by Nichole Van
It had taken her twice as long to return home. Mostly because she had to keep pulling off the road to give herself pep talks.
You can do this. You are an intelligent, courageous person.
She wasn’t sure the talking had helped. And it had seemingly frightened several people, including one elderly woman who had crossed herself while hurrying past the BMW.
But what other choice did she have?
After chatting with Cobra, Jasmine didn’t have the courage . . . ehr, heart . . . to continue on.
No one missed you.
She didn’t know what to make of her confusing memories. In the car, had her sister tried to hold her back? Why had her memory changed? The vision of a dark-haired sister urging her to run had haunted her for as long as she could remember. Which memory, if either, was the truth?
Granted, she might have had the gumption to make it to Caerleon, if Rita hadn’t texted two minutes after Jasmine hung up with Cobra.
Have you made a decision yet about those pillowcases?
And then two minutes later . . .
Oh, and what about the necklace? That one you always wear? I’m pretty sure it’s an heirloom too. Breanne definitely needs that. No reason for you to keep something that rightfully belongs to us.
Jasmine grasped the pendant hanging from its chain. The china, the pillowcases . . . whatever.
But the pendant?!
Something visceral awakened at the thought of parting with it. It was hers. Not just a gift from Marmi, but a vital part of her soul.
She lifted the gold charm in her hand. A beloved friend.
In life, objects rarely mattered. They were just ephemera.
But this pendant mattered. It was a symbol not only of the love she and Marmi had for each other, but their shared mysticism.
Jasmine knew the meaning behind the pendant too well. A dara knot twining inside a quatrefoil shield design. Strength and endurance wrapped in protection. Ancient symbols, that for her, still thrummed with power.
They even showed up in her dreams, for goodness’ sake. No way she was giving the pendant to Rita.
rita I’m happy to send along some of the pillowcases with the china which means breanne will have all sorts of stuff from her ancestors
but marmi gave the pendant to me and I intend to keep it as a memory of the woman who raised me
Rita’s response came quickly.
I really don’t think it’s yours to keep, Jas. It belongs to the family and a decent person would return it.
Sheesh. Manipulative much?
Rita had continued to text and Jasmine had continued to ignore her.
Avoidance was such a useful personality trait sometimes.
If the woman wanted the necklace that badly, she could fly to Herefordshire and rip it from Jasmine’s neck. Or at least try.
Tired and defeated, she parked the car (still scratch-free, hallelujah) in the old stables behind Duir Cottage, gathering her things. Jasmine unlocked the back door and kicked it shut, dumping her sketching supplies and bag of groceries on the counter.
“Honey, I’m home!” she yelled. Mostly because she wanted to be annoying.
A figure stirred over on the couch.
Jasmine turned on the entire bank of kitchen can lights and swiveled toward the sound just as Timothy stood up and turned around.
“How was your da—”
She stopped, staring at his face.
“Good grief! What happened?”
Eye swollen shut, hair poking out in gravity-defying ways, shirt untucked and wrinkled, a towel wrapped around his hand. And, wait, was that blood on his pants?
She walked over and grabbed his arm, pulling his enormous body into the kitchen.
He flinched and ground his teeth together, clearly not appreciating her touching his person.
Total win.
“Please tell me you walked down to the pub and got into a fight with some guy named Malcolm because he insisted Chelsea was going to win the cup this year, but you still have this lingering man-crush on David Beckham, so you were all like, ‘No, man, it’s Manchester U all the way,’ and four beers later, you tried to crack Malcolm’s jaw, but he has a wicked left-hook and leveled you—”
Wait. Was she speaking out loud here?
“A pub, Miss Fleury?”
“Ya know, like a tavern.”
“And I could get drunk there?”
“As a skunk.”
“An excellent piece of information.”
“And your eye?”
He gave her The Look with his (one, open, seeing) eye. Which, quite frankly, reduced its effectiveness. It was less than a half-Look. Like The Look was the exponential sum total of every muscle in his face being able to communicate disdain simultaneously and with a portion of it out of commission—
“Are you quite through, Miss Fleury?”
Right.
“So, your eye—”
“I see no point in discussing it.”
“Hahahaha . . . good one, ‘I see no point’ . . .”
The Look ratcheted up to at least two-thirds effectiveness.
No talking or joking about the eye. Eye puns not funny.
Got it.
“So how did you spend your day?” she asked instead. “Harassing villagers? Despoiling innocents? Pillaging? I mean, you nineteenth century lords do have a reputation to maintain—”
“Pillaging? I do believe you are off by—at a minimum—six hundred years, Miss Fleury.”
“Well, I’m sure we could find you something to maraud then, if you’d like. Or at least talk haughtily to. Denigrate with a few pithy insults—”
He was pinching the bridge of his nose now. Both eyes closed.
Breathing slowly, as if wrestling for control.
He looked . . . defeated.
And why did that pull at her heartstrings?
The man did Not. Need. A. Mother.
And maybe if she reminded herself of that fact every other second it would finally sink in.
Though he might need a bodyguard, given the state of his eye—
She chewed on her cheek, using the pain to focus her attention away from her bleeding heart.
“Miss Fleury. I am standing here, trying to decide if I was sent here to learn something—”
“You were sent here to learn something, alright. To learn how to actually be a human being, as opposed to a robot—
“Robot?”
“A human-like machine without a heart.”
His head reared back, his good eye going wide.
“And you are of the opinion that I resemble this . . . robot?
“If the shoe fits . . .”
His breaths came in heavy puffs, chest heaving. He swallowed.
Silence.
“Are you sure that is what I need to learn? Or am I merely being punished by having to endure your presence?”
Oh! Well, if that didn’t just knock the air right out of her—
“You are the most arrogant, conceited excuse for a man—”
“How dare you! I am a peer of the realm, respected and sought after for my opinions—”
“Pah-lease! The only thing you are is despised—”
“I would not expect one such as you to understand.”
“Do you even have a real friend? Like someone who would come to your aid if you needed it?”
Another swallow. More of The Look from his seeing eye.
“A Linwood does not need aid—”
“That’s a solid No then.”
“My life has a purpose, Miss Fleury.” His voice low and so very cool. “At least my disappearance in 1815 will be noted—”
“Huzzah for you!”
“Could you say the same thing about you? If you disappeared, would someone come looking for you?”
Jasmine gasped. Her vision instantly dimmed, her eyes filling.
Of all the things to say—
He locked eyes (well, eye) with her, surely noting her tears.
She gave herself about thirty seconds before a solid ugly cry set in.
Make that twenty-five seconds.
With a sniff, she lifted her chin. And with a curt nod of her head, she brushed past him, intent on the stairs.
Then, realizing she was going to need reinforcements, she strode back into the kitchen, swiping at her wet cheeks.
She grabbed a carton of banana chocolate brownie Haagen-Daz from the freezer, a spoon and, at the last second, one of her sticky notes from the fridge door.
“I bid you good night, Lord Linwood.” She slapped the sticky note onto his (broad, muscled) haughty chest and, with a flip of her head, retrieved her dignity.
And then she went upstairs, stomping and sniffling the whole way.
Timothy stood rooted in the kitchen. Head pounding. Eye throbbing. Cut hand stinging.
His body feeling as beaten and down-trodden as his soul.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
With a snarl, he grabbed the sticky note from his chest.
And froze.
You know my name, not my story.
He closed his eyes as an unfamiliar emotion swamped him.
It felt suspiciously like shame.
He could hear Miss Fleury crying.
Rule #192: A gentleman should never make a lady cry.
Gah! Had he ever made a woman cry before? He thought not, though his mind was not exactly in tiptop form. Granted, no woman had ever gotten under his skin like Miss Jasmine Fleury.
A human-like machine without a heart.
Is that really what she thought of him?
He braced his hands on the marble counter, trying to swallow past . . . whatever emotion was currently choking him.
Frustration. Anger. Panic. Fear. Regret.
Loneliness.
There. He had admitted it to himself.
He was alone. Utterly isolated . . . but, then, he had spent his life alone, hadn’t he? Why should it bother him now?
It wasn’t a Rule—a gentleman should be alone. Nope. That had never been codified.
And he had never felt . . . lonely. Until recently.
He had the viscountcy to focus on. His place in the world to maintain. The Rules to follow.
But without those things . . .
Nothingness stretched around him. Like a void. Everything feeling . . . frozen.
His eyes drifted to another one of Miss Fleury’s notes on a cabinet door. It had somehow migrated downstairs.
Sometimes good things fall apart, so better things can fall together.
Was that true? Or did things sometimes just fall apart?
Why was he here? To make Miss Fleury cry? To ruin others’ lives? What did the universe want of him? What did he need to do?
A sign. A message. Anything. If he received something, he promised he would do it. Something more specific than the pithy sayings plastered on the walls of Duir Cottage.
Pain swamped him, dragging him to his knees. How could there be no air in the room? And why did panic have to literally hurt?
Bing-bing.
A sound came from near the sofa. His new phone.
Heaving, he staggered to his feet and picked it up.
Message from James Knight.
The words blinked at him. He touched the screen and a note appeared.
Timothy. Stop being an ass. You made Jasmine cry yet again. Apologize. For once, stop protecting your precious pride and this antiquated idea of how you should behave. Let. It. Go.
He stared at the words for a good five minutes.
Well, he had asked what he needed to do.
Let it go.
And as he did, his breathing calmed.
A sense of rightness drifted through him, that James’ words were important.
Let it go.
Fine. He would let things go.
And maybe, if he did so, the portal would let him go home.
Chapter 15
Duir Cottage
April 5, 2015
So how, exactly, does one ‘let it go’?
Timothy pondered this as he dressed the next morning.
What did ‘let it go’ mean precisely?
Wear a wrinkled shirt?
Stop fretting about Kinningsley?
And wasn’t the thought of it all supposed to be freeing? Like a weight lifted?
Instead, all he felt was . . . overwhelmed.
Drained. Empty.
He had spent the better part of the previous evening learning his new phone. The book James had sent was particularly useful. As was Google. He had also discovered a thing called Wikipedia, which was a fountain of information.
But repeated searches of ‘Viscounts Linwood’ or ‘Kinningsley’ had pulled up all sorts of error pages. Clearly, his future (past future?) was to remain hidden.
Despite everything, he still considered it his duty to ensure Helm Enterprises never found footing within his lands. Even if he had to write it into his last will and testament.
All of this assuming he could return to 1815 in time to woo Miss Heartstone. He would see her in May, which was thankfully still a good six weeks off. If letting it go would convince the portal to allow him to return, then he would do it.
Sighing, he drew on a pair of those blue trousers everyone wore—jeans, Miss Fleury called them. He had resisted wearing them, as they seemed less elegant than was strictly proper. But as he was determined to let things go . . .
The jeans sat low on his hips but otherwise were remarkably comfortable. Next, he donned a silver-gray form-fitting shirt which buttoned up the front and had a subtle texture woven into the fabric. He tucked it into the jeans and then pulled on a weathered black belt. The entire effect felt casual and yet . . . good.
The swelling around his eye had also gone down. It wasn’t too bruised. In another day or two, it would be good as new. Which was fortunate, as he intended to best the punching bag the next chance that he got. Pocketing his talisman gear, he left his bedroom.
Then he tried the portal for the first of probably fifty times for the day. But to no avail. The stone pulsed with energy, but nothing happened. Merely deciding to ‘let it go’ was clearly not sufficient.
Miss Fleury was in the kitchen, leaning back against the marble countertop, staring at her phone. The morning light poured in behind, rimming her dark head in golden light.
She really was remarkably lovely. Her hair was down and curly, though a section of it across the front had been woven into a subtle braid, keeping hair off her face. She was dressed in tight jeans and another of those stretchy shirts—called t-shirts. (Google had clarified that for him.) Over it all, she was wearing what could only be described as a frock coat. It was a dusky green color, tight across the bodice and then flaring into a skirt which reached almost to her knees. A pair of boots completed her ensemble, laced up her calves. Interestingly, the boots had a significant heel, giving her several more inches of much-needed height.
He had to admit, if the universe insisted on trapping him in this century, he was grateful to have landed with her. She was a fiery sprite. A fey princess tumbled to earth to tempt poor mortal men like himself.
Not that he would say as much to her.
But James was right. He did owe her an apology.
When was the last time he had apologized? For anything?
He paused, thinking.
Nothing came to mind.
Rule #80: A gentleman should never do anything for which he must apologize.
One had to actually be in the wrong before an apology became necessary. And adherence to The Rules ensured he never was. Wrong, that is.
She raised her head as he walked farther into the kitchen. Raked him up and down with her eyes, cocked an eyebrow. Then turned away to face the window, shoulders rigid.
The cut direct.
He deserved that. His behavior had been rude over the past two weeks, particularly the previous evening.
Apologize. He could apologize. He needed to apologize.
>
He could do this. Say he was sorry. Let it go.
And hopefully, by doing so, be allowed to return home.
He cleared his throat.
No reaction. She didn’t turn around.
Though the slight stiffening of her shoulders indicated she had heard him.
Silence.
“Miss Fleury, I—”
The words clogged his throat.
He could do this. He could. Deep breath. Surely, if nothing else, she could hear his pounding heart.
“Miss Fleury, I . . . I-I must apologize for my behavior last night.” He cleared his throat. Almost there. “I was unbearably rude and hurt you. It was . . . I-I was wrong.”
There. He had admitted it.
Well, what did you know. It felt . . . good. Like a small weight lifted.
Huh.
Miss Fleury turned around with excruciating precision.
“Excuse me?” Her eyes so very round. “Wh-What did you just say?”
The maddening woman was going to make him repeat himself, wasn’t she?
It figured he would not be let off the hook so easily.
Jasmine felt the shock jolt through her again.
There was no way she had heard him right. He seriously had not just apologized.
She had come downstairs determined to avoid saying a single word to him all day. How like him to take all the wind out of her sails.
“Excuse me?” she repeated.
He stood across the room, just inside the doorway. Staring. Dressed in designer jeans and a tight-fitted button down which hugged his shoulders.
Yep. She wasn’t gonna lie. Jeans were a good look on him. Now if he just weren’t so stiff and snooty.
As if hearing her thoughts, his body noticeably relaxed. Shoulders went down, hips sagged. Everything moving from ‘stalker’ to more ‘professional executive.’
Then he hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of the jeans and shifted his weight to one leg, taking the transformation all the way to ‘international playboy.’
“I-I am sorry.” He looked at a spot about four inches to the left of her head as he spoke, as if the words were painful. “I apologize for my behavior.”