by Nichole Van
“Yes. The ancient Kingdom of the Britons is said to encompass all areas west of Bath. The last stand of Celtic peoples against the invading Saxons and Angles who swarmed the island once the Roman battalions left.”
“Mmmmm, so interesting.” She still studied her phone. “I wonder if I could include some of this in my mural somehow. Capture something of the real people behind the myth.”
“As I have said, Arthur would have been dressed more like a Roman general than a medieval knight.”
“True. But there is something to be said for meeting people’s expectations. Having King Arthur as a Roman would involve too much explanation for little Arthur. But I’m going to try to think of something.”
She paused and then tapped his arm. “Hey hot stuff. You come here often?”
He glanced at her. And then shook his head.
She had stuffed several candy teeth into her mouth, layering them on top of her own teeth. Giving her a crazed, bucktoothed expression.
“You know you want to smile. Admit it.” She nudged him again. “Or is it that you can’t handle the tooth?” She wiggled her eyebrows, the motion dislodging one of the fake sets of teeth. She caught it before it fell into her lap.
She had been doing this for at least a week now. Trying to goad him into smiling.
“Of all the humorous possibilities in the universe, you opt for candy teeth?” he asked.
“It’s not as low-hanging a fruit as you might think.”
“My non-candy lips are calling you out for your falsehood.”
“Well! My candy lips are smiling at you in mockery.” She pulled a pair of lips from her bag, sticking them to her mouth. “You aren’t fooling me. I saw that flash of dimple. You’re roaring with laughter on the inside.”
She did look decidedly ridiculous with the bright red sugared lips clinging to her own. Blue eyes dancing. Dark hair loose and curled around her face. She sucked the lips into her mouth.
“Mark my words, mister. You will smile and laugh before I’m through—”
“What in heaven’s name?!”
Timothy swerved off the road, stopping with a lurch on the shoulder. Eyes staring in astonishment.
A wonder of curved steel rose before him. It was a track of sorts, like the kind a mine cart would roll along. Only elevated and twisting and turning. A series of carriages flew along it, whipping the hair of those sitting inside. It seemed to defy gravity. Another machine rose next to it, a sort of capsule spinning and twirling. Again, he could see people inside, clutching on to the sides and laughing.
“Timothy? Hello?” A hand waved in front of his face.
He shook his head, eyes still far-too-wide and riveted at the sight.
“It is wondrous. What is this place?” Surely his amazement was palpable.
Jasmine looked at the spectacle and then back at him. “It’s just a kiddie carnival—”
“Carnival? It’s not Carnival. We’re in April now—”
“No. It’s a carnival, like a fair or a circus.”
Oh. More words which had shifted meaning on him.
“Is that series of carts supposed to represent a dragon?” His eyes were still focused on the wagons flying along the track.
“Something like that—”
“Can anyone ride it?”
“Well . . . sure. It’s meant more for little kids though—”
“Why would an adult not wish to indulge too? It looks enjoyable. I should like to ride it.” He was out of the car and halfway to the festooned entrance before Jasmine caught up to him.
“You’re seriously going to ride the kiddie dragon roller coaster?”
“Is that what the machine is called? A roller coaster?”
She just shook her head. And then danced ahead to face him.
“Will it make you smile?”
He paused, staring into her upturned grinning face. And then glanced at the shining metal machine behind her. “Very possibly.”
“Sweet. I’m so taking a picture of this for James.”
“I should think you would like to ride too.”
“Oh, I do. Don’t worry. But it’s not going to stop me from documenting this.”
Five minutes later, Timothy was seated in a too small cart, knees into his chest, eagerly leaning over the sticky metal side, trying to see how exactly the carriage was attached to the rail.
“Hah. The cart is affixed to a chain which rotates around the track, pulling the cart with it.”
Jasmine, sitting in the cart behind him, shook her head. Though the mechanism seemed quite straight-forward to Timothy.
“You are like a kid in a candy store. Anyone ever told you that?”
He paused, lifting his head to fully look at her. “No. No one has ever described me thus.”
“Why am I not surprised?” She lifted her phone. “Smile for James—”
“We have already discussed smiling.”
“—or not. It’s whatever. Though I would like to point out that the dragon on this roller coaster is smiling.”
He craned his neck forward to see the front car. Sure enough. The dragon was smiling.
“The dragon may be smiling, Miss Fleury, but it seems to be more maniacal than humorous.”
“You know, even a maniacal smile would be okay by me—”
The cart lurched forward, cutting off her response. Timothy grabbed the side, the twisting motions of the small train requiring him to hold on tightly. He could hear Jasmine behind him calling ‘Weeeeeeee’ as the train moved around the track. Though she didn’t seem to have her heart in it. If he didn’t know better, he would think she was being sarcastic. But what was sarcastic about this experience? It was an utter delight.
The ride ended all too soon.
Which meant that they would just have to ride it again.
And again and again.
Nearly an hour later, Jasmine practically dragged him away.
“Enough! If we’re doing the kiddie carnival, we need to have the whole experience. I see a sparkly pink unicorn over there that has my name on it. I’m going to assume being a crack shot with a rifle was one of your rules.”
It was indeed.
Two hours later, Timothy’s stomach felt woozy.
It was probably the last carnival ride spinning him upside down combined with the fluffy, sugary candy Jasmine was still eating.
Though the glittery pink unicorn tucked into the crook of his arm could also have been a factor.
Granted, he took pride in having won the unicorn. He had won so quickly, the game attendant had politely asked him not to play again. Apparently, twenty-first century marksmen were unaccustomed to compensating for weapons which consistently pulled hard to the right.
“You sure you don’t want any more cotton candy?” Jasmine asked, tucking another mound of the blue mass into her mouth.
Despite the eighty percent chance of no rain, the weather had decided to side with the remaining twenty percent. A few raindrops fell. Music played in the distance.
“Quite sure.”
“I think Mr. Sparkles disagrees with you. Don’t you, Mr. Sparkles?” She leaned in and touched her nose to the stuffed unicorn.
She had been talking to Mr. Sparkles for the last hour. He apparently had opinions about everything—the number of times each spinny ride needed to be ridden (four), what color shirt (bright pink) that large, bearded man should not have been wearing, how much sugar Timothy should eat . . .
Jasmine darted ahead of him and walked backwards a few steps, heedless of the rain.
“Personally, I think a sugar high and then the resulting sugar-crash are kinda requisite when doing the whole carnival thing. You’re not getting the full experience here.”
“My stomach informs me the experience has been sufficient. Thank you.” He shifted the unicorn in his arm.
“Mmmmm, there was another flash of dimple there. Mr. Sparkles is smiling.” She shrugged and peeled off the last of the cotton candy from its paper con
e. “I think you should consider it a sign. He’s setting a good example for you.”
She ate the bite, licking the blue residue off her fingers and then tossed the empty cone into a nearby rubbish receptacle.
The music became louder. They walked around a tent to see a stage set up in an open area. A man and woman stood on the stage, singing and strumming what appeared to be guitars. The tune they played was one he recognized, a traditional song considered old even in his time. A crowd had gathered in front of the stage, some people dancing.
At which point, the rain decided to get more serious. It wasn’t a heavy rain. Just the typical drizzle of spring that had enough warmth to hint toward summer. He stopped under the awning of a tent, sheltered.
With an exuberant laugh, Jasmine walked into the open, spreading her arms wide, face tilted toward the sky. Her long hair hung free, curling and thick nearly to her waist, swinging back and forth with her movements. She was wearing that same outfit, the one with the frock coat, tight jeans and knee-high laced boots.
He had become inordinately fond of it, quite frankly.
Standing in the grass, rain speckling her face, arms outstretched, eyes closed . . . she seemed more fey than human. A forest sprite bubbling with laughter and mischief. A bit of constant sunshine in an otherwise dreary world.
Just because it’s stormy now, doesn’t mean you aren’t headed for sunshine.
With Jasmine, one could have both simultaneously.
That yearning sensation pounded in his chest.
She opened her eyes and turned back to him. Grinned widely. Skipped to his side.
“You clearly have never danced in the rain, have you?” she asked. “I bet it’s one of the rules. A gentleman shall never spontaneously dance in the rain.”
“Mmmmm, I daresay if my forebears had ever considered it a danger, it would be a rule.”
“Well, in that case . . .” She took the stuffed unicorn from his hand, setting it down on the ground next to the tent. “As attractive a couple as you and Mr. Sparkles are, I think he can take a rest while I claim you for a dance or two.”
She grabbed his hand and tugged, trying to bring him out into the soft rain, her fingers cold in his.
“Ah. But it is a rule that only a gentleman can ask a lady to dance. Not the other way around.”
He leaned back, forcing her to put her whole weight into moving him. Not that it helped. She was far too small to budge him. Though her lips pursed adorably as she tried.
With a sigh, she stopped pulling on his arm and took two steps forward, placing herself right in front of him. Still holding his hand. Almost of its own accord, his thumb sought the softness of the skin inside her wrist.
“You’re going to be a tough customer, I see. Though I am catching glimpses of a dimple and your eyes are definitely cheery, so I know you’re teasing me. Very well then. Let’s play out this drama.”
She angled her body and dug a toe of her boot into the grass, twisting her ankle back and forth, all the while casting a longing look back at the crowd milling and dancing.
“Oh, woe is me.” Her sigh was convincingly forlorn. She cast her free hand over her eyes. “All this lovely dancing going on and here I am. A lady bereft of a dashing partner to sweep me onto the dance floor.” She peeped at him and then swung her eyes back to the stage. Gave his hand a little shake. “Pssst. Now it’s your turn to say a line.”
How could a red-blooded man from any century resist such a thing?
He tugged on her hand, pulling her into him, wrapping her arm behind her back as he gathered her close. Bending his head, he whispered in her ear.
“Dance with me, my lady?”
She mock-gasped and placed her free hand over her heart. Eyes so very wide. “My stars! I thought you’d never ask.”
Breathing in the scent of her—clean soap and peppermint—he clasped her other hand and swung her into a loose waltz which matched the one-two-three count of the music. He barely registered the rain dripping against his face. Every sensation was caught up in the miracle of the woman in his arms.
She was just so . . . vibrant. Free and unfettered by worldly expectations. Radiantly buoyant, even though he knew exactly how much of her world had crumbled around her.
He was a moth drawn to her flame. Helpless to keep away from the potentially scalding brightness. The reward worth any danger.
He drew her closer, tucking her body tight against his. So close it would send every matron in 1815 into a collective scandalized swoon. She responded by nestling her head into his chest, leaning into him. Trusting. Giving.
A feeling swept through him. Something he could not remember feeling in . . . forever.
He contemplated it for a moment. And then labeled it.
Peace. Calm.
Happiness.
How long had it been since he felt . . . happy?
The sensation bubbled in his chest. Burst through his veins until he felt he should float away from the effervescence.
She stirred in his arms, pulling back to smile dreamily at him.
And then she froze.
Pulled them to a stop.
All the air leaving her lungs in a whoosh. Eyes going instantly wide.
“Whatever is the matter—”
She brought a soft palm up to his cheek, her thumb brushing over his dimple. Tears welled in her eyes.
“You were smiling.” Her voice not more than a wondrous whisper.
“I was?”
She nodded, full of awe. “It was . . . beautiful.”
She brought up her other hand, cupping his face. Her little hands pressing softly into his cheeks.
“I know guys don’t like to be called beautiful, but that’s what it was. It was like your entire face just, poof, came to life. Your eyes crinkled and all those hard edges softened and your dimples”—here she actually bounced on her toes—“oh, they were just adorable—again, I know, I know, adorable isn’t the word that a man would choose either—but they were. Deep and charming. Totally swoon-inducing. Did you know that in Norwegian, dimples are called smile holes? Smilehuller. I had a Norwegian roommate for a semester, and she taught me all these interesting words . . . Anyway, it is a travesty to deny the world the awesomeness of your smile holes, Mr. Linwood. You need to smile more. Like all the time. Just so the rest of us can enjoy the sight—”
“Like this?”
That bubbly euphoria broke through again. He could feel his face stretching, unused muscles moving. The entire feeling utterly marvelous. Why had he ever resisted this?
Scrunching her shoulders, she giggled. “Yes! Exactly like that!
She launched herself into his shoulders, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, burying her cold nose into his throat.
Timothy continued to smile as he swept her into his arms, her feet dangling. It just felt so damned good. Like lifting a world of weight off his shoulders.
After a moment, he set Jasmine back down. She continued to laugh, wrapping her arms around his waist.
“What finally did the trick?” She craned her neck back to look at him.
He leaned down. “You.” Whispered in her ear.
“Me?” A small blissful smile. “I knew those puns would get to you eventually.”
He merely smiled larger and gathered her close.
The music changed to a tune he didn’t know. But the words arrowed through him.
You are my sunshine. My only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray . . .
He spun Jasmine out and then brought her back close, her laughter golden bright.
How he wanted more of her. More of her smiles. More of her cheer. Her endless patience. Her kind soul.
Would that he could keep this perfect moment forever . . .
He wanted to blast away all those logical, viscount-ish thoughts that marched inside his head (orderly, in a line), determined to sully his mood.
There was no future for them. Not together, at least.
Mentally, he
took aim. Fired. The thoughts evaporated.
But it wasn’t enough. The thoughts continued to crowd in, soldiers of a long war, brutal in their cool reasoning.
Jasmine could never be his. The very idea was . . . impossible. The gulf between them two hundred years in the making. His nineteenth century life was too structured to allow her in. Too many others relied on him to make responsible, unemotional decisions.
No. She would be an ephemeral burst of light . . . A comet scouring his skies, leaving a brilliant memory in its wake. She had been wise not to allow their relationship to progress any further.
Some other man would be blessed to go through life with her at his side.
He nearly closed his eyes at the wave of pain which shot through him.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Please don’t take my sunshine away . . .
They didn’t make it to Wales in the end. When they finally returned home, damp but content, Timothy added one more item—slowly, wistfully—to his list before going to bed:
Dancing in the rain with Jasmine.
Chapter 20
The M5
West of Birmingham
April 23, 2015
You have been giggling fairly maniacally for the last thirty minutes, Miss Fleury. Would you care to tell me where we are going?”
Jasmine just grinned and smiled, stuffing her laughter behind a hand.
She had spent all of yesterday planning this.
It was going to be awesome. Huge.
Epic.
Yep. There was no stopping the giggling. It just bubbled free no matter what she did.
They both deserved a break. Things with Rita had been so strained lately. She was still texting demanding Jasmine return every random thing she could think of. The woman was completely mental.
Worse, Cobra had no more leads. He had scoured all U.S. missing children reports for five years before and after the accident, coming up empty-handed. No child named Minna anywhere. Granted, who knew if that was her name, a nickname or just a poor memory playing tricks on her.
Her pendant hit a dead end too. It was indeed gold with no hallmarks. Beyond that, they knew little. The leading theory was that it had been handmade by someone close to her and, because the item had never been intended for resale, the maker didn’t think to add the required hallmarks. There had been some talk between Cobra and James about possibly contacting goldsmiths in Florida, but after thirty years, no one held out much hope.