Deep Echoes- final edit ARC TEAM

by Melody Ash

“Yes, be that as it may, my father will see that you attacked him, and there will be no alternative to death. I will not see a rope around your neck.”

  Caitlin nodded. “As long as they are safe.”

  “They will be. You have my word.”

  John’s word was enough. She looked up at the roof, sunbeams shining through the cracks in the bright, late morning. “Mitilda? Is there enough sun?”

  “There should be, sugar.”

  “Sun? What do you need sun for?”

  Caitlin smiled at the kind face she’d miss as John stared at her, brows furrowed, jaw locked.

  But the answer to his question couldn’t be given to him. It was bad enough she spoke to Mitilda and her family. “You can go, I’ll be safe now.”

  But instead of walking out the door, John took stepped closer. “Before you leave, can I ask something of you?”

  “After what you just did, you can ask anything.”

  “It is inappropriate, but maybe … may I kiss you?”

  Caitlin raised a brow, searched his eyes. Then, slowly, she nodded. As he drew closer, all the rush and demand of twenty-first-century men was clearly absent. Instead, he eased close, her breath hitching as he hovered inches her lips. Then, carefully, he pressed his mouth against hers.

  Slowly, she wrapped both arms around his neck, his embrace natural around her waist.

  Then, it was over.

  “I wish this were another time, another place,” he said as they parted.

  “Me, too.”

  Shouts in the distance caused the family to turn their heads to the door.

  “My father. You must go, now.”

  Caitlin nodded as Mitilda handed her the rock. “Now, sugar. Before it’s too late.”

  Taking the rock in hand, Caitlin looked around the family one last time. “I’ll miss you all.

  Thank you.”

  “Now, Caitlin.”

  She stepped next to the fireplace, the sunbeams shining onto the rock’s symbols. Locking eyes with John, she waved a hand over the stone.

  Plastic wrap constricted her lungs, the air growing stale.

  And slowly, the feeling faded. Caitlin opened her eyes and looked around.

  Then her heart dropped.

  A European mansion loomed before her, one she’d seen in movies and in pictures.

  Chatling Hall.

  She wasn’t home. She was further from twenty-first century United States than before.

  A horse clogged up the dirt path as she watched a man dressed in black pants and a long overcoat ride closer. Rock in hand, she stared at the ground, then lifted her eyes to search the sky. Clouds concealed the sun, blocking a quick escape.

  “Madame? Can I be of some assistance?”

  Caitlin shook her head. “I think I’m lost.”

  Order your copy of Northern Echoes, Book Two in the Web of Echoes series:

  Northern Echoes

  She’s a no-holds-barred, kick-butt, don’t-cover-the-ugly-parts archeologist. History wants to teach her a lesson.

  Adventures are launched with a parlor and a sword.

  Caitlin Benoit assumed the next destination would be her time, her world. Instead, the stone thrusts her further into the past and onto a different continent. Now in 1831 England, she’s discovered by William, the Duke of Lancaster. By sheer luck, he’s willing to allow her into his manor.

  While she fights to gain a footing in this new time, Caitlin discovers the stone also ripped John from Charleston. Everything she thought she knew about how the stone worked is false, and neither of them understand how to escape the grip of the past.

  As they work to uncover the mystery of the stone, an acquaintance of the Duke plots an intricate scheme certain to destroy them all. She and John must solve the puzzle, in an unknown amount of time, or risk getting stuck—or buried—in 1831.

  And now, a sneak peek at Northern Echoes:

  Chapter One

  Air emanated through Caitlin Benoit like life itself as she inhaled with lungs still recovering from the constriction of time travel. Rich, full, cool. She heaved another breath, the fresh rush inflating her chest. Relief electrified every nerve, her pulsed quickened. One more time, a bit slower now, the breath cleansing as she gazed through eyes still blurred from travel. The sketchy lines of a horse and its rider slowly came into focus, and as the man stopped in front of her, she noticed his gentle brown eyes laced with confusion. Dressed in a navy tailcoat over a white silk shirt and beige wool pants, he looked more Georgian than Victorian, and those clothes placed him—and now Caitlin—in the early eighteen-hundreds. And the location…

  Her eyes strayed from the man to the grounds beyond the rider. Trees, sloping hills, a magnificent manor house. The far forests seemed to stretch for miles in a thick blanket of green.

  But they could be anywhere. It was the house itself that provided the clues, one she recognized from several period movies—a Hollywood favorite.

  Chatling Hall, an aristocratic home to a Duke of England. The Peak District, she thought.

  Only that made little sense. She’d traveled in time to the plantation house in Georgia, lived among slaves for a week, was instructed how to utilize the stone she’d discovered at the archeological dig in 2018, those instructions followed to the letter. She should have left 1859, returned to 2018. But if this was England, then not only had she traveled further back but also hopped the large pond to land on another continent entirely.

  “Madame? Can I be of some assistance?” the man asked for what Caitlin thought might be the second time. Maybe the third. Her brain was only just beginning to focus, to wrap the context around what her eyes were seeing.

  “I think I’m lost,” Caitlin muttered as she shook her head.

  “I venture to guess so much. Pray tell, what is your name?” He slid from the horse, boots hitting the dirt in a rise of dust. The man removed his hat, hung it casually from his fingertips; manners that screamed early century Europe.

  “Caitlin Benoit.” She held out a hand. A handshake wouldn’t fit to the customs, she shouldn’t have expected the gesture. Still, surprise tickled her when the man took hold of her hand and kissed her fingers.

  “It is my pleasure to meet you, Miss Caitlin.” After a bow of his head, the man replaced the top hat as he straightened. “William, Duke of Lancaster.”

  The Duke himself. The stone couldn’t give me a little break and place me at the feet of a peasant or a groomsman. “Is this your home?”

  “Indeed, it is,” William said with a smile. “Madame, if you are indeed lost, I welcome you as a guest of Chatling Hall until your traveling companions return.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  He tilted his head, studied her once more. Her modern English against his very proper British accent likely sounded as strange to him as his did to her. And her clothes were as far removed from anything a proper English woman would wear. They wouldn’t even be invented for nearly a hundred and fifty years.

  “Are you familiar with riding on the back of a horse?”

  The question cut through the noise in her head. Caitlin raised a brow. Horseback riding was one of her favorite past times, but the way she rode would make nineteenth century women blush

  in shades to match their pretty, fancy dresses while men would question their value as a proper woman. Notions that were both archaic and sexist—and they made her skin crawl—but she needed time. Time to figure out how she left a Georgian Plantation in 1859 at the courtesy of a mysterious rock, endured the plastic wrap of time travel once more, but didn’t return to twenty-first century America. At this point, it seemed time meant nothing, and yet she needed to buy some now. “No, not well, I’m afraid.”

  “Then I shall walk with you.”

  She nodded, fought to ignore the twinge in an ankle badly sprained days earlier, if she tried to define it in the conventional, linear sense. Seemed those conventions were out the window now, but her mind would take a little time to catch up.
>
  Caitlin focused on the hills of the Peak District. She followed all the rules the slave woman shared with her in Georgia—inside the circle, in the direct sunlight—yet she landed in England.

  Only… what year was it exactly?

  “Forgive me, but I do not recall having the pleasure of your acquaintance in the past. I like to think I’m familiar with everyone in the nearby villages,” her companion said. “Are you here on holiday?”

  Of course, he knew most everyone nearby. He owned the land, and the villagers were his tenants. Caitlin cleared her throat, prepared for the book of lies she would have to tell until she could leave the past where it belonged. “Yes, it’s been a long trip.”

  “Then you must be tired.”

  Worn with the indentations left behind by carriage wheels, the path curved around a bend where the trees gave way to a full, unobstructed view of Chatling Hall. In front of the manor house, a fountain as long as a football field shot water high into the clear afternoon sky. Set behind the fountain, Chatling Hall appeared to float on the surface of that water. The illusion was a good one, and almost took Caitlin’s breath away.

  The stone manor house itself was even more impressive than it had appeared in the twentieth- and twenty-first century movies. Classical architecture climbed three stories towards the sky. Gilded urns lined the roof, while three rows of windows—their frames also gilded—

  stretched right and left. As she and William neared the home, a staircase came into view. It curved upwards to a proud, rectangular landing which looked out across the fountain.

  Chatling Hall dwarfed Shady Oak Plantation in every possible way; even Biltmore paled in comparison. The aristocratic wealth was what Americans could only mimic but never quite attain. North America was too young, the British aristocracy too carefully built and maintained.

  The house defined the difference in spades.

  “Are you travelling with family?”

  Caitlin pulled back her gaze to face the Duke. “No, no, I’m not. I’m sorry, I know this is going to sound a little funny, but… what year is it?”

  The Duke’s brows furrowed, and he stopped, stared at her. “1831. Did you hit your head?

  Are you quite all right?”

  A hardness filled her stomach. She must tread carefully or she’d be on the receiving end of questions she couldn’t answer.

  With a mind that reeled in every direction, Caitlin didn’t pay attention to the ground. Too late for her to notice, she stepped on a large pebble and stumbled, causing an already weakened ankle to turn. She dropped to a knee, the fresh pain bursting through her foot. Caitlin shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Very unusual for a woman to be travelling alone.” William reached for her hand and helped her to feet. A grimace crossed her lips as she put weight on the foot. “You cannot walk like that.

  Allow me, please.” He wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her easily onto the stallion’s saddle, one hand brushing against her backpack. William cocked his head. “What matter of object is that?”

  Her clothes, the backpack. Mitilda and her family didn’t ask near as many questions, despite knowing she didn’t fit in. Staying with them had been easy. But now, Caitlin’s mind searched for explanations for everything. It would have been far easier to land on a mountain top somewhere.

  “It’s a bag to carry things in. I don’t have much.”

  “Yes, I see that.” William took a step back, a fresh wave of concern pressed Caitlin’s senses.

  “I’ll lead Major,” he continued, “we shall walk slowly so as you do not fall.” He dropped his gaze to her legs, followed them to the ankle so carefully tended to by Mitilda a couple hours earlier, and twenty-five years into the future.

  Caitlin’s head began to hurt as it fought to wrap around the idea.

  “May I?” he asked, motioning to the foot. She nodded as he carefully examined the wrappings. “These treatments are in poor shape. You must have had your injury tended to in a village somewhere?”

  A village? A crude, simplified way of describing the slave quarters. A group of homes, prisons to the sixty-four slaves living at Shady Oak, all policed by a monstrous overseer and that sad tree where she couldn’t venture to guess how many had been lynched and killed. They lived, cried, told stories, tried to find joy between the bone-melting work in the fields day after day. A village? No. But how else could she describe the conditions to him without raising suspicions?

  Caitlin forced Mitilda’s face from her mind as she answered with a slow nod.

  “It is a poor job at best. The Lady’s Maid shall assist you in better bandages, and perhaps a change of clothes that would be quite adequate.”

  She raised her brows, rolled her eyes. “As what I am wearing now isn’t appropriate, I’m sure.”

  “It is most unusual, yes. I have not seen anything like it in all my travels. But do not concern yourself with the matter. I am certain we have an appropriate dress to fit you.”

  Appropriate or inappropriate never meant a thing to her. But she had to blend in, make things a little easier in this time. So, she managed her best smile and nodded. “I appreciate that.”

  A fresh pounding filled her ears, forced her equilibrium to falter. Caitlin blinked hard, her stomach turned, head pounded. The first trip in time didn’t leave her sick, just confused. But this was something different, and Caitlin swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Once you are dressed and rested, I invite you to have dinner with me tonight, then you can tell me of your travels, and I can help in making arrangements for you to reach your destination.”

  “That’d be nice, thank you.”

  William nodded, continued to the side of the house and another set of steps that were every bit as elegant as the ones before, and stopped the horse. With a gentle pat on the animal’s neck, he stepped closer to Caitlin’s side. “Allow me.” He wrapped his hands around her waist, eased her to the ground.

  Caitlin tenderly placed her foot on the dirt, eased the weight on the opposite side. The Duke’s gentleness was a surprise. But hiding among slaves was one thing, blending in with aristocracy quite another. Especially given her heredity. Jaw set, she stared at the ground, careful to disguise the thoughts from the Duke.

  “Are you able to walk?”

  Caitlin nodded. “I think so. It’ll be slow going, but I can manage.” The first step betrayed her, and Caitlin stumbled once more, grumbled under her breath.

  “It appears you are still in need of some assistance.”

  “I should be able to do this alone.”

  “An injury such as this requires rest, and perhaps does not present the best conditions for a holiday. I know it is most inappropriate, but I fear you are unable to make it to the chair of your own volition. I pray you don’t find me too forward.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and eased the burden of her weight as they walked up the steps into a short corridor.

  Thick, red curtains pulled open to the outdoor light, simple paintings hung from the walls, and an eclectic, thin collection of simple busts lined the walkway. The public areas of these old manor houses were dressed to impressed—it was their sole function. But this entryway was far simpler. Even the chaise lounge and armchairs set between some of the busts, though comfortable, were not near as elegant as those the Duke surely set on display in the parlor. This hallway was meant to be a private entry, for family only. Seemed odd William would choose to bring her this route, she thought. But then, he didn’t seem to be as high and mighty as she would expect from British aristocracy.

  A short walk through a doorway, and the room opened wide in amazing splendor. Caitlin stepped onto the black and white checkered marble floor, stopped. Her eyes followed the massive hall to a ceiling painted in a brilliant mural. White marble busts lined the walls, leading to a sloping staircase dressed in gold plated railings.

  “It’s breathtaking,” she whispered. “I’ve visited many historic houses, but I’ve ne
ver seen anything like this.”

  “Have you been on holiday in many parts of Britain?” he asked when they reached the top of the stairs.

  She smiled and nodded. “I think I can take it from here.” Dutifully, William placed her tenderly on her feet, took her arm as she struggled to stand on the bad ankle. Frustration filled her gut.

  “Are you quite all right?”

  “I will be.”

  They moved down a hallway draped with family portraits, tapestries, and chairs. “Forgive me, madame, but you never said. Have you traveled to many parts of Britain?”

  Caitlin’s thoughts rushed in like tsunami. So many answers, so many ways she could answer, and yet what answer would best work. Finally, she answered, “No. Mostly, I’ve traveled elsewhere. Still, Chatling Hall is breathtaking.”

  “You are most kind. Chatling has been in my family for three hundred years.

  Caitlin smiled. Funny, he wasn’t at all what she pictured for an aristocrat. Not stuffy or pompous. Weren’t nobles supposed to be cruel? She somehow doubted William of Lancaster had a cruel bone in his body.

  History made so many errors in the books and in the memories of men.

  “Very well then. We shall stop here.” He turned into a room coated in red from ceiling to floor. The four-poster bed stood against the far wall with red draperies closing in around an equally red bedspread and bed skirt. Catholic pictures of the Virgin Mary and an impression of Christ surrounded by children hung from the wall, and a marble fireplace slumbered in the corner. A writing desk waited in front of the bed, and a small table held a wash pan nearby.

  William watched as she struggled to sit in a nearby chair. “Were you injured in a fall from a horse, perhaps?”

  “No, I just twisted it on uneven ground.”

  “Yes, that is easy to do.”

  William took a couple steps backward toward the hallway. “I hope you find the room to your liking.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Caitlin squirmed in her seat, pulled the backpack from behind her, and reached to rest it on the bed, watching as William’s eyes followed her movements. But instead of answering the unspoken questions between them, she simply nodded. “Thank you.”