A Stitch in Time

by Kelley Armstrong

  His lips twitch again. “Also different for a man—”

  I pitch a pebble at him. It bounces off his shoulder.

  He picks it up and lifts that brow again. “You seem to be lacking strength if this is the best you can do. I would understand if you have given up dance. A pity, really, but with age—”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope?”

  “It’s not going to work. Give it up.”

  He eyes me. “What if I asked nicely?”

  “Don’t strain yourself.”

  A low chuckle. He clears his throat. “Bronwyn Dale, I would be delighted if you would honor me with a demonstration of your inestimable dance skills.”

  “Mmm, better, but I’m comfortable right here.”

  “You aren’t making this easy.”

  “It could be, dear William, that I’m not eager to leave this agreeable spot and perform for you.”

  A moment of silence. “Challenge failed. Flattery failed. All I have left, I fear, is bribery. I know better than to offer money, and we seem to be all out of cookies. I may have a sugar cube or two in my pocket for Balios. Would that work?”

  “You will find, I believe, that women are not as susceptible to sugar cubes.”

  “Sadly. Life would be so much easier if they were. Hmm. Well, since I am asking you to do something for me, I should offer the same in return. I would like you to dance for me. What could I do for you?”

  A hundred jokes should jump to mind. Instead, my wine-sodden mind throws up an image of that first night I crossed over. In a blink, I’m there, in his bed, his skin against mine, the searing heat of him, the deliciously masculine smell of him, his groan at my ear as I press against—

  I yank myself back only to see William watching me. His eyes glint bright blue, and his wolfish grin insists he knows exactly what I was thinking.

  “Whatever could I give you in return?” he muses. “I feel as if you have some idea.”

  I pull myself together under the cover of an airy smile. “Why, yes, I think there is something you could do for me. The question is whether you’d agree. I’m not certain you would. It’s rather . . . strenuous.”

  That grin glitters as bright as his eyes. “I’m certain I could manage whatever you have in mind.”

  “It would take time, too. Time and effort and energy. A great expenditure of energy.”

  “I have plenty of that. Time, too. All the time in the world. You only need ask.”

  I fold my legs demurely behind me and lean forward, meeting his gaze. “I would like you to take me for a very long . . . very exciting . . . very exhilarating . . . ride.”

  I expect a laugh—a burst of laughter—as I ask for a horseback ride. Instead, I get a deep and throaty rumble, his eyes flashing in delighted surprise.

  That’s when I replay my words and realize I left out a key word in my request.

  “Horseback ride,” I blurt, cheeks flaming. “A ride on the horses. Into the moors. That’s what I meant.”

  “Of course it is,” he says, and that grin threatens to swallow me whole.

  “It is. I meant a horse ride.”

  “Naturally.” He leans back. “Whatever else could you mean? That is the only way to ride. Well, we could take a coach-and-four, but that would hardly be as exhilarating, and you specified exhilarating.”

  “Stop.”

  His eyes meet mine, brows rising. “Stop what? Is there another type of ride you could have meant? There must be since you felt the urgent need to clarify.”

  “Stop.”

  “I will admit, you often have me at a disadvantage with your talk of fridges and phones. Again, you seem to be implying a meaning to a word that I don’t understand. Pray tell, what else, in your world, could riding refer to? Asking me for a long, exciting, exhilarating—”

  I leap to my feet. “So, you wanted to see me dance?”

  “I feel as if you are changing the subject.”

  I kick off my shoes.

  “Ah,” he says. “Whatever this other ride is, it requires the removal of footwear, does it?”

  I meet his gaze. “Not necessarily,” I say, as boldly as I can, and he laughs then, his head thrown back, laugh echoing through the silence.

  “Indeed,” he says. “Well, while I do not understand what you meant at all, I said I’d happily exchange services with you. You dance for me, and I will give you a—”

  “Horseback ride.”

  He purses his lips. “I’m not certain it could be done on horseback.”

  I meet his gaze again. “Then you, sir, lack a proper imagination.”

  The laugh bursts from him, definitely surprise now. Very, very pleased surprise.

  Before he can come back with a rejoinder, I say, “I’m going to dance, and you owe me nothing for it.”

  “I would quite happily owe you—”

  “A kiss,” I say. “If you insist on repaying me, I will take a kiss. On the cheek.”

  “May I choose the cheek?”

  “Yes.” I point to the left side of my face. “This one.” I point to the right. “Or that one. Others require at least a second date.”

  Another laugh, and before he can respond, I start dancing.

  I’ve had a little more alcohol than usual, which doesn’t fully—or even mostly—account for the warmth coursing through me. I’m fully relaxed, fully comfortable, fully myself and confident in a way I haven’t been since Michael.

  There is a cliché—embroidered on far too many pillows—about dancing like no one is watching. I appreciate the difference between doing ballet with a class or alone in my living room where I don’t need to worry about pleasing anyone except myself. There’s something better, though—dancing in front of someone who makes me feel the same as when I’m alone. Someone who wants to watch me and doesn’t care a fig whether I do it right, just wants to see me lose myself in the moment.

  Earlier, I watched William riding without him knowing I was there, and I reveled in the sheer joy of his joy, of watching him fully in his element. Now, that same look lights his face as I dance in the moonlight, and I close my eyes to slits to indulge in the very selfish pleasure of watching him when he doesn’t know I am, seeing him admiring me.

  The look on his face makes me feel things I’m not sure I’m ready to feel, quite certain I don’t dare feel given all the impossibilities of our situation. So, I won’t dwell on those impossibilities. I’ll dance, and I’ll be happy.

  I dance to the music of the wind and the turtledoves, heather soft beneath my bare feet, the earthy smell of it enveloping me. When I pirouette, I let my eyes close, just for a moment, and when they open, William is gone from his spot on the ground.

  There’s a split second of panic as I’m certain I’ve twirled straight into my own time. And then he’s there, in front of me, standing with his face lost in shadow as the moon rises behind him.

  I slow, and he reaches for my hands, and I’m about to tease him. Then I see his expression, and any frothy quip dies in my throat. He takes my hands and stares as if I’m some fae creature he found dancing in the moors. His fingers tighten around mine, firm but cautious in case I panic and flee.

  My breath catches as his fingers slide up my arm, setting goosebumps rising. His gaze never leaves mine, his eyes dark with an expression I can’t quite read, longing and desire and something almost like fear.

  His lips part, but no words come. His breathing sounds quickened and shallow, as if he’s holding himself very still. Only his fingers move, the tips barely touching my skin as they glide up my arm, pausing to brush hair off my shoulder, a lock rubbed between his fingers before they’re on my cheek, stroking, butterfly soft.

  “I missed you,” he says, his voice so low I barely hear it even in the silence. “I missed you so . . .”

  His voice catches then, and he moves toward me, lips pressing against my forehead, one hand still on mine, the other sliding through my hair.

  He pulls back and looks down, and I want
to say something.

  The moment I think that, I recoil. I do not want to say anything. I don’t dare say anything. I’m afraid that, if I do, it’ll be a lighthearted quip to break a mood that has my heart skipping so fast I can barely breathe.

  I want to break this moment. Shatter it. Cast it off.

  I want to kiss him. Kiss him until he forgets what he was saying, and I forget what I want to say. Kiss him and unbutton his shirt and push him onto the heather and shatter the mood that way. Lose ourselves in pleasure, and when it ends, we’ll have forgotten there were words to be said, and I’ll be safe.

  His fingers caress my cheek, tilting my face to his.

  “Are you afraid?” he whispers.

  “No,” I say, and that’s all I want to say, all I plan to say. Instead, I hear my voice again, whispering, “I’m terrified.”

  His face moves down, so close his breath tickles my lips.

  “So am I,” he whispers, and he kisses me.

  I’m ready for a kiss from the man whose bed I woke in. A man with a firm, confident touch. Instead, I get a kiss from the boy I knew. That kiss casts me back in time. Not to the first one, which however sweet, had been best suited for romantic comedy. Neither of us had kissed anyone before, and it was like driving a car for the first time. After years of watching others do it, I’d thought I’d known how, and then I sat in the driver’s seat and . . . well, my overwhelming memory is a tornado of panic amid squees of delight. “Oh my God, he’s kissing me! Ack, is this right? It doesn’t feel right!”

  We’d gotten the hang of it, of course, that first awkward kiss only igniting a mutual determination to practice until we did. Tonight’s kiss reminds me of the ones after we got it right, but before William relaxed enough to trust in that.

  The kiss is tender with a hint of uncertainty, his hands framing my face, his touch light. That kiss waits for undeniable proof that it’s welcome. When I give it, I get a kiss of exploration, firmer but still gentle, William relaxing, his hands sliding down my back as mine encircle his neck. The kiss deepens, his body pressing against mine, my fingers entwining in his hair. Hunger licks through me, his tongue finding mine, his kiss hard and hungry, only to pull back, holding himself in check.

  I feed into that hunger, letting him know it’s not unwelcome. I don’t challenge his slowing pace, though. This is too delicious to rush—the tease of it, a flare of passion and then pulling back, finding a gentler pace only to surge again, even the calm tingling with anticipation. It’s like floating on a sun-dappled ocean, waiting for the next crashing wave. Then, he breaks the pattern with a deep, crushing kiss that leaves me gasping and him chuckling raggedly.

  When I close my eyes and tilt my face back to his, ready to resume, his fingers glide along the curve of my jaw. I peek, and his lips curve in a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

  “Thank you,” he says, “for not letting me frighten you off. When you first arrived, I was angry, and you could easily have walked away.”

  “I think I did.”

  The smile deepens. “True, but you didn’t go far.”

  “Because I couldn’t cross back. I was stuck.”

  “You aren’t making this conversation easy, are you?”

  “I could pretend that I laid in wait and then lied about being stuck so I could keep trying to explain after you asked me to leave. But that makes me sound like a creepy obsessive ex-girlfriend. You know the sort. Sneaks into your bed. Steals your kitten. Bakes you cookies. They make movies about exes like that. They never have a happy ending.”

  He laughs softly and runs his thumb over my cheek. “Well, I’m hoping our story does. I also want you to know that, whatever ending we do find, I will never expect you to stay. I will be here, though. I’m not going anywhere. I wasn’t before you arrived, and I’m certainly not now. I’m here. I will always be here. You need only to step across and find me, and that’s all I’ll ever ask of you. That you come back for as long as you want to, and you let me know if that changes.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I rise on my tiptoes, my lips brushing his. As my eyes close, movement flashes over his shoulder, and I give a start. His arms tighten around me. Something moves in the darkness. My gaze swings to it as I say, “What’s—”

  His arms fall away, and I tumble backward.

  17

  I hit the ground flat on my back, and I stare up in astonishment at William. He isn’t there. And my brain snaps to that conclusion a heartbeat before it processes the fact that I’m staring at empty space. I fell because William vanished, leaving me supported by nothing but air.

  I sit, wincing as pain throbs through my back. I roll my shoulders and struggle to inhale, finally managing a sharp, searing breath. A few slower, experimental breaths. Nothing seems broken. The wind’s just been knocked out of me.

  I blink, corralling my thoughts. I was kissing William . . . No, I was just resuming the kiss, our lips brushing, when I saw something over his shoulder.

  A figure moving behind him.

  My heart stutters, and I leap to my feet with, “William?”

  Of course he doesn’t answer. I’m alone in the moors, our picnic baskets gone, too, telling me that while everything else might look the same, I’ve fallen out of time. Fallen out of his time, back into my own.

  Someone was walking up behind him.

  I spin, as if there’s a door I can yank open, a way to fly back and warn him, protect him. There’s only one way in, though. I know from experience that I can fall back to my time in other places, especially if I’m startled, but that’s a one-way exit. The entrance is at least an hour’s jog away, and William is alone in the moors with someone creeping up behind him.

  Was someone creeping up behind him?

  I struggle to recall what I saw. Movement. A shape moving behind William. Not approaching him. Certainly not rushing at him. Just moving behind him.

  I’d heard nothing, and I should have. If a person approached, they’d have needed to slog through swamp or scramble over rocks.

  So, basically, I spooked myself. I’ve been seeing ghosts, and I spotted a flicker in the darkness. Instead of just jumping backward, startled, like a normal person, I’d jumped clear through time, landing here.

  Landing here . . . in the middle of the moors, alone, at night.

  I shiver. Well, it could be worse. At least the moors are the same in both time periods. I’ll need to be careful not to let William take me on any long walks that could have me time-jumping into the middle of a modern highway.

  I also take comfort in the fact that I jumped midsentence when I’d obviously been startled by something, and there’s no way William will think he said or did anything to send me fleeing across the centuries.

  I look around into the dark, empty moors.

  Very dark. Very empty.

  Better empty than haunted, right?

  I square my shoulders. It can’t be much past nine p.m. Hardly the witching hour. And I know where I am, roughly speaking. Just turn on my cell phone flashlight . . .

  My hand slides to my hip where it finds nothing resembling a pocket. Because I’m wearing a sundress. I’d put the phone into the picnic basket . . . which is in the nineteenth century.

  I sigh. At least if I don’t return, William has technology that could make him the Bill Gates of his time. Or get him hanged for witchcraft.

  A three-quarter moon is rising in a cloudless sky. I probably wouldn’t have bothered with the flashlight anyway. I know the direction of the house and the basic route. While we’re down in a dale here, all I need to do is climb one of the nearby hills, and I’ll see lights in the distance. This is the twenty-first century—the moors may be big enough to get lost in, but there are plenty of villages lighting up the night sky. Even if I need to walk a few miles, it’s not as if I’ll starve after that huge picnic dinner. Just to be sure, though, I drink my fill of spring water. There, I’ll be fine for at least a day or two before I die of dehydration.r />
  I set out across the rocks. I make it ten determined paces before my foot slips, wedging between rocks, pain shooting up my ankle. I mutter an oath and give my foot a shake.

  The moon may be bright, but it’s not midday. I need to take this slower. At the thought, my heart thuds, a little voice in me shrieking, “Slower? You’re lost in the moors at night. Move!”

  I’m not lost, and it’s only late evening. I’ll be fine. As long as I don’t run pell-mell over the rocks and twist my ankle.

  I watch where I’m putting my feet. They’re bare, which helps with grip, but also means I feel every sharp edge. Step by step, I move, focused on my route, only to look up, expecting to see the path . . . and realize I’ve barely traveled twenty feet with another hundred to go.

  Deep breaths. I am fine. It’s just frustrating, that’s all.

  When a wide boulder blocks my path, I start around it to see the ground covered in small and jagged stones. My toes curl at the prospect. Over the boulder it is, then. That isn’t as difficult as it sounds. The rock is long and low, mid-thigh level. I can’t hop onto it gracefully, but I can clamber up. I’m doing that when a voice whispers at my ear.

  I jump, and my knee slams into the rock. Pain shoots down my leg. When I tentatively touch the spot, blood smears my fingertips.

  Another whisper. This time, I wheel, hands raised as if against an attacker. No one’s there. I know no one is. As the pain subsides to a dull throb, the hairs on my neck rise. I rub them down.

  Another look around as I struggle to recapture what I heard.

  Was it a voice? Or am I as nervous as a spooked cat, unable to shake that awareness that I am alone in a place far less welcoming by night? A place where people disappear.

  That last thought snaps the spell, and I give my head an angry shake. Now I’m being foolish. There’s a light breeze out tonight. It whispered past my ear, and I cracked my kneecap jumping at it.

  Calm down. There is no one within two miles, for better or worse. Just take it slow and steady.

  I grip the boulder and heave myself onto it, wincing as my knee bends, fresh blood trickling. Once on top of the rock, I push to my feet and—