At the end of the hall, he was about to turn back and check the other end when he heard someone growl through the last door, “Tell me what you know and this will all stop. But if you don’t, it will get far worse, I promise you that.”
Another voice sobbed out, “I know nothing, I swear. You’ve got the wrong man.”
That was followed by a nauseating sizzling sound and a fresh scream. Ashford decided he was wrong, he liked the creepy silence better than the sounds of torture that resumed loudly from this room. He wracked his brain for anything he might have been told about the house’s history that might explain this. What information was the torturer after? Could a war be going on in this time and one of those people was a spy?
Either way, he didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do about it. This operation was clearly beyond anything he could do in his current condition, one man, still recovering from a near fatal trauma, with one gun to his name. If each room contained a torturer and his victim, anything he might try was doomed to fail. And as much as such things taking place in his house caused his already sick stomach to turn, he had to concentrate on his objective. Matilda.
He knew the servants would be the best bet for getting information and headed toward the kitchen to find one, determined to drag someone from their bed if need be. He found the lower floor was well furnished as he peeked into room after room. He decided he had gone backward in time, quite a ways back. A room that had been added in the early 1700s wasn’t where it was supposed to be so he had to be before that.
He heard a gentle shuffling and soft humming from the kitchen and gathered his strength to interrogate whatever maid was up at this hour, probably innocently making bread for the day. Did she know about what went on above her? The house was sturdily made and none of the sounds followed him downstairs, so she could be blissfully ignorant. Even if she wasn’t, there was nothing she could have done and he hated what he was about to do.
He strode in as if he owned the place, which wasn’t difficult to do, demanding her name. She spun around, her eyes widening at seeing someone she didn’t recognize, and someone who was quite a bit the worse for wear. He knew he must look a fright, rumpled and bloodstained. She squeaked out something incomprehensible, looking like she might bolt for the hall. He blocked her exit and crossed his arms.
“What year is it?” he barked. She stared at him like he was mad and he repeated the question with more force.
“1644,” she stammered.
Well, that certainly wasn’t right. He almost turned around and ran back for the room, meaning to put this mistake behind him as quickly as possible. He softened his tone instead, hoping against hope she’d be helpful.
“I mean you no harm, but you must tell me if you’ve recently seen a woman who doesn’t belong here.”
She blinked rapidly. “There’s plenty of them’s come here, sir. You’ll need to be more specific like.”
He rolled his eyes. “Not a prostitute. A lady, about this tall.” He held up his hand. “Brown hair. She would have been wearing a gown that might have seemed odd to you, out of fashion. She might have asked one of you servants for information, or food.”
She shook her head and clasped her flour stained hands together. “I don’t know anything about that. I make the bread every day from before dawn and never saw such a lady.”
“If anyone saw someone like her, would they gossip about it with each other?”
She looked abashed and he assured her she wouldn’t be in trouble. He only wanted the truth. He rose up to his full height, towering over her and gave her his darkest scowl, the one that had never scared Matilda, but was sure to have this girl quaking in her slippers.
“There was a woman as you describe that was run off for trying to steal a pie from the sill, but she wasn’t a lady. Her dress was odd like you say, but it was dirty and beggarly.”
“When was this?” he demanded.
“A fortnight or more ago, I think. I don’t remember, sir, and that’s the truth.”
His poor darling, who so loved her meals, having to scavenge for food. If Matilda was still here, she was being quiet about it, but there was no way she could hide in the house for this long, especially as they’d already seen her. She was either leaving during the day and creeping back at night or she’d gone onto another time.
He had to decide if he would wait a day or two to see if she returned to the room, or if he should immediately try the spell again. A chill of dread ran down his spine at the thought of enduring that agony another time, but he knew there was no choice. Before he could regret his hasty decision, and worse, wish he’d listened to Liam, he took the maid by the shoulders and gave her a small shake.
“You never saw me,” he said menacingly, feeling terrible when her eyes filled with tears. “Not a word.”
She nodded and sniffled, but before she could outright bawl, he turned and swept from the room, hoping she’d keep her mouth shut long enough for him to be on the move again. All he needed was for whoever was running that operation upstairs to find him.
Back in the room, he lay down next to the bed, ready to roll under it at the slightest noise at the door. He’d wait through the night to see if Matilda returned, then do the spell. He prayed he’d live through it. The screams and pleas for mercy continued from down the hall but he was so worn out from his ordeal, he soon fell into a fitful sleep, plagued by nightmares of being burned alive.
He awoke with a ray of light shining directly into his eyes through the thin curtains. He knew if Matilda had been in this time, she would have returned to the room, only wanting to escape it through the portal. He’d tarried long enough waiting for her, and as much as he didn’t want to do his spell again, he knew he couldn’t stay here.
“Just get it done,” told himself, the sound of his voice coming out scratchy and weak, but a small comfort in the lonely dark room.
He knew it was killing him, but he was stuck now. Even if he never found her, which wasn’t an option, he had to get home. If after fifteen years of using the portal and traveling to hundreds of different times, facing an equal amount of unsavory people and situations, he would be damned if he died like this, bloody-nosed and cowering under a bed.
As if to add insult to injury, he felt the familiar hum deep in his bones, and the temperature dropped several degrees at once, signalling the portal was opening. He managed a laugh, then cursed it vociferously, using every foul word he’d ever heard.
“How dare you,” he finally said to it, knowing he had to make a decision and fast.
The portal would take him to another time, and painlessly at that, but there was no guarantee it would keep him on the path to Matilda. His spell, no matter how thoroughly it was destroying him, seemed to be leading him to times when she’d already been. That was what he’d meant for it to do, though he would have preferred a less circuitous route and without the terrible side effects. And yet for all that, it was working. What if it was only one more time and then he’d find her? Surely he could survive one more time.
He scowled at the portal, still open, and decided he didn’t need the fickle thing. He swore at it a bit more, the increasing cold in the room making him shiver. He shakily huddled in the far corner, and as he waited, a coughing fit overcame him, scorching his already raw throat. His hand came away bloody, which he wiped on his jacket, long past caring about his appearance.
When the portal closed, he remained in the corner until the temperature rose back to normal, and his shivering stopped enough to do the spell.
Chapter 22
Tilly looked as regal as Mrs. Hedley and a small army of maids could make her look. They put the final pin in the gorgeous feathered hat, which swayed like an imperial ship in her carefully commandeered hair. Even in all the pageants she’d been to as her mother’s assistant, she’d never seen so many frills and baubles and ruffles as she did on her own body just now. Yes, she certainly looked the part, but inside she felt like Cinderella after the ball: lost a
nd in tatters. Her beauty elves stood back, beaming and waiting for her approval.
“It’s perfect, absolutely perfect,” she gushed truthfully, forcing herself to sound confident and excited.
All she had to do was meet this Sir Amos who had somehow betrayed the real queen, bully him and his mysterious order into letting Thomas go, and then somehow sneak away from them. Not a single thing could possibly go wrong. Yes, she’d keep telling herself that.
Farrah wasn’t helping matters much, twisting her fingers together and making constipated faces of worry. “I think we should—” she started for the umpteenth time.
“What?” Tilly snapped, scattering the maids. “We don’t have any other options. We could wait around like princesses locked in a tower for someone to maybe come and rescue us, but Thomas needs us now. You saw how scared Madame Celine looked about contacting those people. They’re not nice people.”
“That’s exactly why I’m so nervous,” Farrah sniffed. “If you never come back …” she wiped a tear and Mrs. Hedley hurried to give her a handkerchief.
Tilly sighed deeply, not needing this. She dismissed Mrs. Hedley rather rudely, promising herself she’d make it up to the kind older woman later, after everything was settled.
“I’m coming back,” she said forcefully, just short of a growl. “And anyway, you were alone here for three weeks before Thomas and I showed up, you’ll be fine.”
Farrah looked stunned. “It’s not that,” she said, clearing her throat and mopping away the few tears that had leaked out. “You’re just so … I know you’re only five or six or whatever years older than me, but you’re so nice and together, I kind of think of you as a mum. Or a big sister. I never had either of those.”
Oh sweet mercy. Tilly felt her own eyes well with tears and pinched herself firmly on the inside of her wrist to keep from being overwhelmed with emotion. Together was the last thing she considered herself right now, but she needed to get that way or their plan was screwed. She needed to be haughty, powerful, and forbidding, not a sniveling mess.
She hugged Farrah tight and promised her she’d be back, that everything was going to work out, finishing it off with a quick, maternal shoulder squeeze.
The carriage took her most of the way and she got out to walk the final block to Madame Celine’s shop, not wanting anyone to see the Ashford coat of arms. She’d made Farrah stay at the house, not wanting her to burst into tears or cling to her dress or anything that might throw her off her game. She’d used the entire ride over to psyche herself up, much like she did before her old high school basketball games. She tried not to remember that she hadn’t been very good at basketball.
Madame Celine waited in the front of the shop, her ruddy face pale and waxy looking. Tilly knew that the person she was supposed to meet was already here and her stomach plummeted as much as it could encased in its corset. Could it be Sir Amos himself? She worried the real queen’s problem with him might have been of a personal nature and if she didn’t recognize him, she’d be in real trouble.
“Who’s come for me?” she asked.
“A young man, Swift, I think his name was. You may not know him, he’s new to the order. But Sir Amos trusts him.”
She harrumphed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t, then. Let us hope he’ll be swift in taking me to his master.” Oh, she felt really clever with that zinger, and her confidence soared.
Madame Celine called Swift forward and he came from the back with his hat in his hands, his head bowed. He stole a look at her over his eyelashes and she gazed fiercely back. He dropped into a low bow, saying what a great honor it was to meet her, and begging her pardon, for what, Tilly wasn’t sure, perhaps existing.
He helped her into a plain, dusty one horse carriage, apologizing some more for the inconvenience.
“No one believed I was back, did they?” she asked when he sat stiffly beside her, snapping at the reins to get the horse to move. “I guess Madama Celine’s word isn’t considered too highly.”
“Of course no one doubted it for a minute, Your Majesty,” he said, keeping his eyes straight, his neck and cheeks flaming red from embarrassment.
“I’m sure Sir Amos will be thrilled to see it’s true.” She was enjoying the lackey’s discomfort and hoped to be able to make Sir Amos squirm just as much. She could taste victory, and only hoped they hadn’t harmed Thomas too much in the time it took to find him.
After they turned a few corners, he reined up the horse and turned to her, looking like he might throw up. He reached under the seat and came out with a black cotton sack, waving it toward her head and biting his lip so that she thought he might draw blood.
“I’m supposed to, er, that is, Sir Amos wanted …” he couldn’t finish, only held the sack out toward her.
“Are you bloody serious right now? You want me to put that over my head?”
“It’s not me, Your Majesty, it’s only we need to keep a high level of security, as you probably know, since—”
“Since I’m your queen,” she finished, a distinct bite in her tone. She wasn’t acting, she was truly outraged. He and Sir Amos could rot in hell before she put that bag over her head. “You do understand that, don’t you? Sir Amos, no matter how much he might dislike it, is no longer in charge of the order. I don’t know what kind of tomfoolery he’s been up to in my unfortunate absence, but I assure you, I will right whatever wrongs need to be righted.”
“It’s only that we, I mean, he thought you were dead. He seemed sure of it, Your Majesty.”
“Then he’s a bigger fool than I originally took him for. Are you going to continue driving, Swift?”
A cold sweat broke out along her bosom, but she was certain Swift was too scared of her to notice. Her heart pounded so hard she thought she might faint from her exertions. This young man was new to the order and didn’t seem sure of anything, making it easy to intimidate him, but what would happen when she was in front of Sir Amos or a long time member of their order and her bluster didn’t stand up to their questions? She’d felt good about things until that black bag appeared and then things got real. It was a forceful reminder that these were not nice people, as she’d already told Farrah, and she’d have to tread carefully once she was in their lair.
After a few tense moments of Swift waffling over what to do, he finally groaned and stuffed the sack back under the seat. She nodded slightly at him and he continued on their way. She took extra careful notice of her surroundings now that she knew they didn’t want her to know where she was going to end up. That never boded well for anyone.
They bumped along for about an hour until they were on the very outskirts of London, and finally pulled up to a huge, four story country manor house. It seemed perfectly innocuous and lacking in evil, with its whitewashed walls and wood beams covered in ivy, a tidy grouping of fruit trees off to the side and a lovely pebbled walkway. Someone ran out to take the horse, skidding to a halt when he saw her. He dropped to his knees and began to sob.
“It’s true then, you’re alive,” he wailed. She hoped they were happy tears.
Swift helped her from the carriage, giving the other man a slight kick for continuing to blubber on the ground. He instantly jumped to his feet and bowed, then beamed up at her. She smiled back, because it was obvious she was supposed to know him, but kept it reserved.
“Queen Ariana, it’s so wonderful to see you well,” he said, wiping his face. “I didn’t dare to hope but now I see you with my own eyes, it’s a miracle to be sure.”
The name jolted her, as she realized this was the first time she was hearing the real queen’s name. Dex’s slip of the tongue came rushing back to her. That was her daughter’s name, wasn’t it? The one she might never have if she didn’t get back to Ashford? Chills crawled up and down her, making her break out in goosebumps at the coincidence.
The men seemed to take her silence in stride, and she nodded kindly toward the groom as Swift led her inside. The inside was a different story from the outside, it looked l
ike a bunch of rowdy men lived there. Coats and boots and weapons were tossed higgledy piggledy in the front hall, the pictures on the wall were dusty and askew, and the whole place reeked of sweat and ale.
They wound their way through the house, picking past all the mess, until Swift stopped in front of a closed door and knocked on it three times. A muffled, deep voice called out to enter, and he opened the door for her, but very tellingly did not enter. She prayed Sir Amos wouldn’t throw something at her the second she crossed the threshold.
He didn’t, but it didn’t matter. She almost got knocked over anyway by her own surprise. She knew this man. Handsome and affable, he was the brother of Ashford’s close friend. The first time she met him she’d broken his nose for getting too handsy, but then she’d forgiven him due to his great charm. Standing in the middle of the room, grinning eagerly at her was Nicholas Kerr.
***
Tilly felt her fists closing automatically as his grin turned to a leer. He noticed and laughed. “I assure you, you won’t have to use those today.” He shook his head. “So it is you, Miss Jacobs. When I saw young Adkins in the apothecary shop, I didn’t know what to think, but he’s been a veritable fount of interesting information.”
“What have you done to him?” she asked, trying to keep calm. For all she knew, nothing was wrong here. Of course, Nick was in the complete wrong time, especially for someone who wasn’t supposed to have a clue about time travel, and he was — “Wait a minute, you’re Sir Amos?”
“I am indeed, but of course you can still call me Nick. And don’t worry about Thomas, he’s fine.”
“He better be,” she growled, then forced herself to calm down. She knew this man. He was definitely a fly who would be better caught with honey than vinegar. She smiled as best she could and saw his eyes soften. He’d had a crush on her once, maybe he still did. That could work in her favor. “Okay, so I’m guessing you know why Thomas and I are seventy-some years ahead of when we’re supposed to be, but why are you? Did you always know about Ashford?”
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