Now he faced the unpleasant task of telling Blakelee's wife that her husband was among the missing. A score of patriots had been rounded up near the Harlem Heights and rumor had it they were on their way to one of the prison ships moored in Wallabout Bay in New York Harbor. A worse punishment could not be imagined and it was Andrew's fond hope that Blakelee had been spared that fate.
The red-haired woman stirred and his thoughts returned to the moment. The first order of business was to discover why the she had come to the root cellar and what, if anything, she knew about his business.
#
If Emilie had fainted back home she would have found herself in the Emergency Room trying to explain her reaction to a pimply-faced intern with a fistful of forms and very little in the way of concern.
Instead she opened her eyes to find herself lying flat on a stone bench to the right of the cellar door. A man knelt on the floor next to her and she noticed a knife protruding from the waistband of his breeches. It took her less than a second to remember that, like Dorothy, she wasn't in Kansas anymore.
Sitting bolt upright she fixed him with her deadliest look. "Touch me once and you'll find yourself without a hand."
He rose to his feet. He was approximately her height but much broader of chest and shoulders. He had the look of a solitary man, one who cared little for fancy clothing or grooming. His light brown hair was shaggy, drawn back into a ponytail and tied with a length of black fabric. His shirt was made of a rough cambric material in a natural color while his breeches were a faded tobacco brown. He looked oddly stylish to her modern eyes, yet totally in keeping with the time period.
"What brings you to this place, lass?" His accent was part Scottish brogue, part flat New England.
Would you believe a big red balloon? Withholding that particular nugget of information seemed the better part of valor. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I--I find myself in most difficult circumstances." She was horrified to find legitimate tears welling up in her eyes.
And elated to see the effect those tears had on this rugged-looking man.
"Aye, now none of that," he said, his voice gruff.
"Begging your pardon, sir," she said, dabbing at her eyes. He handed her a rough square of cambric with the initial A in the corner. "Thanks."
Instantly she wished she had chosen her words with more care.
He looked at her, his thick, bushy eyebrows rising. "Thanks," he repeated. "What manner of speech is that?"
"It's our family way," she said, stumbling badly over her white lie. "I give thanks to you."
He nodded, outwardly accepting her explanation, but she had the feeling the warning bells were going off inside his head. Watch yourself, Crosse! This isn't a man easily tricked. She blessed her lifelong interest in the methods and mores of colonial America and prayed they'd be sufficient to see her through.
"Your most difficult circumstances--?" he prodded.
I knew you'd come back to that. "My...my companion and I were partaking of a leisurely boating ride when a most unexpected storm swept us decidedly off-course and onto your shores."
That flinty look reappeared in his hazel eyes. "And when did this aberration of nature occur?"
His word choice belied his rough-hewn appearance. The man was educated. This would be even more challenging than she had feared. "Before the noon hour," she said, praying her own word choices wouldn't give her away.
"I see no evidence of a companion," he said, reminding himself that beauty and veracity did not always walk hand-in-hand.
"He is inside the lighthouse," she said. "I fear he has a broken arm among other injuries."
He looked more closely at her. "Have you taken a full accounting of your own?"
She waved her hand and she noted the way his gaze followed the glitter of gold and silver. "They do not matter."
"Would this man be your husband then?"
"My friend," she said simply. "He has lost a great deal of blood, sir, and I--" Her voice caught and she lowered her gaze but not before he saw the shimmer of tears.
"Take me to your friend, lass. I have not the skills of a doctor, but I can offer some assistance." He smiled and his raw-boned face was transformed. "'Twould be useful if I knew your Christian name."
"Emilie," she said, returning his smile. "Emilie Crosse." The name meant nothing to him but it would be a few years yet before her family helped to build the town that would one day bear their name.
"'Tis odd circumstances under which we meet, Mistress Emilie."
"You have me at a disadvantage, sir." This is fun, she thought, like dancing a minuet with words instead of steps.
"Andrew," he said. "Andrew McVie." He reached for her. "Mistress Emilie, are you feeling faint?"
Mistress Emilie was just plain blown away.
Andrew McVie!
The man whose name had been on the lips of every Crosse Harbor school kid for the past two hundred years--the most wanted rebel of them all--was standing right there in front of her! Was it only last night that she had recounted McVie's story to Zane, glorying in the tale of courage and patriotism?
"It has been a long and difficult morning," she said at last, accepting McVie's hand as she rose to her feet. "I pray you will disregard my momentary weakness."
"Weakness in the fair sex is a most agreeable trait."
"Strength is more agreeable, no matter the sex," she returned. How disappointing it would be to discover her childhood hero was a male chauvinist pig. "Don't you agree?"
"Take me to your companion," he said, ushering her toward the stairs that led out from the root cellar. "A broken arm left untended can rob a man of his ability to earn a living."
You don't know the half of it, thought Emilie as she climbed the steps, wincing at the assault of late afternoon sunlight. Zane was a physical man. He was accustomed to pushing himself to the limit, then beyond. Being restricted in any way would drive him right up the wall.
Unfortunately that was the least of their worries.
#
The woman was sharp-tongued and swift to voice her opinions. That would explain how it was that she remained unwed, though Andrew as he followed her along the stone pathway toward the front door of the lighthouse. Her abundant tresses seemed to capture the sun then send its fire shooting back toward the sky. He wondered how she would look with her auburn waves piled neatly atop her head in the style the good women of his acquaintance favored. Of course, her style of hairdress was not the only unusual thing about the woman. He allowed that her strange attire must be the result of the accident. Perhaps her skirt had been torn on the rocks or she had used the fabric to bind her companion's wounds.
She had no womanly embarrassment about her attire. She was neither coy nor modest. She walked before him with her head held high, unmindful of the shocking way her limbs were outlined for the world to see. The breeches fit her like a second skin. He wondered how or why she had knitted a pair designed to cling to her curves in quite so indecent a fashion. He could plainly see the shape and fullness of her buttocks, the slender shape of her thighs, the--
She stopped abruptly and turned to meet his eyes. He felt as if he had been caught stealing apples from an unsuspecting farmer's orchard.
"My companion isn't--he is not...thinking as himself since our boating accident."
He looked back toward the dock where the rowboat was tethered.
"That's not our boat," the woman said quickly.
"Where is your boat?"
"I don't--I do not know."
"I see no sign of it anywhere."
"We found ourselves dashed against the rocks, torn apart by fearsome waves, then tossed into the ocean with naught but our wits to save us."
Clearly she would have continued spinning her tale of adventure and derring-do had Andrew not thrown back his head and started to laugh.
"That is unconscionably rude of you, Mr. McVie."
"I do not know what the truth is, lass, but this story of yours is most enjoyable."
"It's not a story," she protested. Well, maybe the part about the boat was, but that was picking nits. "I saved his life."
Were it any other but the strapping lass before him, Andrew would have had grievous doubts. He had never known a woman who was tall enough to look him straight in the eye before and the sensation was unsettling. However, it did explain her ability to save a grown man from drowning.
His Elspeth had been a tiny creature, barely reaching his shoulder even in her best shoes. She had made him feel strong and protective. Everything a man should feel about the woman he had taken to wife. Sometimes late at night when sleep danced just beyond reach, she came to him in the shadowy world of his imagination, and he could smell the scent of vanilla on her skin and hear the sweet sound of her laughter as she said, "Put aside the ledger, Andrew. The hour is late and our bed is warm."
No, this Emilie Crosse was a different type of woman and he found himself wondering what type of man would be a suitable companion.
#
Emilie swore silently as Andrew McVie followed her to the front door. She had to be more careful. Their rapid-fire banter had been delightful and she had come dangerously close to losing herself in the moment.
There was far too much at stake to take unnecessary chances.
It was bad enough that she was bringing a Revolutionary War hero inside to talk to a man who thought he was still back home in the 20th century.
She cast a glance over her shoulder at Andrew McVie. He was justly suspicious of her. The wonder of it was that he hadn't carted her off to the nearest representative of the law.
The minute Zane opened his mouth, McVie would something was amiss. She supposed she could explain Zane's "eccentricities" away by saying he'd suffered a blow to the head in their fictitious boating accident but McVie wasn't likely to buy that for long.
Let Zane be asleep, she prayed silently as she reached for the doorknob. Maybe even a tad unconscious. She needed time to explain the situation--and he would need time to accept it.
What happened after that was anybody's guess.
#
Zane was paced the length of the front room, waiting for Emilie to return. His arm hurt like hell, he was sure he had the mother of all shiners over his right eye, and he was hungry enough to eat sand.
He'd looked all over for a telephone but to his surprise he couldn't find one anywhere. As a matter of fact, he hadn't been able to find a jack or wires or any other signs of human habitation. The place looked new. Rustic, but basically new. Emilie had mentioned something last night about renovations to the lighthouse. Maybe they just hadn't gotten around to rewiring the place.
He glanced at his watch. The damn thing must've taken as much of a beating as he had when the balloon collapsed on them. Too bad he hadn't bought a Timex. At least then he'd know if he had a prayer of getting to the airport on time.
Since Emilie had told him about the balloon accident, he'd racked his brain in an attempt to figure out what had gone wrong but all he could come up with was a cloudy memory of watching the earth coming at him like a runaway train, and then nothing. The relief he'd felt when he saw Emilie had weathered the accident with nothing worse than a few bumps and bruises was still enough to make him consider a return to religion.
She'd said no when he'd asked her to throw caution to the wind and join him on his trip to Tahiti, but that was before they'd faced the grim reaper together. She'd always wondered what he found so seductive about courting disaster. Now that she'd experienced the ultimate thrill, maybe she'd understand.
He'd learned a long time ago that you were never more alive than you were when death was staring you in the eye. That adrenaline pumping through your veins...the white hot certainty that you were running at top speed...the rush of pure elation when you met the challenge and emerged victorious.
Last night with Emilie in his arms he'd known the same sense of danger and renewal. He didn't believe in happy endings and never would, but he couldn't help wondering if maybe they should have fought harder to make it work.
Sara Jane used to say--
He stopped.
"That's it," he said out loud. That's what was different. For the past hour he'd been trying to figure out what had changed and now he knew.
He wasn't hearing Sara Jane's voice any longer.
At some point last night he'd stopped feeling as if his grandmother was inside his head, trying to tell him something.
And he knew when it was: when he took Emilie in his arms and--
No way was he about to pursue that thought. What he and Emilie had found last night had been both real and powerful. He'd be the last person to deny that. She'd stirred something in his soul, a sense of wonder and yearning that he'd forgotten was even possible.
But to read anything more into it than a wonderful case of chemical attraction was dangerous. She had made her position clear. Not that he was going to let that stop him, but it was something to consider.
The rasp of the doorknob being turned brought him up short. Maybe she'd reconsidered Tahiti....
#
"He might be sleeping," Emilie said to Andrew McVie as the door to the lighthouse swung open. "We should--"
No such luck.
"What took you so long?" Zane demanded as they entered the room. "If we're going to make that plane, we'd better--"
Poor Andrew stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Zane as if he'd encountered a hungry bear in his den. A hungry bear with a brightly-colored quilt knotted at his waist. Nervous laughter tugged at her but she swallowed hard in an attempt to control it.
"This is Andrew McVie," said Emilie, forcing a pleasant smile and praying Zane would see the plea in her eyes. "I am afraid this is his home in which we have sought refuge."
Andrew stepped forward. He seemed unconcerned at the difference in their heights and Emilie had the feeling that, appearances notwithstanding, the two men were more evenly matched than either might care to admit. "I have yet to learn your name, sir."
Emilie sensed rather than saw Zane's hesitation as he extended his left hand. Did he remember her stories about Andrew McVie's heroic exploits? Please, God, let him forget....
"Zane Grey Rutledge."
"What manner of name is Zane Grey?" asked Andrew, obviously puzzled. "Are you German?"
Zane met Emilie's eyes. "Is this guy kidding?"
She could only shake her head miserably.
Zane turned back to McVie. "I'm named after Zane Grey."
Andrew looked at him blankly.
"The writer," Zane persisted, apparently enjoying the other man's confusion. "He wrote westerns. Cowboys...Indians...the last frontier."
McVie had yet to take Zane's outstretched hand. "Cowboys?"
"Okay, I give up." Zane backed away, shaking his head. He looked again toward Emilie. "What's going on here?"
McVie glared at the taller man. "I must ask you to refrain from such language in front of Mistress Emilie."
Zane's lips twitched as if he was about to laugh but apparently he thought better of it. "Isn't this carrying the whole Revolutionary War thing too far, McVie?"
Both men turned to Emilie who wished quite fervently that she had disappeared along with the crimson balloon and the basket.
"I do not know what you mean, Zane," she said demurely, then turned toward Andrew. "I am afraid Mr. Rutledge hit his head upon the rocks when we ran aground. He is still discombobulated."
Andrew visibly relaxed.
Zane, however, was beyond understanding. Discombobulated? What the hell kind of word was discombobulated? "I don't know what in hell's going on around here, but if somebody doesn't give me some answers soon, I--"
"Leave the room, Mistress Emilie," said Andrew, not taking his eyes from Zane. "Mr. Rutledge and I have a most pressing matter to discuss."
"The only thing I want to talk about is getting to the airport on time to make my plane."
"Air-port?" He looked toward Emilie. "His injury may be more grave tha
n you feared. He speaks nonsense." Zane approached the smaller man, bristling with righteous male indignation. "Why don't you try saying that to my face?"
Emilie stepped between the two men. "Please! We forget why we're here, gentlemen. Zane's arm needs tending and the hour grows late even as we stand here."
Zane looked down at her, his handsome features creased in puzzlement. "You sound weird."
"It must be your imagination."
"The hell it is."
McVie stepped forward. "Rutledge, I fear your manner is insulting to Mistress Emilie."
Zane's mood slid from bad to worse. "If 'Mistress Emilie' has a problem with my manner, she'll tell me."
"Your arm," said Emilie. "Please...."
"Lie down on the bed," McVie ordered Zane. "Mistress Emilie, bring me a thick branch from the stack of kindling near the cellar door."
"That guy's not laying a hand on me," Zane snapped, barring Emilie's departure. "Don't you have an emergency room in this town?"
"We will have," said Emilie.
"Emergency room?" said McVie. "Is this a new language he speaks or is it the blow to his head?"
"I'm going to land a blow to your head, if you don't butt out," Zane said to McVie.
McVie reached for his knife, wrapping his fingers around the hilt in a threatening gesture. Zane grabbed an andiron from the hearth and stared menacingly at the other man.
Emilie, at the end of her rope, knew there was only one option left to her.
"Gentlemen," she said, stepping between them, "we have to talk."
Chapter Five
"I've got a plane to catch," Zane said. "The only thing I want to talk about is whether or not you're coming with me." It was time to move on and he wanted Emilie with him.
"Sit down," she said, gesturing toward the trundle bed. "This is going to take some time."
Andrew McVie, still clutching the knife, glanced from Zane to Emilie. At first glance he had mistaken Rutledge for his compatriot Josiah Blakelee and the similarity in size and physique still had him shaking his head in wonderment. It occurred to him that this could be part of an elaborately concocted scheme whose ultimate goal was the defeat of the thirteen united colonies.
Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) Page 7