by Julianne Lee
For a long moment, Nemed couldn’t speak. His mouth gaped as he struggled for breath, then finally his vision cleared and he looked at Alex to croak, “You’ll take her back to your island?”
“No. I want you to send us home. Send us back to the twenty-first century, where we came from.” He drew his dagger and set the point just below the navel. “Do it or I’ll rip you from stem to stern and flay you alive. Then I’ll watch you die, and enjoy every moment.” His teeth clenched. “I’ve learned a lot since coming here.” Alex looked at Lindsay, who was sobbing and clutching the bars that separated them. “Send us home. They need to be there. Safe.”
Nemed was regaining his breath, and the fire of rage returned to his eyes. “And if I were to send only you?”
Alex leaned down to be face to face with the elf. “I’ll find you. Wherever you are, dead or not, I’ll find you and I’ll make you sorry you ever walked this earth. Trust me, you freak, you don’t want to make me a man with nothing to lose.”
The elf’s eyes narrowed to slits, and he raised one hand. Pain wrenched Alex’s body. The world began to fade, like a photograph, dissolving to nothing but sky blue, and as the world resolved the pain left. Alex found himself tumbling through a bright, sunny sky as a jet engine blew past overhead. Suddenly it was gone in a flash of fire, then nothing, and he was still tumbling. Falling. Tumbling. Somewhere he heard Lindsay scream, and he looked down. The ground was like an expanse of crumpled green paper, dotted with shiny blue lakes. He was falling without a parachute. Danu had been wrong; there was no rescue spell on this side.
As he tumbled, he found Lindsay flailing beside him, screaming as she realized she was about to die. He grabbed her and pulled her to him. They clutched each other, and all Alex could think of just then was that they would be together at the end. She sobbed in his arms. He held her close and said over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” The ground rushed up at them. The wind tore at them. Alex began to wonder how long and how much it would hurt.
Then, only a few yards from the ground, they slowed. Gently, without muss or fuss, a force above them let them down softly onto a chalk-lined football field. It was midday, and people watching applauded as they landed, then went along their way. Alex lay with Lindsay on the grass, both of them gasping, then laughing and crying at once.
Quickly, before anyone would come close, Alex stripped his plaid and tunic from himself so Lindsay could pull them on. Covered in oil and pitch, giggling and weeping, they sat on the empty field and held each other for a very long time.
Finally Lindsay said amid the tears, “We’re home, Alex. We made it.”
He looked around, at the planes overhead, the cars motoring past, children in the distance on a playground. He thought of what he’d returned to, and wasn’t certain how to feel about it. “Aye. And debriefing on this trip is going to be a bitch.”
Chapter Twenty Three
It was a week since their return, and that week had been a nightmare of debriefing—obfuscation and lies to his superiors and the British authorities about what had happened to his jet, how he’d received the wound on his back, and how he and Lindsay had ended up in medieval clothing covered in pitch and oil. Ultimately, the Navy concluded the F-18 had sunk in the Firth of Clyde. None of the bureau numbers from the plane recovered from the archaeological dig had been found, so only Alex and Lindsay knew of the connection. It would be a while before the governments involved would give up the search. The wound, clothing, and oil were explained by vague references to an explosion, loss of consciousness, and denial that the clothing—ostensibly borrowed to replace destroyed flight suits—was as medieval as it might look to some.
There was no telling what the witnesses on that football field had thought they were seeing when the two landed without parachutes, but Alex knew the human mind was a funny thing and would deny whatever it couldn’t grasp. Alex remembered how long it had taken him to accept he’d traveled seven centuries to the past, and so wasn’t surprised no witnesses to the miraculous landing ever came forward to accuse them of witchcraft. Perhaps the thing Danu had said about magic and technology also worked in reverse: magic being indistinguishable from sufficiently advanced technology. He could only guess the assumption had been miniaturized jet packs. In any case, the lack of parachutes never became known to Alex’s superiors. The report and debriefing weren’t questioned closely.
The first couple of days Alex had spent in a civilian hospital, for the wound he’d received from Nemed was deep and long. Surgery repaired the muscle, and his skin took dozens of stitches. Then he was transferred to the American military authority in London to be examined by U.S. Navy physicians. Just yesterday he’d been released on a month’s medical leave before he would return to his ship.
And flying. It had been two years since he’d piloted an airplane. He was no longer qualified to fly, but the Navy didn’t know it and couldn’t be told. Yesterday he’d obtained a manual for the F-18 and would study it until he was cleared medically and returned to his ship. A couple of day hops, and he figured he’d be back up to speed enough to not kill himself.
But when he considered his long-term future in the Navy, all he saw now was darkness and doubt. Over the past couple of years, expectation and possibility had shifted so far for him that he no longer knew what he wanted, or whether anything he could ever want was possible for him. He’d been knighted—an honor impossible for any American—and by Scotland’s greatest king. He’d distinguished himself in battle of a sort that none of his peers, nor even his superiors, would ever experience. He’d ruled an island and the people living on it, and had led men who followed him for his skill and strength. But he would never be able to tell anyone of these things. His future would proceed as if none of that had ever happened. All he knew for certain was that now he needed to rethink everything about the life to which he’d returned.
And now he looked to Lindsay as the only thing left to him he gave a damn about.
Today at breakfast in Lindsay’s London flat, his heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest. He took deep breaths, annoyed with himself for feeling this way. He tried to let it go, as he had always divested himself before battle, but this time it was hopeless. Lindsay was going to meet Derek today, to talk. Alex wanted desperately to ask what she was going to tell him—to ascertain if she still thought of herself as his wife, but he didn’t know how to even approach that question, and she’d made it clear the details of her chat with Derek would be none of his business. In fact, she’d been quiet since awakening that morning. Lips pressed together and cheeks pale, she wasn’t giving up any of what she was thinking today beyond telling him in a flat, no-nonsense voice she wanted him to stay in the flat while she met with Derek.
Alex stopped chewing his sausage and glanced up at her as a great wad of doubt settled in his gut. She continued poking at her grapefruit, playing with the segments without actually eating any of them, seeming oblivious to Alex’s reaction. She said, “This is going to be difficult for both of us, and I think it will go much more smoothly if you’re not there to upset him.”
Slowly, Alex began chewing again, then swallowed. “No. We wouldn’t want old Derek upset.”
Now she glanced up at him, and her voice developed an edge. “He was my fiancé. He thinks he’s still my fiancé, and has no idea how much time has passed for me. This is going to be extremely difficult; he already is curious why I asked him not to come directly to the flat when he flew in last night. It isn’t as if I could let him down slowly; you’d never stand for that.”
“No, you’re right, I would not.”
There was a silence, and neither of them moved. She said, “You’re not being very understanding.”
“Are you asking me to let you string him along for a while? You think he should continue expecting you to marry him?”
“No.”
“Then we’re in agreement.”
She returned her attention to her mangled grapefruit, and this time ate a piece. Ca
refully she sucked the juice out of it before swallowing. Then she ate another. Alex watched her, and ignored the rest of his breakfast.
The remainder of the morning passed in silence. Lindsay read a book and Alex watched the fish in her aquarium as he prepared for the worst, trying to figure out what he would do with his life if he lost her.
Finally she said, “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be there. Your presence would only antagonize him.”
“My presence would also discourage him from giving you any guff.”
“He won’t.”
“If I go with you, he won’t even be tempted.”
“Alex, stop it.”
He fell silent and turned on the television, and the subject was dropped. They spun out the rest of the morning watching a string of the most incredibly boring home decorating shows he’d ever seen, Alex counting down in his mind the minutes before Lindsay would leave.
Far earlier than he thought necessary, she looked at her watch and made a humming noise. “I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t keep Derek waiting. Wouldn’t want him...upset.”
She only sighed as she pulled on an oversized sweatshirt and raincoat over her five-month belly. “Good thing it’s wet out,” she murmured half to herself. “I couldn’t bear to have to tell him this isn’t his.”
Though he understood what she meant, the comment stung anyway. As if she were ashamed the baby wasn’t Derek’s. Alex watched her gather her purse and gloves, then she kissed him quickly before walking out the door.
He gave her only a few moments before following her out and down the street to the train station. She fiddled with her purse as she went.
She didn’t go far. The meeting was in Chinatown, in a close, busy restaurant with dim sum carts wending hack and forth, where Alex watched from a lobby through a glass door as Lindsay greeted a young man he assumed was Derek. The fiancé’s face lit up with recognition and familiarity, and Alex’s gut clenched. She greeted him with a kiss remarkably similar to the peck she’d given Alex half an hour before, and now Alex’s mind was turning, tumbling, with what that could mean. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, and couldn’t even see Lindsay’s face because her back was to him. Restaurant hostesses and waiters brushed past him in the narrow space, but his eyes were glued to what was going on inside the glass door as he sidestepped to let them by.
Derek’s face was quite visible. He was tall and thin, his dark hair neat and everything about him tidy. The impression he gave was of a nice guy with his wits about him, intelligent and handsome. Alex wanted to hate him, but had to admit he could see what Lindsay might have seen in him. Somehow that made it all infinitely worse.
He saw what she might still see in him. What if this meeting rekindled that flame? Even worse, what if that flame had never been out? What if Lindsay decided to pass the baby off as Derek’s? Alex wished he could see Lindsay’s face to know what she might he thinking just then. A young waitress in black skirt and white blouse pushed a cart to the table and after a short discussion served a small bamboo steam basket, marked Derek’s ticket, then moved on. Lindsay apparently was talking while Derek’s attention was on the food, and he picked up a dumpling with his chopsticks.
Whatever she was telling him didn’t seem to bother his appetite much. His face was impassive. Not a flicker touched his eyes as Lindsay spoke, and the smile with which he’d greeted her—a slight curling of the corners of his mouth—was still there. Alex didn’t like it. Derek spoke, not loud enough for Alex to hear. Alex shifted his feet, wishing Derek would raise his voice. He wanted the guy to turn red in the face and begin shouting. At least a frown would have been good. But the bloody Englishman was giving nothing away. Alex had no clue what Lindsay might be saying to him.
Finally Lindsay rose. A few more words passed between them, then she leaned down to kiss him again. She turned toward the door, and Alex spun quickly away and set his foot on a nearby bench as if he were tying his shoe. Lindsay passed behind him and down the stairs toward the restrooms.
Huh. Not leaving, just going to the bathroom. Once she was past, Alex then straightened and returned his attention to Derek. The guy was examining the contents of another steam basket, debating whether to accept, looking as if there were nothing amiss in his world. More doubt sunk into Alex’s gut. Lindsay couldn’t have told him yet. She must be stalling, undecided. Or maybe she didn’t intend to tell him at all. Cold sweat broke out. Maybe she would return from the ladies’ room to sit with him again, and then leave with him once he’d—
Someone slapped his arm from behind and his wound roared pain. “Hey!” He turned to find Lindsay there, anger dancing in her eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
Alex opened his mouth to make an excuse, but at that moment he caught a look through the glass door at Derek, who was watching him with Lindsay. The look of desolation in the man’s eyes told Alex all he needed to know, and he suddenly felt sorry for him. He knew what Derek had lost, even better than Derek himself did. Then the Englishman’s mouth became a hard line and he averted his attention.
Alex’s sore shoulder was whacked again, and the pain brought him back to Lindsay’s anger. “Not very sporting of you to come gloat, is it?” She went past him, out the door and down the stairs to the street, pulling her coat around her as she went.
Shoulder throbbing, he hurried after her. The alleyway was nearly deserted, for a cold drizzle had been going on all morning. He caught up to her and took her hand to make her stop and look at him. “You told him good-bye.”
“Of course, I did. And it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, to break his heart like that.”
“I know. It must have been tempting to not do it.”
For a long, puzzled moment, she blinked at him. “What, and then tell you good-bye?”
To hear her say it aloud made his heart clench, and he had to look away for a moment to let the rain cool his face. Then he nodded.
“That’s absurd. I’m your wife. Never mind we were married seven centuries ago; neither of us is dead yet so I expect our vows are still in force.” There was a pause, then, “Don’t you think so?”
“Of course. But—”
“Alex,” she put a finger to his lips and he went quiet. “You need to understand. What I feel for you is so terribly deep I almost can’t bear it.”
Curious, he kept silent and let her talk. She continued. “Alex, you’ve been my protector for two years. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be alive. And now, you’ve given up everything for me. You achieved so much, and now it’s gone. I owe you more than I can possibly repay, and I love you more than I can possibly express.” Tears began to rise, and she blinked them back. “Alex...Alasdair, I am so frightened. To be this vulnerable, and to just lay out my heart, to be that dependent on anyone...”
“I know. Scary, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Back then, it was all so very clear. The marriage was a deal and I didn’t have to admit how I felt.”
“I wish you had.”
A deep sigh, and she looked at him with soft, blurred eyes. “I am now. Please don’t hurt me; tell me it will all turn out okay.”
He smiled and kissed her. “I swear it.” And he knew he would do whatever it took to keep that promise.
Author’s Note
Though the traditional homelands of the MacNeil clan were on Barra, the MacNeil characters depicted here are entirely fictional. The laird at the time was Neil Og MacNeil, sixth of Barra, who is rumored to have fought alongside Robert Bruce at Bannockburn. Sir Hector and his kin, and of course the rest of the nonhistorical folk, are all fictional. And, as one can plainly tell by photographs of Kisimul Castle on Barra, it bears no resemblance to the MacNeil castle described in this book.
Acknowledgments
In writing historically accurate fiction, the importance of information sources and other support cannot be underestimated. I am most grateful for the gracious help of the following fo
lks:
LCDR Alan R. Bedford, Sr., USNR (Ret.); Annie at Blockbuster Video, Hendersonville, Tennessee; Teri McLaren; Laura Anne Gilman; Judy Goldsmith; Ward and Terry Weems; James A. Hartley; Trisha Mundy: Diana Diaz; Joyce Coomer; Maggie Craig; Susanne Dhomhnallach; the kind staff of Sabhal Mór Ostaig Colaiste Ghaidhlig na h-Alba, Sleat, Scotland; braw and knowledgeable Robert of the Bannockburn Memorial, Stirling, Scotland; and the Cathedral Museum, Dunblane, Scotland.
For information, visit the author’s website at http://www. julianneardianlee.com.
www.bookviewcafe.com
Copyright & Credits
Knight Tenebrae
Book One
Julianne lee
Book View Café Edition March 5, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-61138-238-9
Copyright © 2006 Julianne Lee
First published by Ace Books, 2006
Cover illustration © 2013 by Dave Smeds
Cover design by Dave Smeds
www.bookviewcafe.com
About the Author
At twelve I began to write for fun, which I think is the only real reason to write fiction. Daydreaming with a purpose, and gradually I realized I could gain approval for the very thing teachers used to criticize me for in class. When I was thirty I decided to write for money and bought a copy of Writer's Digest. Twelve years, twelve completed novel manuscripts, and eight proposals for uncompleted novels after buying that Writer's Digest, I sold a novel. Son of the Sword was my thirteenth completed manuscript. Lucky thirteen. Since then Berkley has published two time travel series set in historical Scotland, and two straight historicals set in Tudor England. I also write historical mysteries set in Restoration London, under the pseudonym Anne Rutherford.
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