you, Gram. I was so privileged to have had you in my life and I miss you…every single day.

  Acknowledgements

  First, I want to thank my editor, Jessica Schulte. If you don’t have a Jessica Schulte, you should go out and get yourself one. She’ll make you feel important and funny and brilliant, while simultaneously slicing, dicing and molding your work into something so much better than you ever dreamed it could be. I still have to pinch myself because she picked me. There aren’t enough words to express my gratitude.

  A big thanks to Angela James for her willingness to take a chance on me and this book, despite the fact that I was a total noob and cried when she called me with the contract offer.

  I also want to thank Ally, Donna, Kristina, Lisa, Melinda and Wyanne for their priceless input and unflagging support. They are the best CPs a girl could ask for.

  Last, I have to thank my sister, Nicole. She’s long insisted that The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is an allegory for life, and if you look hard enough, you’ll see it everywhere. I found it cropping up, unbidden, time and time again in this book. So, a nod to my sister, and all the respect in the world to Mr. L. Frank Baum for creating a timeless and magical masterpiece that enthralled me as a child.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Lordship, Connecticut, October 18, 1836

  A blast of sunlight punched through the persistent blackness, backlighting my eyelids in a hazy wash of red. I took a deep, steadying breath as the vague sense of weightlessness abated. Following protocol, I didn’t open my eyes until there was ground beneath my feet.

  Sand. A cool gust of wind sucked the air out of me as I took in my surroundings with a practiced eye.

  The beach was deserted, and it seemed as if we’d ended up exactly where we intended. Fabulous. But the real mark of success was whether we’d made it to when we intended. I looked down at the time-travel mechanism in my palm and waited as the wildly spinning hands slowed to a halt.

  “Well, shit,” I muttered under my breath, prying my hand from Bacon’s too-tight grasp.

  “When is it?” he shouted. The whipping wind plucked the words from his mouth and sent them sailing down the stretch of beach, but I’d gotten the gist through lip-reading.

  “Saturday the eighteenth,” I yelled in reply.

  “Bollocks.”

  Yep, bollocks about covered it. The whole trip had the makings of a major cluster-fuck. One that Bacon was directly responsible for. Already cranky at having to make the journey in the first place, being rushed on an important mission made me want to really lay into him.

  To be fair, our arrival date wasn’t his fault. It’s a tricky proposition, time travel. Once in a while you nail it, balls on, and get where you want, when you want. Most times, it’s a little more hit and miss than that, and we were lucky we’d done as well as we had. The reason for the trip itself, however, was all his fault.

  See, a few months prior, Bacon had lost his time-travel mechanism to the Loony Duke of Leister in a drunken game of whist. Needless to say, it had been priority number one to get it back from him as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, by the time we’d located his residence and come up with a viable plan, the bastard had left the country. We had finally tracked him down in the United States. And, after weeks of planning, we had come to get it back.

  We’d intended to arrive three days before the harvest fair began. Early enough to set my plan into motion and take care of some details, but not so early that we’d have stay in the nineteenth century for very long. Ostensibly, because the longer one stays away, the trickier it becomes to find one’s way back. But, if I’m being honest, I have an unholy obsession with hot showers and Starbucks coffee that keeps me motivated to limit the duration of my trips.

  My career has taught me to be a roll-with-the-punches kind of girl, so despite the setback and my mood, I got down to work. I methodically disassembled my handheld time-travel mechanism and stored the various pieces into different compartments of my ever-present carpetbag.

  Time travel rule number one: always immediately disassemble one’s TTM. This holds true even for an experienced time pirate such as myself. One might think that, given the nature of my occupation, being prepared for a quick getaway would take precedence over all other concerns. I’ve found, however, that it’s much better to be stuck somewhere reassembling for a few extra minutes than to be caught unawares when the village idiot steals your intact TTM and winds up in 1929 Siberia. Been there, done that, and spent almost a week chasing him through
time to get it back. Talk about a time suck.

  For this particular recovery mission, I’d chosen to travel light (aside from being saddled with Bacon, who was necessary in order for me to secure lodgings during this sexist time period). The only thing I carried with me was my carpetbag stuffed with a change of clothes needed to execute my plan. For the trip in, I’d opted for an unfortunate mutton-sleeved blue dress over a suffocating corset, and a wickedly starched petticoat. I am a jeans girl through and through so the look was out of character for me, to say the least, but I had long since accepted the costumes as one of the necessary evils of the job. The only concession I allowed myself was comfortable shoes, as being fleet of foot was a requirement. To that end, I had added a pair of supple, low-heeled calfskin boots to complete the ensemble.

  Once our gear was packed away and we’d slogged through the sand to reach the road, we hotfooted it to Mariner’s Inn about a mile from the beach. Bacon spoke to the proprietress and a short while later we were secure in our quarters.

  With Bacon’s back to me, I shucked the “proper lady” costume as fast as possible, pulling off the hideous gown and undergarments. I replaced them with a full cotton black skirt adorned with brightly colored hand-stitched poppies, and an off-the-shoulder black blouse that knotted at my waist. Then I adjusted “the girls” so that they were displayed to their best advantage—because, regardless of what the magazines may say, breasts never go out of fashion.

  Releasing my dark hair from the elaborate chignon, I turned my head upside down and shook it out. When I’d righted myself, a mass of curls hung loose down my back. After lining my navy blue eyes in black, I added my twenty-first-century MAC lip gloss in Rockin’ Red. I’d finally begun to resemble a Gypsy fortune-teller. I inserted large gold hoop earrings into my lobes and slid a gold ring on every finger, including my thumbs, for good measure. With a last quick look in the mirror, I was satisfied to see that Stormy Gale was nowhere to be found, and “Madame Baptiste” was ready for action.

  Missions accomplished, I stuffed the Victorian Miss uniform back in my bag and called to Bacon. “Okay, ready.”

  He turned to face me and grinned. “You look great.”

  “Thanks.”

  His broad smile drooped at my clipped tone. I looked away, a little ashamed, but still not ready to forgive him for getting us into this mess. “We’ve got one hour. Let’s rock and roll.”

  By the time we got to the fairgrounds, evening had stolen over the little town, and the night had that witchy aura exclusive to Octobers in New England. A swollen harvest moon hung heavy in the sky, its light casting a golden hue over the field. “Lots of people already,” Bacon said, scanning the crowd as we walked.

  “Wow. Keen observation. You should be a private detective,” I replied.

  He shot me a hangdog look, then turned his face away and mumbled, “I said I was sorry. I don’t know what else I can do.”

  I sighed. “It’ll be fine once we get it back. Until then, I’m going to be a little on edge. You can’t blame me for that. It’s really serious this time, bro.”

  He nodded grimly and that made me feel even worse. Bacon always owned up to his mistakes. It was one of his finest qualities. I just wished he didn’t make them quite so often. At nineteen, he was trusting and optimistic to a fault. Although, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. We’d been filthy little urchins living on the streets of London eating garbage and begging for money until Professor Gilbert Green came and took us away with him thirteen years ago. Life was peachy after that, but those early years had leeched the optimism right out of me. The things we saw…Well, you can’t unsee them, and I honestly don’t know how Bacon managed to hang on to his innocence through it all. Needless to say, the big, nasty world took pleasure in trying to strip him of it, chewing him up and spitting him out on a pretty regular basis. But damned if he didn’t always dust himself off and keep smiling.

  This time he’d really stepped in it, though. And despite the fact that his starry-eyed innocence often confounded me, the thought of him losing it made my stomach pitch.

  The smell of roasted meats, toffee apples and yeasty bread interrupted my thoughts. It was so tantalizing, we stopped and purchased two fat loaves stuffed with sausage bits.

  We nibbled on the crusty loaves as we scouted the fairgrounds for a good location to set up shop. After some deliberation, I chose a spot toward the middle. As much as I liked the idea of being on the fringe for a quick getaway, it was imperative that I set up in the thick of things so that the duke wouldn’t pass me by.

  “I’m going to try to get that space over there,” I said to Bacon. “Wander around and see if you can find me a few candles and a couple jugs of wine. Keep an eye out for the duke. And make sure you leave your hat on and wear it low over your eyes. He won’t be looking for you, but we don’t want to risk a run in and him recognizing you. Meet me back here when you’re done.”

  “Aye-aye, Cap’n,” he said with a salute, then headed off.

  Unfortunately, as I approached the chosen spot, I saw that an old had woman beaten me to it. She was setting down a rickety cart filled with baskets of apples, pears and corn to sell. When she saw me coming, she scowled.

  “Hello there!” I called and then flashed my teeth in hopes of dazzling her with my smile.

  “Move along, witch. Tart! Strumpet!” she snarled, flashing her tooth in a grimace, which was far from dazzling.

  I leveled her with a menacing glare and wiggled spell-casting fingers in her direction. A childish satisfaction warmed me as her face paled and she backed away.

  Forced to abandon my intention of making a deal with the hag directly, I took my leave. After a few minutes of searching, I located the groundskeeper. He agreed to move the woman down a row and to give me her spot in exchange for the ruby ring I wore on my left index finger and a gander at my tatas. Not thrilled about the latter part of the deal, I stood before the fat, greasy tosser as he licked his fleshy lips in anticipation. Eyes closed, I took a deep breath, calling upon my steely time-pirate resolve. Then, cursing Bacon roundly, I gave the pig a quick flash of the goods. Upon his leering promise to have a tent erected for me in short order, I stifled a gag and fled the scene, eager to forget the incident.

  Not one to cry over spilled milk—or in this case, bared breasts—I threw myself headlong into preparing for the evening’s activities. Making the rounds of the other tents, I was able to purchase some brightly colored cloth, herbs, a rickety little table and a decorative orb made of delicate green blown glass. By the time I was through, I’d made some friends, gained some admirers and doled out quite a few bribes. In return, some of the merchants agreed to try to get a message to me should they notice the Loony Duke of Leister had arrived.

  And when he did? Well, “Madame Baptiste” was going to con him out of the TTM he had stolen from Bacon, take the rest of his valuables and get the hell out of Dodge.

  An hour later, the tent was draped in gauze and smelled of beeswax candles. Complete with “crystal” ball, it looked appropriate for the purpose.

  The general public had started trickling in, so I sent Bacon back to the inn to wait for me rather than risk him blowing my cover. But as concerned as I was that the duke might recognize him, I was even more concerned about how I was going to recognize the duke.

  Bacon had been very vague on details as far as the duke’s appearance was concerned. He’d estimated Leister was in his thirties and recalled that he had dark hair and had worn a dapper suit. Beyond that, Bacon remembered very little else about him or that drunken night. The only other thing we knew for sure was that he was a Brit and a recent transplant to the States.

  Despite my recon earlier that evening, I had learned little else. None of the merchants I had chatted with had met him as of yet. The only additional information they could offer was that he’d just arrived in the area a month ago and purchased a large estate on the outskirts of town.

  Well, that, and the fact that he was
bat-shit crazy.

  Apparently the “Loony Duke” title had been with him since he was a young man in London, and it had followed him to America. During the short time he had been in Lordship, the working-class folk of the town had built Leister up into some pre-Mary Shelley type of mad scientist. Everyone expected that the fair would be his debut of sorts, and gossip was rampant.

  No matter how cracked his Liberty Bell might be, I still had to get the job done. I decided my best bet was to focus on his mode of dress and his accent to help me identify him in the crowd of Americans. With that in mind, I stood out front with my eyes peeled, eavesdropping as people streamed by.

  In an effort to seem authentic, I halfheartedly called to passersby, offering fortune telling and good luck charms. Inevitably, there were some takers, and I did my best to put on a good show.

  My first customers were a charming ginger-haired young man and his sweetheart. They entered the tent, sharing nervous smiles with each other as they sat down. He didn’t even glance at my cleavage, and she hung on his every word. They were adorable together. After consulting the spirits I quickly assured them that they would have a long and happy life together. They grinned at each other, and some of the tension knotting the back of my neck dissipated.

  As the evening wore on, people trickled in and out, their merriment rubbing off on me. I actually started to have a good time hamming it up as Madame Baptiste, ad-libbing a Romanianish accent and all. I would be the first to say it wasn’t exactly spot on. Growing up on the streets of London in the 1800s, moving to America in the late twentieth century when I was thirteen and spending my life flitting through time, it’s been difficult to settle into one mode of speech. That said, who was going to question my Romanian? So I went with it.