A Stitch in Time

by Kelley Armstrong

  He leans down, and he kisses me, gentle and sweet, until the hunger licks through us again, and then he lifts me up and carries me into the house.

  24

  Once in William’s bed, we take our time, that initial overwhelming surge of need sated. This is a long, slow exploration, getting to know each other’s bodies and showing our full appreciation for them, culminating in passionate lovemaking that has us both dropping into deep slumber.

  I wake from that slumber to kisses on my shoulder, fingers stroking my thighs, and it’s that first night all over again, sleepy caresses and slow kisses and bodies entwining, only this time, ending as it should have, as it has in my fantasies.

  More sleep, and then I’m the one who rouses, the one who touches and kisses as lightly as I can, not wanting to wake him, just wanting to luxuriate in the smell and feel of him, in having him there and knowing he’ll stay, that this is not a dream, not a single night’s passion. We have made our commitment, and I have no idea where that will lead, but I’ve found something I spent two decades aching for, and so I can’t help touching, kissing, reassuring myself he’s there and he’s mine.

  When he responds, moving against me, burying his head in the crook of my neck, I go still. He lifts his head, one sleepy eye half-open.

  “No?” he murmurs.

  “I just didn’t mean to wake you.”

  A drowsy half smile. “I believe I was only half-sleeping, waiting for the excuse.” His arms go around me, pulling me to him with a light kiss. “Go on back to sleep. I will exercise patience at least until morning.”

  I slide my hands down his hips. “I wasn’t saying no. I just didn’t want you to think I’d woken you for more. It has been a strenuous night, and you probably need your—”

  His mouth comes to mine, and he pulls me on top of him.

  * * *

  After that, William falls into exhausted, satiated sleep. And I lie there, wide eyed, my body having clearly mistaken that for wake-up sex and telling me it’s time to rise. After lying there for at least twenty minutes, envying his deep and even breathing, I roll over to see what time it is.

  Of course, there’s no bedside clock. No cell phone, either. I remember I left mine out on the lawn . . . in the grass . . . gathering dew. I sigh, push up and pad to the door. When I open it, Pandora is right there, and I falter. I don’t know what I expect—that she’ll attack me for being the cause of that closed door? She just sits and watches me circle past. Then she follows me down the stairs.

  I step out the back door and realize I’m naked. Normally, I’m a whole lot more aware of that—even going braless can be uncomfortable. But it isn’t until I step out and get blasted by cold pre-dawn air that my euphoria parts enough for me to realize I’m not wearing anything.

  I bolt for our pile of clothing, which causes plenty of uncomfortable bouncing. I pass my ballgown—I’m definitely not “throwing” that on. I see my chemise, and I start for that, but then I spot something more appealing: William’s shirt. I jog over and snatch that and my panties. Both are dew-damp, but I pull them on anyway. Then I grab my phone.

  By the time I’m back inside, I’m wide awake. I spot the cold spread still in the dining room and recall that William mentioned giving Mrs. Shaw the day off. If I return to bed right now, I’ll only disturb him with my tossing and turning. So I head into the kitchen to poke about and come up with ideas for breakfast.

  That, as it turns out, is unnecessary. It’s the mid-nineteenth century. No housekeeper would leave her middle-aged bachelor lord to fend for himself come morning. He might starve.

  Breakfast has been prepared with a cold plate in the icebox and a pastry tray on the counter. That does not, however, mean I leave the kitchen. I’m a historian, and this is an actual Victorian kitchen, the pages of my dry textbooks come to life. I might know that iceboxes were used as refrigerators and were usually made of wood, the fancier ones like this with a spigot for draining the melted ice. I might even have viewed such appliances in museums. Yet seeing one in use is an entirely different thing. While Pandora watches from her perch by the stove, I poke and prod about like a kid in the best hands-on museum display ever.

  After about thirty minutes of exploring, my eyelids begin to flag, and yawns punctuate every third breath. I head upstairs, cell phone in hand, cat at my heels. When I walk into the bedroom, William is still sound asleep, sprawled naked on the cover, and I pause to admire the sight, feeling the weight of the cell phone and again wishing I could capture the moment . . . when I remember that I can.

  Last night, I’d spoken of seeing him in bed and longing to photograph him, and he’d said I was free to do so whenever I wished. So I take photos, lots of them, all from suggestively discreet angles. He’ll hardly be concerned about naked pics emerging online, but it’s more fun finding the artful shots that will, later, only spark my imagination to fill in what’s missing.

  Partway through my photo session, Pandora realizes I’m not about to do anything interesting and hops onto the bed, curling around William’s feet, which means I need to take more photos. I admire the pictures and admire the live version and imagine what it will be like to wake beside it, feel him reach for me, kiss me . . .

  I hesitate at that last image, breathing in through my mouth and realizing I’m in desperate need of a toothbrush. In fact, some overall freshening up wouldn’t be a bad idea. Nineteenth-century makeup sits heavy and smeared on my face. My hair has gone from sexy sleep tousled to witch’s wild snarl. And, yes, I can enjoy the satisfaction of knowing William would not give a damn, but since I’m up anyway, there’s no reason not to take five minutes to primp before returning to bed.

  I use the water pitcher and basin for a quick wash with bracingly cold water. Then into the master bedroom for a hairbrush and a mirror. I also find the small purse I’d brought yesterday with my travel toothbrush and paste. There’s a lot of misinformation on Victorian levels of hygiene. It varied, of course, mostly by social class. It’s hard to bathe regularly when your only option is to boil water and crouch in the family washtub with a precious bar of lye soap in hand.

  William has no such concerns. Mrs. Shaw would prepare a bath for him whenever he wanted it, and mucking stables meant he wanted it more often than the average noble. Dental care is another thing. There are toothbrushes made from boar’s bristles. Also, tooth powder often made of ingredients we wouldn’t put in our mouths today. Even with these tools available, the average person wasn’t brushing twice a day. They may not even own a toothbrush and powder tin.

  I remember when William and I were about four, and I brought my toothbrush over so I could brush after our picnic. I won’t say I was that kind of kid, but I did go through phases, and I’d been on an “I must brush after every meal” kick, probably after seeing the shining white teeth of a prima ballerina.

  Bringing the brush led to a discussion and to William realizing his teeth weren’t quite as clean as mine. I hope I didn’t point this out, but I might very well have—at that age, children are bluntly honest. He’d resolved to pay more attention to his, and that resolve never wavered, leaving him with twenty-first-century dentition . . . which may also explain part of his popularity with the ladies.

  There will not, however, be a spare toothbrush around, so I brought my own. After that, I need my bra. I don’t, obviously, plan to wear it to bed, but I wouldn’t mind keeping his shirt on once we wake, and that’ll be more comfortable with a bra. William might prefer me without it, but after last night, my breasts are tender, and a little padding between me and his starched shirt would be appreciated.

  When I open the drawer where I’d stuffed my bra, a heavy picture frame shifts within. I pull it out to see a young couple. They aren’t smiling—at this time, photography required the subject to stand still forever. The man is in his early twenties, light haired and very handsome. Despite his unsmiling countenance, his eyes radiate an easygoing joviality. The young woman sits in a chair and wears an expression of barely c
ontained impatience. I can’t blame her for that. It’s probably discomfort, too, given that her corset has indeed reduced her waist to the fabled handspan. She’s pretty and dark haired with light eyes that flash despite the limitations of the sepia-toned photo. There’s something familiar about her, and I’m trying to figure out why when I feel paper on the back of the frame. I flip it around to see an engagement announcement for the forthcoming nuptials of August Courtenay and Cordelia Thorne.

  August . . . presumably, the same August I heard downstairs the other day. William’s old friend. And his fiancé is William’s little sister.

  My fingers brush Cordelia’s face, and I have to smile, her expression reminding me so much of her brother. I feel a pang, too, for having never known her as more than the distant figure of a little girl searching for her brother. Always looking for William, always wanting to be with him, driving him to the point of affectionate exasperation.

  They’d been so close. What could have driven them apart? The scandal? That’s my guess. Either it involved her—and she hadn’t appreciated her older brother interfering—or it involved him—and he hadn’t appreciated her defending him. Those seem most likely, given what I know of William and also what I see in this photo, the stubborn lift to Cordelia’s chin, that flash of pride in her eyes, the mirror of her brother’s.

  If it was pride that drove them apart, can that be reconciled? That isn’t a conversation for today, but it will come, and I can use this photograph to launch it.

  I saw your sister’s engagement photo in a drawer . . .

  I’m sliding the frame back when I see another photograph, tucked beneath a pile of handkerchiefs. As I reach for it, something crashes downstairs. I look around for Pandora, but she’d returned downstairs. Another bang. Is she trapped somewhere? William did say Enigma was her doppelgänger, always getting into trouble and tight places.

  I hurry down the stairs. As I round the corner, Pandora streaks past, ears flat, and zooms upstairs.

  She seemed to come from the kitchen. Did she get into our breakfast? I sigh and march to check it out. Then a figure darkens the doorway, and I stumble back with a stifled yelp.

  It’s a man. A man who is not William. Yet he bears a face I know . . . because I was looking at it only moments ago.

  He isn’t quite the same young man—he’s my age now. Still strikingly handsome with an angular face, blond hair and hazel eyes. His clothing is immaculate. William dresses well, but his fashion choices are those of a man with money and complete trust in his tailor, little interest in going the extra mile to stand out from the crowd. This man makes that extra effort from the cut of his cloak to the gleam of his riding boots.

  “August?” I say.

  Those hazel eyes blink at me. Then his lips curve in a grin. “I see William hasn’t been nearly as lonely as I feared, locked away in these moors.”

  I drop in a slight curtsy. “Lord Courtenay, is it? I’m afraid that I don’t quite know how to address you. I’m Bronwyn Dale.”

  As his brows furrow, that grin fades into utter confusion.

  “My accent,” I say with a chuckle. “Yes, I’m American. I’m a friend of William’s, though I suppose that’s obvious, given the hour.”

  He’s still staring. He blinks. And then he laughs, a musical alto as he shakes his head, his face glowing with open delight.

  “You are the girl,” he says.

  I fix a smile. “I’m certain plenty of girls have passed through William’s life, but alas, I would not be one he’s spoken of.”

  His eyes only gleam brighter. “True. He’s never uttered a word about you, which has always been the problem.”

  “I . . . Uh, let me go wake William for you.”

  August swings into my path. “You’re the girl who broke his heart. The girl who wasn’t there.”

  When my mouth opens, he cuts me short with, “I recognize you. It took a moment, but once you spoke, that accent was unmistakable. I saw you that summer. How old were we? Sixteen? No, fifteen. That was the year I lost my”—he clears his throat—“my watch while walking in the moors.”

  I stifle a snort.

  He only continues, “We were fifteen, and my family had come up from London. I was enjoying the attentions of a lovely local lass. This young lady had a very fetching sister, yet I could not convince William to meet her. In fact, I could barely convince him to meet me. He seemed utterly preoccupied with his bloody horses. I became concerned for his welfare.”

  He lowers his voice, conspiratorially. “Dreadfully jealous, to be honest, but concerned flatters me better. I snuck around and spotted him with a girl, which seemed to explain the problem. Except this girl was . . .” He frowns. “At first, I half believed her a fae from his beloved moors. Such an odd manner of dress, light and airy gowns that barely reached her knees, more fancy undergarments than dresses. When I got close, I realized she had a strange way of speaking, not only her accent but her words, her patterns of speech. She spoke a lot like you.”

  “A fellow American? I must tease William about that. His first love was an American girl.”

  August chuckles. “I’m sure that excuse works far better on those who did not spend two years in the Americas. Your accent is not from there. Back to my story, though.”

  “It is a lovely one.”

  “Isn’t it? Terribly romantic with a tragic ending that appears to have taken a distinctly optimistic turn. I mentioned the girl to William, pretending that a villager spotted them together. He outright denied it. Blamed it on wild imaginations. Yet he still had very little time for me, very little indeed, and when he did, he was distracted. Distracted and happier than I’ve ever seen him. After that, though, he changed.”

  When I flinch, August’s good humor softens. “William was fine. He was never the jolliest of boys, and other things happened later to—” He clears his throat again. “The point is that you are the girl, and if I were to put forth a long-held theory of mine, I believe you are from . . .” He leans in, eyes twinkling. “The future.”

  I laugh. “That is quite a story. Sadly, though, it is untrue.”

  “You’re not that girl? Or not from the future?”

  “Neither.”

  He eases back against the wall, all studied nonchalance. “You do realize what you’re wearing, don’t you?”

  I look down. “William’s shirt, which is not what I would typically wear to greet guests, but you were quite unannounced.”

  “So, you are from our world, and yet have been standing here dressed like that, nary a thought of the potential impropriety?”

  I look down at my attire and inwardly wince. While I’m fully covered, being spotted in a shirt that falls mid-thigh would have sent a proper Victorian lady shrieking for cover.

  I hide my reaction and straighten, chin up. “Perhaps I do not care about the impropriety. Perhaps my . . . past or even my current circumstances are such that I’m quite accustomed to greeting men dressed in scandalous attire.”

  “I couldn’t even drag William into brothels when we were young. He’s certainly not hiring companionship now.”

  “I didn’t say it was a career.”

  “So, you are naming yourself a loose woman?”

  “I would take no insult at the term.”

  He barks a laugh. “I see that. Quick-witted and caring not a whit for your reputation. I can see why you captured his heart.”

  “Have I? That would be lovely. I only hope there’s some corner of it left after this terrible American girl broke it. Now, having pointed out my attire, which understandably offends you—”

  “Not at all. You wear that shirt much better than William does.”

  “Perhaps you could help me find a blanket or other covering?”

  “I see nothing at hand. Terribly sorry. Now, while we wait for William to wake, tell me about the future.”

  I glance about, but unlike in my world, there’s no cozy wool blanket at hand, and I am actually covered, so I decide not to wor
ry about it.

  “You wish to know the future?” I say.

  His eyes gleam. “I do.”

  “Well, in the very near future, I foresee you dealing with an angry friend, one who does not appreciate surprise guests.”

  August waves his hand. “He’ll get over it. I know you’re from the future, though. I figured that out years ago when William started making very prescient investments . . . and shared his predictions with his oldest and dearest friend. That knowledge could only come from someone who’d seen into the future . . . or known someone who lived there.”

  “Perhaps he has a time machine, as H. G. Wells—”

  I cut myself short, as I remember the book—and the very concept—won’t be around for another forty years.

  Before I can say something else, footfalls thunder down the stairs, and William flies around the corner . . . stark naked.

  August covers his gaze, shuddering. “Really, William? No one needs to see that so early in the morning.”

  I’m about to joke that I’m okay with it when I see William’s expression, fists balled at his sides as if he hasn’t quite decided they aren’t needed.

  “What are you—?” William begins.

  “Wait,” August says as he disappears into the kitchen. “Let me find you something to wear before we continue this conversation.”

  He returns with a blanket.

  “I thought you didn’t know where to find one,” I say, my brows arching.

  I’m joking, but William’s gaze slides down my outfit. The look he turns on August is positively murderous.

  “You held my guest in conversation while refusing to help her cover herself—”