Jamie’s teasing smile faded. He stared at the growing size of the hole, looking grim. “It might not be blood.” He decided at little desperately. “I might be old varnish. Aye, it looks like varnish. There’s too much for it to be blood.”
Grace didn’t take offence. Victim’s families and friends often went into denial, at first. Somehow it was easier for Jamie to imagine that Lucinda was alive when she left the bedroom. Maybe because of their time together. His mind kept trying to find a way to escape the truth.
She knew the feeling.
“The human body has more blood in it than you think.” Grace kept her voice calm. “Trust me. She bled to death right here.”
Jamie squeezed his eyes shut. “Fucking hell.”
“I’m sorry.” And she was. Lucinda might have been a mean girl, but Jamie had cared for her and she died far too young.
Grace reached over to touch his hand in comfort. Her palm passed through his and she left it there, linking them as best she could. The sizzle of energy sparked, again. She couldn’t feel his skin, but she could feel Jamie. The little jolts of power ran up and down her arm, growing stronger the longer they stayed linked.
His gaze slashed up to hers. “How do you do that?” He whispered in awe.
“Don’t ask me. You’re the ghost here.”
Jamie shook his head. “I’ve tried to touch more people than you can imagine over the years and you’re the only one I’ve ever been able to feel. It you, Grace.” He curved his long, elegant fingers around hers, like he wanted to hold on. “I was meant to find you.”
She stared back at him, dazed and a little scared. Holy cow but the man was trouble. He could make her forget that he was actually dead. Forget that they were at a crime scene. Forget that she was normal. Forget everything except the blue of his eyes and the musical sound of his voice.
She swallowed hard. “Do you want me to be sure about the blood?” She blurted out, desperate to get the back on track.
“I do, but…”
“Good.” She pulled her hand back from him, refusing to notice the way his fingers made an instinctive move to cling to hers. “I might be able to tell for sure if it’s blood or varnish. I don’t think it’s ever been tested on anything this old, but theoretically it should work.”
He sighed and gave a jerky nod. “Do whatever you can.”
“Alright.” Grace got to her feet and pulled down the window shade, so the room got darker. She grabbed her squirt bottle full of luminal and sprayed an even coat across the wood. The chemical reacted with biological materials, making them glow. If someone had bled onto this floor, they were going to be able to tell pretty quickly.
Grace clicked on her UV flashlight and wasn’t surprised at all when the wood lit up like Harrisonburg’s annual fireworks display. “Blood.” She said simply.
Jamie cursed in Gaelic.
The evidence was unmistakable to anyone who’d ever watched Dateline. Lucinda had died right there, bleeding onto the floor. The pool of blood had been several feet across, running under the bed and straight back to the wall. The wound that killed her must have been deep and massive. Either that or she’d suffered dozens of smaller wounds, before she finally succumbed. Someone had then used the bedclothes to clean up the mess and dumped her body out the window. It was all tragically, terrible, irrefutably clear even to an ex-forensic investigator.
Apparently, Grace been wrong earlier. Even two hundred years later, there was still evidence of murder left in this house. She snapped some pictures of the scene, falling into the familiar rhythm of the job.
“It’s like magic.” Jamie glanced at her. “You can do something like this and you choose to give dull tours of this dull town? Why?”
Grace focused on the camera controls. “I told you, I burned out.”
That answer didn’t satisfy him. Huge surprise. “And I told you, I have no idea what that means. Were you injured?”
“No.” She hesitated. “Not physically.”
Jamie’s head tilted, seeing far too much. “So much brutality must have been hard to witness.” He finally said. “Hard to forget.”
Her lips compressed, refusing to be lulled in by his gentle tone. “The job was important and I was good at it. The stress just got to be too much for me. I started… seeing things.”
“Seeing things?” He tried an encouraging smile. “Like ghosts?”
“Kind of.” For no reason except she had a hard time guarding what she said around this man, Grace found herself telling him the truth. “I saw a victim before she died. I relived the whole crime scene, just as it was the night of the murder.” Her eyes flicked up to his. “I was there, Jamie.”
His brows compressed like he didn’t have answer for that.
He wasn’t the only one floundering for a response. Grace crouched down, her fingers turning the board so she could get a better look at the Luminal-y glow. Her thumb touched the ancient bloodstain and she barely noticed. “For the past year, I’ve been trying to explain how it happened, but I keep coming up…”
She stopped short as Lucinda’s bedroom vanished around her.
Grace was suddenly outside. Like outside outside.
It was night, with candle-lit lanterns flickering along cobblestone streets, and no sounds except the quiet chirping of insects.
Grace’s lips parted in amazement. It seemed like she was still in Harrisonburg, but no hybrid cars or signs for WiFi hotspots were in sight. This was Harrisonburg with all the plastic, hipster, tourist-mania burned away.
Harrisonburg when it was new.
The building right in front of her looked exactly like a dirtier, smellier, high-def version of The Raven. In fact, it was The Raven. …Or at least how the tavern must have appeared, just a few years out of the Colonial era. Because she knew in her heart that’s where she was:
Smack dab in the middle of the 1789, on the night Lucinda Wentworth died.
Chapter Six
June 23, 1789- How I wish women could walk into taverns and drink! I was standing outside The Raven today, wondering if I’d ever have the courage to enter right through the front door. Mother and Father would faint dead away. How wonderfully shocked the whole world would be! And I just know all the best gossip happens inside those walls. Alas, I have my reputation to consider and there are some things a lady does not do.
…At least not publically.
From the Journal of Miss Lucinda Wentworth
Grace slowly got to her feet, dread filling her. “Oh crap…”
Just like that night in the alleyway, somehow she was back at a murderer scene, reliving everything in IMAX-like reality. This was not normal. This was very, very not frigging normal. Grace’s breath wheezed in and out as she tried to get her bearings. It didn’t feel like a delusion. It felt like it was really happening. Like she was really and truly standing in the middle of another era. What the hell was she…?
“Bloody hell.” A familiar voice said very distinctly from behind her. “Either I’m far drunker than I thought or you just appeared out of nowhere, lass.”
Grace’s head whipped around, her chaotic thoughts screeching to a halt. “Jamie?”
It was really him!
Kind of.
This wasn’t her Jamie, from the twenty-first century. This was Jamie, before he became a ghost. A solid, three-dimensional Jamie, wearing an even gaudier outfit than his usual super-colorful mix of fabrics and holding a pewter mug full of ale. She gaped up at him, staggered to see him alive and breathing.
And even more gorgeous.
The flickering light from the oil lamps did great things for the shine of his hair and his already exceptional cheekbones. He tipped his tri-corner hat farther back on his head, looking like the cover shot for some Patriot-themed “Hunk of the Day” calendar. Despite her possible insanity, Grace found herself whispering the word “Wow!” under her breath. God, he looked amazing.
His eyebrows shot up when she called him by name. “Do I know you?”
“No.”
Of course he didn’t. It hadn’t happened yet.
“Strange, because you would be a difficult lady to forget.” Jamie stepped off the porch of the tavern. “I used to see the fay, back in Scotland, and I’m thinking you might be one of them. One minute the street was empty and the next you were here. Appearing out of thin air.”
“Fay?” It was so hard to think. “You mean fairies?” Oh for God’s sake… Grace nearly hit him in general frustration. “I’m not a frigging fairy, Jamie!”
“Well, what other beings just materialize out of the ether? Where do you come from? And what in God’s name has happened to your gown?” He gestured to her striped skirt. “You’re practically unclothed.”
Grace looked down at her sundress. The maxi length and spaghetti straps were perfect for a summer day back in reality, but it seemed like Jamie wasn’t sure what to make of her anachronistic outfit. No wonder. In this century, “Old Navy” meant nothing more than a bunch of British war ships.
“I…” She swallowed. “I’m just a regular human, who’s little bit lost, alright?” Really, really lost. As in this-slightly-inebriated-pirate-was-the-only-person-on-the-planet-she-knew lost. What if she never got home?
“Lost from where?” Jamie persisted, seeing her distress. “Do you want me to fetch someone to aid you?”
“No.” She whispered with a quick shake of her head. There was no one but him. “I need you.”
“No one needs me.” The words were instant and certain, but she’d clearly captured his attention. “I can summon the Watch, if you’re…”
Grace cut him off. “I don’t want the Watch or the police or the National Guard! You have to help me, Jamie! Just stay right there and help me figure this out.” She just needed to frigging think.
He edged closer to her, at a loss as to how to proceed. “Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m just not sure how I got here. Or why. Or how to get back. Or…” She trailed off, trying to process this madness. “What day is it?”
“Sunday.”
“Sunday, the twenty-eight of June?”
“Aye.” He checked the position of the moon. “For another hour or so. Although, if anyone should ask, I’m not one for drinking on the Sabbath.” He raised his mug at her with a wicked grin, trying to lighten the mood.
It didn’t work.
Holy cow.
Holy cow, this was honest-to-God the night Lucinda Wentworth died.
Grace was used to weirdness. Growing up, she’d lived above a store that sold chicken heads and a “magical” number-shaped pasta, which was supposed to somehow reveal winning lotto combinations. But this… This was just totally off the lunacy charts, even for a Rivera.
Grace bent over with her hands on her knees, trying to calm her racing heart. Okay. (Peaceful green cornfields. Peaceful green cornfield.) If this was really real, (peaceful green cornfields) then she didn’t have the luxury of panic. She’d panicked the last time and it had gotten her locked up in padded cell. (Peaceful green cornfields.) This time she had to stay calm and focus on what was important.
Like the fact that Jamie was still alive.
Grace switched her full attention to him, breathing hard. “This isn’t a delusion. It wasn’t before, either. I haven’t been going crazy, all this time. I’m… really here.” She’d actually been traveling through time, to the night of the murders, and reliving it all. There was no “maybe” about it. It was seriously happening to her. “And you’re here, too.”
“None of which explains why a fairy needs my help.” Jamie reported, still looking baffled. Who could blame him?
She gave a high-pitched laugh that boarded on hysteria. “Actually, now that I think about it, you’re the one who needs my help.”
“Aye, that seems more likely.”
Grace ran a hand through her hair, close to hyperventilating. “You’re in a hell of a lot of trouble.” She paused. “And I’m not a fairy! Jesus, can you focus, please?”
Jamie must be why this had happened. He was why she was here. Through the frantic pounding of her heart, she seized on that explanation for her current predicament. She was stuck back in time, because she was supposed to save Jamie.
Not that he deserved it.
The man wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to the looming disaster. Instead, his gaze was scanning her body as if he liked what he saw. Despite everything, the heat of all that masculine focus had a hot, tight feeling building inside of her. Jamie was alive and feeling her up with his eyes.
“You’re going to aid me, then?” Having established she wasn’t in dire need of saving, he’d moved onto the business of flirting. “Well that sounds promising. I’ve got quite a few ideas on how you can be of service.” He winked at her, not at all concerned about his own safety. When he suspected she was the one in trouble, he’d been willing to lend a hand. With regard to his own life, though, he was mind-blowingly caviler. “I’ll get you a pint and you can regale me with tales of how you plan to rescue me from my dire fate.”
Grace waved that aside. “Just tell me… Are you one hundred percent certain that it’s 1789?”
Jamie paused, his head tilting to one side. “Aye.” His tone suggested he now thought she’d had enough pints for the day. His face grew serious, again. “On second thought, we’ll forgo the drinks and I’ll simply walk you home. You’re in no condition to be dealing with the likes of me.” He looked her up and down again with genuine regret. “Bloody shame.”
“Jamie, this isn’t a joke! You need to listen to me.”
“Oh, I’m listening to ya.” He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the batty woman thinks she’s come to save me and looks like a fay creature of moonlight… and I’m just going to walk her home. Why am I forever trying to be a bloody gentleman?”
“I’m not crazy.” She repeated, ignoring his muttering. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed about that, but it’s true.”
“This whole evening is becoming a bit strange.” He agreed humoringly. “I donea blame ya for being a bit confused. Where is it you live, now? Somewhere here in town?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I live here, but I don’t live here. You see?”
“Aye, that clears it all up.” He smiled like she really was batty. Or drunk. …Or possibly like he was still half-convinced she was from some alternate fairyland dimension. “Just point in the general direction of your home.”
“Trust me, we can’t walk there.”
“Well, I know it’s not exactly proper, but it isn’t safe for you to be wandering about at this hour.” He stopped in front of her and held out an elegant palm. “I’ll admit to being a bit of a cad, but I’m not a man who would leave a lady in your condition all alone on the street. There are too many bad sorts in that tavern.” He pointed towards The Raven. “This is Ned Hunicutt’s establishment and he’s an ass. He attracts other asses around him, like flies to a latrine.”
That diverted her for a beat. “You seriously never like that guy, do you?”
“The maps he sells are bloody awful, he treats the serving girls poorly, and he waters down his ale. I’m sure he was secretly a Tory.” Jamie assured her. “Now, I just want to see you home and then I’ll be on my way. I give you my word.”
“Listen to me: I can’t go home, yet.” Shock was fading and a new idea was forming in her mind. For the first time in years, the pessimistic voice in her head faded and optimism took its place.
The best way to save Jamie was to prevent the killings.
Maybe she was supposed to rewrite history. Maybe that was why she’d been dropped i
n this specific moment in time. Maybe she could really do this. Maybe it was all that simple.
Grace took a deep breath. “I have to try and stop him, before it’s too late.”
“Stop who now?”
There was no way she could answer that. Instead, she grabbed hold of Jamie’s beautiful hand, wrapping her fingers around his. “I know it sounds nuts, but you have to get out of Harrisonburg. Tonight.” In case she failed, she needed to make sure he wasn’t around to hang. If he wasn’t here, they couldn’t blame him for the murders. “Trust me. You need to get on your ship and sail far, far away. Right now.”
Except he didn’t seem eager to go.
The sparks when they touched were even stronger when they were both tangible. Jamie gasped, his face growing taunt. Desire throbbed between them. His palm twisted, so he could seize her fingers and press them tight. He seemed more stunned by the sensation of her skin against his than by her agitated words.
Grace knew how he felt. She could actually touch him and it made tears burn the back of her eyes. The connection that bound them was real, whether he was alive or dead. And right now he was alive. Really, really alive. She intended to keep him that way.
God, he really was her Partner.
What the hell was she going to do about that?
He glanced down at their joined hands, then back up to her eyes. A new awareness lit his face, like he somehow recognized her. “Who are you really?” It was barely a whisper.
Grace smiled, elation filling her despite this newest detour into weirdness. She was sane and Jamie was alive and she (sort of) had her job back. What more could she ask for, really? Positivity roared through her, reminding her of her life before the alleyway. “I’m the girl who’s going to save you, Jamie Riordan.”
And then --Because when was she ever going to get the chance again?-- Grace kissed him. Her free hand seized the front of his super-patterny green coat and she dragged his lips down to hers. Not that it took a lot of dragging, which was gratifying. Jamie lowered his head without even a smidgen of hesitation. His lips slanted over hers, drinking deep. The man tasted like magic and oceans and wicked intent. Since she was fifteen years old, she’d been daydreaming about this pirate and he was sooooo worth the wait
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