They lay twined together for a long time as the candles burned low, Al stroking her hair, her back, holding her close and tenderly in his arms. But finally, he sat up a bit, looked down at her almost adoringly, and whispered, “It is time, chérie.”
“I know,” she whispered, and she couldn’t keep her feelings in check any longer. M. C. Hammer, tough-as-nails lady detective, began to cry.
“Mary Catherine! What is wrong?”
She sniffled, tried to stop the tears, but failed. The touch of his gentle fingers on her damp cheeks only made her cry even harder. “I—I’m sorry, Al. I just...I just wish you didn’t have to go.”
“Go? Go? But my love, I thought you understood!”
She blinked, staring up at him. “Understood...what?”
“I gave you my sword. Sweet Mary Catherine, with it goes my heart. I told you once that I would only give up my sword for the woman who would be my true love, did I not?”
Shaking her head slowly, she stared at him.
“I love you, Lady Hammer. And love is more important than anything else. More important than life or death...or time itself. I will die before I will leave you, my love...if...” He searched her face, then turned his gaze away.
“If?” she prompted.
“If you feel the same,” he told her softly, not looking at her, almost as if he were afraid to look at her.
Her heart swelled until she thought it would burst, and she ran one hand through his satin hair. “Oh, I do,” she whispered. “Al, I really, really do. I love you.”
He turned to meet her eyes, his wide and brimming. “Ah, ma chérie, do you mean it?”
She nodded hard. “But Al, can you really stay? Are you sure you want to?”
“I would live upon the moon itself, if it meant I could be at your side, my love.” He kissed her, long and lingeringly. Then holding her nestled against his chest, he continued. “I have no ties to the past that would require my return. Your Aunt Kate said the decision to stay or to go was mine. And you yourself told me my gold coins are worth a fortune, Mary Catherine, so I can make my way.”
“Oh, I have a few ideas about how you can earn a living, Al. You’re not without certain job skills, you know.”
“No?”
She nibbled his chin. “You sure you won’t mind having a witch in the family?” she asked him.
“If you can tolerate a Musketeer as a husband, then I can withstand a witch as an aunt,” he whispered.
M. C. blinked. “H—husband?”
“Oui. If you will have me.”
Her smile was slow, but straight from the heart. “You’d better believe I will. And Al, there’s another partnership I have in mind for us. Besides marriage, I mean.”
“Oh, is there?”
She nodded. “Umm-hmm. But...um... we can talk about that in the morning.” She pressed closer to him, curled her arms around his strong shoulders, and pulled him to her for another kiss.
“Very late in the morning,” he whispered, and he held her even tighter.
Epilogue
Alexandre held his wife close to his side as they stood outside the door of her office in Newark. She’d told him her wedding gift to him was waiting here, though to his way of thinking, she’d already given him the gift of a lifetime just by agreeing to be his.
He was slowly getting used to this modern world. Everything moved quickly, too quickly at times, but with Mary Catherine at his side, he could adapt to anything.
He loved her. Adored her, and knew he would never regret his decision to remain at her side. He’d searched for a woman like her all his life. One who would love him for the man he was, rather than the colors he wore or the sword he carried. He’d had to travel through time to find her, but find her he had. And he would never, never let her go.
She squeezed his waist and smiled up at him. “Here it is,” she said, and there was laughter in her voice.
“Where?” Alexandre asked her, looking up and down the hallway in which they stood. He saw nothing but the office door.
“There,” she said, pointing.
He looked to where she pointed, seeing only a strip of white across the glass panel of the door.
“Go on, peel it away.”
Frowning, Al leaned forward, got hold of one edge of the sticky white paper—“tape”; he vowed to remember all these new words—and peeled it slowly away.
Underneath the stuff, he read the words newly painted upon the glass, and smiled, his heart filling until he thought it would burst.
TWO MUSKETEERS INVESTIGATIONS ONE FOR ALL, AND ALL FOR ONE!
If you liked Musketeer By Moonlight, you might also like Miranda’s Viking. Continue reading for an excerpt.
Miranda’s Viking
The house seemed abandoned, not the same one she'd left some sixteen hours ago. Her car's headlights moved over the brick exterior like trespassers violating some sacred spot. No welcoming light shone from the windows.
She turned off the ignition, killed the headlights, then murmured meaningless greetings to the two officers who stood outside the house as she went in. Apparently Professor Saunders had convinced Lieutenant Hanlon that the find needed guarding before he'd gone home.
She unlocked the house and went inside, flicking on lights as she went. Emptiness met her everywhere she looked. It was almost too much to bear. What if Russell didn't recover? What would her life be without him? There was very little to it, besides her work and her father, and the two had always gone hand in hand. They'd worked and lived together, except for that brief rebellious period, when she'd accepted Jeff Morsi's proposal of marriage just to prove to her father and herself that she could be a "normal" woman. Instead she'd only proven she couldn't be. Losing Jeff had been a narrow escape from a nightmare. Losing Russell would leave her bereft... utterly alone.
She pushed the thought aside, tossed her purse on the sofa, and walked down the basement stairs and into the control room. Russell wouldn't die, not yet. It was too soon, and he was too stubborn to go in the midst of his greatest discovery. And when he came back home, his first concern would be for that discovery. So, she would care for it diligently. If anything happened to the find, it would kill her father faster than any heart attack ever could.
At first glance everything seemed just as she'd left it. Files on the floor and a small bloodstain where her father had fallen. She shivered and gave the monitors a cursory glance...then sucked in her breath.
The digital temperature panel read ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Panic knocked the wind out of her as surely as a fist to the stomach would have done. The climate-control panel must have been knocked askew in the struggle. A quick glimpse at the setting confirmed her guess. Why hadn't she checked it before? Why had she satisfied herself with a glance at the readings, and not checked the settings? God, everything her father had worked for could be ruined!
She punched numbers rapidly into the panel to release the lock, threw the door open wide, and hurried inside. Only the soft glow of the minimal lighting in the windowless room guided her. The stifling heat slammed into her like a living thing. But the Viking lay as he had before. His skin seemed less chalky, but it might be the lighting or her fear making it seem so. Maybe it wasn't too late.
She turned to go back to the control panel and readjust the climate control to lower the temperature as rapidly as possible. She froze in the doorway when her gaze locked on the monitor directly opposite. The wavering white line across the screen sent her blood to her feet. She blinked and double-checked the label on the monitor. EEG. Electroencephalogram. The meter of brain-wave activity, a formality, nothing that was ever expected to register a reading. But it had to be malfunctioning. It couldn't be reading what was there. It wasn't possible for there to be—
The sudden, strangled gasp was drawn with harsh desperation, and it came from behind her. Then silence.
She whirled and saw the body on the table begin to shake. The huge arms and legs trembled convulsively. The broad che
st vibrated. The corded neck was arched and quivering.
In that moment, Miranda stopped seeing a specimen. What she saw was a man on the brink of suffocation. A man straining to breathe, but unable to do so. A man about to die...again.
Her reaction was purely instinctive. Taking no time to dwell on the unthinkable thing that was happening, she was beside the table before she knew she'd moved. She gripped the solid shoulders, fighting to hold him still as she pressed her ear to his chest. Nothing. Clasping her hands together in one balled fist, she brought them down hard on his sternum. He flinched.
Frantically she caught his whiskered face between her palms and tipped up his chin. She pinched his nose and covered his mouth with her own, breathing life into him, once, twice, again. She blew hard to fill his massive lungs, then returned to the chest, positioning her hands over his sternum to massage a long-silent heart.
A rapid thud tapped against her palm, and it seemed her own heart rate sped up until it echoed his. The fit of convulsions slowed and died. She watched in utter awe as the huge chest rose and fell, far too quickly, but regularly. Beneath her hands, now-supple flesh gradually warmed.
He was breathing.
His heart was beating.
His brain was functioning.
She stepped backward, away from him and turned in the doorway to scan the monitors. They confirmed the impossible. Not one flat line among them. Not one.
An agonized moan, so hoarse it hurt her ears, brought her around once more. His eyes were blue...the pale, silvery blue of an icy sea, and they were staring right into hers. She saw many things in those piercing blue eyes—confusion, pain and an unfocused quality that told her he wasn't seeing clearly. He remained on his back, just staring at her, silently asking her a thousand questions, most of which she was certain she couldn't answer.
She was in awe, in shock. Life's blood pulsed through the formerly dormant body, giving color to his skin. She took a step toward him, then another. Slowly, tentatively, she approached him. He moved only his eyes, keeping them locked with hers. Beside the table she stopped. In wonder, she lifted a trembling hand and placed it with tender reverence upon his face. Her fingertips brushed over the small expanse of his cheek uncovered by beard. "You're alive." It was no more than a whisper.
His response was to slowly lift one of his large hands and thread his fingers through her hair, pulling what few strands had remained pinned in place down to join the rest in what she knew must resemble a pumpkin orange disarray. "Valkyrie." The word came in a voice hoarse from disuse.
Her words, she knew, were foreign to him. She understood his, though. It was almost laughable. If he thought her one of the legendary demigoddesses, the Valkyries, who in Norse mythology were said to greet fallen warriors at their deaths and lead them to Valhalla, he must be incredibly disappointed. Valkyries were supposed to be beautiful, strong, sensual creatures. She saw herself as none of the above.
She stifled her amused grin and met his wonder-filled gaze. "No." She shook her head. "Not Valkyrie. Miranda." She frowned hard, searching her memory for the Islensk words. "Eg heiti Miranda."
She wished she had a more thorough knowledge of the language. Not that it mattered. She wouldn't be able to tell him anything, anyway. She had no idea how this had happened, but she was absurdly glad it had. Her eyes burned and she had the urge to laugh out loud. "You're alive." She said it softly, a sense of wonder in her voice, and stared down at him, wondering what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Was he in pain?
His hand clasped the base of her neck to draw her nearer. He squinted, then blinked as if to focus his vision. Suddenly the curious, reverent gleam left his eyes and they narrowed in a way that made her heart jump in fear. His hand in her hair turned cruel, twisting a lock around it until she thought he'd rip it out. His mouth curled into a sneer and he uttered a single word, "Adrianna." It was, she sensed, an accusation.
He rose slightly and with a brutal thrust, pushed her away from him. His shove was so forceful she found herself on the floor. Even as she fought panic and shock and began to get to her feet again, she saw him leap from the table. He loomed over her, spewing forth a stream of Norse words so filled with anger and bitterness she could barely believe the strength of them. How had she allowed herself to forget, even with all that had happened, who this man was? The Plague of the North. He reached down for her, his huge hand menacing.
She cringed, terror-stricken, but then he stopped. His large body swayed slightly. One hand pressed to the side of his head and he wobbled on his feet like a tree about to fall. Miranda shot up, gripping his upper arm with all the strength she possessed and slipping an arm around his waist when that first effort was no longer sufficient.
"Easy. Come on. Lie down," she said in a low, firm voice. He couldn't understand her words, but he might be able to sense her intent in her tone. She trembled with fear, but refused to give in to it. "I mean you no harm," she went on as she urged him toward the table. "Eg er...vinur þinn," she managed. Unsure whether she had it right, but hoping it was at least close. "I'm your friend."
He scowled darkly, and she thought he called her a less than flattering name. He still remained unsteady on his feet.
"You're sick. Þið eruð veikur.
He hesitated, but finally he sat on the edge of the table. He closed his eyes for a long moment and his voice was almost sad but tinged with bitterness when he spoke again. The words had the ring of despair and the lilt of a question. And again he used that name—Adrianna.
"No." Carefully she touched his face, tilting it upward so he would look at her more carefully, then quickly drawing her hand away so as not to offend him. It would be in her best interest to make him see she wasn't whoever he thought she was. He seemed as if he'd like to throttle Adrianna, whoever she might be. When his ice blue gaze, clearer now, fixed upon her face, she said softly, "I am Miranda." She tapped her chest with her forefinger. "Miranda."
He frowned and his eyes narrowed as he studied her more closely. Again he reached for her hair and she forced herself not to draw back in fear. He drew a lock forward and rubbed it between his fingers. He shook his head and leaned nearer, lifting the hair to his nose and inhaling its scent. His gaze traveled over her face and he seemed confused. Not convinced, though.
After a moment, he glanced at the room around him, his brow furrowed. Then he lowered his head and pressed a palm to it. When he noticed the electrodes taped to his chest, he frowned harder and lifted a hand to tear one free.
"No." She laid her hand over his, looked him in the eye and shook her head. "Let me. It will hurt if you just rip them off." He tilted his head, seemingly just realizing she spoke in a tongue he'd never heard. She clasped his hand and gently moved it away. He allowed it, then watched curiously as she caught the edge of a strip of tape and carefully peeled it back. As she pulled it away, she winced, knowing the sting he'd feel. She glanced up at his face to see if she'd hurt him.
To her amazement, he smiled at her. His eyes glittered with unmistakable amusement. His huge hand came up again, and imitating her, he picked at the edge of a strip of tape. Unlike her, once he had it, he yanked it free in one quick motion, not even blinking as he did so. He kept glancing at her as he repeated the procedure until his chest was free of wires and sensors. He was showing off, she thought, her mind reeling. He thought it funny that she'd been worried about hurting him. She smiled back at him. She couldn't help it.
Her smile instigated the return of the angry glare in his eyes. He looked quickly around the room, made a sweeping gesture with his hand and murmured a hoarse question. What is this place? she imagined he wanted to know. Or where am I? How did I get here? She made a helpless, shrugging gesture. Then she touched his throat with her fingertips. Instantly his hand closed like a steel trap around her wrist.
She stiffened, but didn't turn away from him. God, but he didn't trust her. "Thirsty. You must be thirsty. That’s all I was trying to say." With her free hand she made a circle of her
thumb and fingers to lift an imaginary glass to her lips. "Drink," she told him. "Would you like a drink?"
Frowning, still looking skeptical, he released her wrist. "Eg er þyrstur," he said hoarsely.
"Right, þyrstur. Thirsty." Miranda quickly left the room. She paused in the control room, her hands gripping the edge of the sink as her knees, began to tremble in reaction. For a moment, the enormity of what was happening hit her like a whirlwind, but she had to keep calm, not think about it too deeply or she'd lose her mind or have a fit of hysteria. Things like this did not happen. "What in God's name am I going to do with him?"
She shook her head, filled a glass with cold water, and returned to the cold room, which had now become hot. The table was empty. Startled, she swung her gaze around the room and saw him in the corner, so large she nearly reconsidered her determination not to be afraid of him. He held his massive sword by its hilt, turning it this way and that. Miranda found herself glad she'd painstakingly polished it, to ready it for viewing by the archaeological staff tomorrow.
She swallowed hard. What on earth was she going to tell the staff? And Professor Saunders? "Sorry, guys, the find came to life. I'm afraid you can't have him." She rehearsed the words silently in her mind, and her eyes widened as she realized they would still want him. He'd be the most sought after subject of study by every scientist on the planet when they learned...if they learned.
He saw her and came toward her, his stride not quite steady, but extremely confident. She held the drink out and he took it. He held it up, frowning harder than ever as he examined the glass and the clear, sparkling water it held. "Glass," she said firmly, tapping the outside with one short fingernail. "Glass."
He nodded slowly and, his voice still coarse, repeated the word, "Glass."
Miranda couldn't suppress a smile. She nodded. He lifted the glass to his lips and began guzzling. When he lowered it, Miranda said, "Vatn. Water."
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