With Dreams Only of You

by Kathryn Le Veque, Suzan Tisdale, Eliza Knight, Cynthia Wright, Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon

  He got out of the car and before she could even manage to open the door, James was there.

  She peered up at him. “I can do that.”

  James leaned down and offered her his hand. “My darling Mac, I am more than aware of your skills, but this gives me the excuse to hold your hand and be near you.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t certain what she’d been expecting from her silly, feminist outburst (she was a feminist and proud of it), but really there’d been no reason for her to say such a thing. She certainly hadn’t expected his ridiculously romantic response.

  She eyed his hand, a hand she’d come to adore, then slipped her fingers into it.

  The cold, London night air slid over her shoulders and she shivered. Damp from the Thames seemed to penetrate her bones.

  Immediately, he slipped his coat off and slid it over her shoulders.

  She considered a retort but she’d already put her foot in it and besides, the silk lining felt like the most divine caress, a temporary replacement for the caress she really wanted. His.

  And as she took a few steps, she realized the absolute practicality of holding his hand. In high heels, negotiating the uneven walkway was no easy thing.

  As soon as they reached the iron gate, a man in the iconic Beefeater costume approached. The Tower guide looked tough as leather and yet there was something in his blue eyes which suggested supreme amusement at the man wooing her with a midnight visit to such a brutal part of English history.

  “Good evening, my lord,” the Beefeater said.

  “Good evening Corporal Jennings,” James replied.

  She’d known that all Beefeaters had been active service members and it explained a lot about the crusty exterior of the old soldier.

  He opened the gate for them.

  “Where are we going, my lord? Do you wish a complete tour?”

  James looked at her. “Mac?”

  He was asking her? “All of it,” she said firmly. “I want to see it all.”

  Jennings’ bushy brows drew together and he laughed. “Glad to hear your passion, madam, though I hope you’re not here to see ghosts.”

  “Oh no,” she said smiling. “Just where it all happened.”

  “Then I’m happy to show you. The Tower is a place of daring escapes, infamous deaths, and riches beyond imagination. And tonight, I’m your guide.”

  A shiver of anticipation shimmied through her and she gripped James’ arm.

  He shifted closer to her.

  She nearly laughed. Was this why he had done it? Some men took women to see horror films. Lord Reign took her to the Tower of London?

  She looked up at him. No. As they walked up towards Traitor’s Gate, she knew he’d brought her for one reason only, because this was the sort of thing she lived and breathed for and had never gotten to do.

  * * *

  All his life had been one ongoing ritual after another. He’d been to court. Followed behind royalty, posed for pictures, and stood next to the Prince of Wales at more events than he really liked to recall.

  It was easy to forget how miraculous this moment was for so many.

  He’d been to the Tower many times because he loved history. He knew many lords who’d never bothered with this particularly medieval part of their government.

  It was almost four in the morning and Jennings looked ready to drop and was massaging his knee. He’d been shot in the leg on a mission and given the place here at the Tower as a reward for his bravery and special service. Still, Jennings had told tale after tale as they’d wandered down the halls of infamous history.

  As discreetly as he could, James slipped Jennings a thousand pound tip for staying up so late when his body gave him such trouble and for sharing his extensive knowledge of the nooks and crannies of such a place.

  Now, he and Mac stood at Tower Green, possibly the most haunting spot of the Tower. Just behind them was the section that Henry VIII had built for Anne Boleyn right before their wedding and now, he and Mac paused before the circular memorial where that queen had had her head struck off by sword.

  Mac was circling the memorial reading the names and quotes. Her face was a mask of grief and wonder.

  Through the dark night and the distant sounds of horns blaring and cars racing, the sound of the Tower ravens cawed.

  “I was obsessed with Jane Grey when I was a teenager,” she said softly.

  “The Nine Day Queen?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I’ve always been captivated by English history, but something about the transition from the War of the Roses into the Tudors has been a particular obsession which is why I thought my dreams were so odd at first.”

  He tensed. He hadn’t planned on bringing up why they were both really here at all. But now that she had, he couldn’t blatantly ignore it.

  “How so?” he inquired.

  “Well, the sword is Roman, right?” She bit her lower lip then released it. “Why would I dream about such things?”

  “The mind is a strange thing, Mac.”

  She nodded. And then she pointed. “There’s your ancestor.”

  He followed with his gaze the direction she pointed and saw the Plantagenet name on the memorial. “Yes. Poor Margaret. A rather gruesome end.”

  “I’ve read about her death.”

  “They hacked her to bits,” he said, unable to be casual standing just where it had happened. “The executioner must have been very bad and without a soul.”

  “Well,” she said gently. “Legend also says she refused to simply kneel and submit.”

  “A thoroughly undignified thing in the eyes of all those who would have witnessed that,” he observed. “A good death was what people aspired to when under the axe.”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. I think it meant she was a survivor. She’d survived through what, four kings? And as many queens? Her father was executed. Her brother was executed. Her own heir was executed. And her grandson never came out of the Tower. Maybe her running from the block was her last act of defiance.”

  “A last cry for freedom?”

  Mac folded her arms over her chest and shivered. “She refused to give up.”

  “Admirable really,” he agreed.

  She gave a firm nod.

  “You know a lot about surviving, don’t you, Mac?”

  She lifted her razor sharp, blues eyes to his. “Yes.”

  “I admire you for it.”

  It looked like she was about to shrug but then she lifted her chin and said, “Thank you.”

  He held out his hand to her. “Come with me.”

  This time, to his delight, there was no sign of resistance. She took it right away and followed him back towards the entrance, but before they could turn down that particular path, he took another side route.

  Jennings was waiting there yawing.

  As soon as he spotted them, Jennings jumped to attention. “Good evening or good morning rather, My Lord and Miss O’Neil.”

  To his absolute shock, Mac reached forward and hugged the Beefeater with her free arm. “I can never thank you enough.”

  At first the older man didn’t move, clearly stunned by her somewhat inappropriate move. But then he softened and returned her embrace. “I wish every visitor loved history like you do, Miss.”

  “Thank you, Corporal Jennings.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’ll never forget this.”

  There was something remarkably kind and beautiful about the woman, a vivaciousness and willingness to be vulnerable that surprised him.

  Americans were almost always more exuberant when it came to hugs and expressions of affection, but not Mac. Mac was more reticent. So this was a marvelous surprise.

  They stepped through the arched doorway and slipped out to the north bank of the Thames and were greeted with one of the most breathtaking sights he’d ever known.

  “My God,” she breathed.

  London Bridge glowed under its lights. Its gorgeous towers and rigging looked down on them, imposi
ng, and iconic.

  Though still dark, the first rays of dawn were coming up from the east.

  She walked forward, her gaze fixed on the river. “James, I could kill you.”

  “Please don’t,” he teased softly.

  “How will I ever live after tonight?” She threw her arms out as if offering herself to the glory that was London. “I mean what could possibly be better than this?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say, A lifetime with me and moments like this, when to his shock, she whipped around, took his face in her hands and pulled his mouth down to hers.

  The soft touch of her lips stole his breath and brain. No one had ever rendered him so utterly speechless and void of thought like Mac.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much for this.”

  He pulled her tightly against him. “Mac—”

  She lifted a hand and pressed her fingertips to his lips. “No words. Not right now. Let’s just enjoy this.”

  He nodded tightly, feeling like a wave of cold water had just hit him. He’d been about to say I love you. An absolutely mad declaration, but a true one. He knew it in his innards. He loved Mac. She was the key to the emptiness that had plagued him for years. Now, he just had to pray that he could tear down the wall she’d so effectively built around her heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mac clutched the extra-large, paper cup of coffee liberally dosed with sugar and cream. Her eyes were drooping but she felt wired. After that incredible night, they’d made their way back to the hotel only for them to realize there was about enough time to take a shower and turn right back around and head to the their appointment at the British Museum.

  They’d headed around the back of the intimidating structure after she’d taken a brief glimpse of the massive Neo-Classical entrance. The back halls were less impressive than the part the public saw but such was the case of all such institutions in her opinion. Functionality and budget were essential and grandiose, glass domes were really only suitable for gawking tourists.

  The weaponry specialist, Dr. Eileen Welsh, on the other hand, had a small office with so many books they were stacked on the floor in precarious, leaning piles.

  “May I see it?” Dr. Welsh asked, her slightly gnarled fingers curling with her eagerness.

  James laid the covered Gladius on her desk.

  Gently, like one un-swaddling a sleeping baby, Dr. Welsh pulled back the dark fabric.

  A sigh of appreciation escaped her lips.

  “A beautiful example of the period and in wonderful condition.” She looked up, peering over her glasses. “A family heirloom you say?”

  Mac almost kicked James when he rolled his eyes.

  Clearly, he wasn’t as impressed by the merits of the Gladius as Dr. Welsh, but Mac understood that. It had had quite a negative impact on his family.

  “We were hoping you could give us some insight into the engraving,” Mac replied with the graciousness James usually employed.

  Dr. Welsh nodded, then oh so lightly traced her fingers over the blade. “Latin certainly but time has made it difficult to decipher. Usually I’d suggest something simple like a rubbing.”

  “Really?” Mac couldn’t quite hide her shock. They could have done that with some rubbing paper and special, colored wax or chalk even for goodness sake!

  “My ancestors tried that,” James said tightly. “I know at least that much. No good result. Just a few words which have gotten fainter over time.”

  Dr. Welsh nodded and leaned down until her nose was nearly in contact with the sword. “Imaging. 3D imaging is what I’d next suggest.”

  James nodded. “That sounds rather promising, but what’s the time frame?”

  “We’re rather backlogged at the moment, my lord,” Dr. Welsh said with a heavy sigh. “Not enough staff. . .”

  “If I were to make a donation to your department, might that put us to the front of the cue?”

  Dr. Welsh lifted her hazel gaze and smiled. “It very well might. I’ll call no later than tomorrow and hopefully I’ll have a good report.”

  Tomorrow? Mac bit back a scream of frustration. She hadn’t slept last night for a good, and luckily, wonderful reason, but she’d thought that today would be the day her answers would come. But no.

  She took a swig of coffee then stood. “Thanks, Dr. Welsh.”

  James shook Dr. Welsh’s hand. “You’ve my number. Please contact me as soon as you have a result.”

  “Certainly,” said Dr. Welsh.

  Mac started to zip up her jacket with one hand.

  “Ms. O’Neil?”

  Mac paused. “Yes?”

  Dr. Welsh pointed a slightly shaking finger. “That’s a most curious ring.”

  Mac hesitated then trailed her hand over the poesy ring she’d placed on a chain at her throat.

  “May I see it?” Dr. Welsh asked, an eager edge to her slightly smoke-tinged voice.

  Mac’s gut clenched. The ring had such a special, if troubling, meaning for her. Her dreams had begun the night she’d gotten it. Even so, she’d been unable to part with it.

  “You know,” Mac began, “the chain is tricky—”

  “That’s fine.” Dr. Welsh came out from her behind her desk and boldly grasped the ring. “I’ll just. . .”

  Before Mac could brush her hand aside, Dr. Welsh was squinting at the ring, staring at the inside.

  “It’s very beautiful and what a wonderful sentiment.”

  “The writing?” Mac asked.

  Dr. Welsh murmured, “Yes, that.”

  Mac’s heart rate picked up. She could imagine what woman had worn this ring well over a millennia ago and who had loved her so much to have it engraved with such a passionate thought. “With nights only of you,” Mac breathed then swallowed. She shrugged off her own fascination. “Or I guess that’s about as close a modern translation as we can get. Or so my classics friend said.”

  Dr. Welsh smiled slightly then shook her head. “Not nights, Ms. O’Neil.”

  There it was again. Her heart ramming against her ribs. “No?”

  “Dreams,” Dr. Welsh whispered. “With Dreams Only of You.”

  Mac’s mouth went dry and she nearly yanked the ring from Dr. Welsh’s grasp.

  Dreams.

  The ring had the word dreams on it and she’d been dreaming such strange things? It was too much of a coincidence. All of it was. “Please, Dr. Welsh. The writing on the sword, can you please do it as soon as possible.”

  Dr. Welsh stared into her eyes, then gave a small nod. “As soon as you leave. You look like you could use a good night’s sleep Ms. O’Neil.”

  “I could.” She tucked the ring back under her shirt where it should have been in any case. “Just hurry, all right?”

  They headed out into the hall, leaving the older woman staring at the Gladius like a starving man stares at steak.

  James touched her shoulder. “Mac, is there something I should know?”

  “What if we never find out the mystery?” A sob choked her throat. She couldn’t explain it, but what felt like a lifetime of grief welled up in her and she felt the strangest urge to go in and cradle the sword in her arms. “What if I’m haunted forever?”

  He pulled her into his arms. “Shh,” he soothed. “I promise you, we will find an answer.”

  She pressed her face against his shoulder, allowing herself to lean against his strength for a moment but then she pulled away. “No, James. I know what you think the answer is. You want to destroy the Gladius.”

  His mouth tightened. “I do.”

  “That’s not the answer,” she countered, determined to not give up.

  “You have to understand, that sword. . . It’s made my life hell, Mac.”

  Her throat tightened. “I do understand, James and I’m sorry, but you have to believe me. Somehow I just know, if you were to destroy it, things would be far worse.”

  He let out a ragged sigh. “Why can’t you ask for something else. I cou
ld give you anything but that.”

  “It’s what’s right. It’s not just what I want. And you don’t have to do it for me.” She longed to grab him and shake him. To make him see sense. Instead, she cupped his cheek. “Do it for you.”

  He shook his head and pulled away. “Mac. . . I. . . I. . . Would do anything for you. Last night is just an example—”

  “James,” she cut in, taking a step back. “Last night was amazing but that’s just materialism in the end. You used your power and your money to open doors I didn’t even know existed or imagined. I had nothing as a child until someone took me in.”

  God, she hated that her throat was tightening again, that he could make her feel so vulnerable.

  “I get the power of money,” she continued, desperate for him to understand. “But ultimately, if you don’t follow your instincts, trust in your heart, and do the right thing? Money is worthless.” She grabbed the ring around her neck. “This? And the sword? That’s what matter to me most in the world right now. They have a power that makes everything else nothing.”

  James’ eyes darkened with pain. “The right thing, Mac, is to stop your pain and to admit that maybe, just maybe, you’re here for more than the sword now. That you’re here for me. Or am I just nothing too?”

  Without another word, James turned and stalked down the hall, leaving her grasping the ring in her palm and with a sudden hole in her heart.

  * * *

  James stopped himself from slamming his hand against the elevator door. He was above such things. Once, he’d been wild, uncontrollable. The death of his parents had sent him near the edge but he had better means of managing his emotions now. Still, he’d wanted to explode.

  Didn’t she understand? He was trying to show his love the best he knew how and she’d thrown it right back in his face?

  He drew in a slow breath. Then again, maybe what he knew wasn’t how to show his love for her.

  God, he loathed the way her words rang true.

  How hard had it really been for him to arrange last night’s events? A few calls, some cash flashed about? That was it. It had been thought out, but actually quite simple.