Stolen Moments: A Victorian Time Travel Romance

by Maren Smith

  “Florrie.” It felt so close to right on her lips when she said it. She repeated herself twice. It felt almost perfect. Frighteningly so. Florrie sank back into the softness of the pillows, her eyes huge, alternately staring at him and then anywhere but at him as the faceless sense of foreboding took her over. She had to get out of here. She had to run. If she didn’t, something bad was going to happen. If only she knew what that something was.

  When Draven touched her arm, she looked up at him. As if he could read her thoughts, he said, “He has to get past me first. He’d be stupid even to try.”

  “Why?” she whispered, feeling nothing now but the anxiousness of just sitting here while out in the night something was closing the distance on her. She had to go… somewhere and if she didn’t go now, it was going to be too late.

  “Because,” Draven said, “I’m the better butcher, and he knows it. He could have faced me today, but he didn’t. He ran. If he’s got any sense, he’ll keep on running…”

  Footsteps echoing off the bricks…

  She shivered as Draven added, “And he won’t look back.”

  “Why not?” she heard herself ask.

  “Because, if he’s lucky, he might see the law standing behind him. If he’s not lucky, he’ll see me.” His dark eyes now as cold as his blades, she believed him when he said, “I don’t run from anyone.”

  Scraping the last bite of potato and gravy off the plate they’d shared, he fed it to her. Like a parent comforting a small child, he even tapped his finger upon the tip of her nose. “There, that wasn’t so horrible, yeah?”

  Her stomach felt better. So did the rest of her, and whatever had been in that pill and tea he’d slipped her, were working together now to make her drowsy. But not so drowsy that she didn’t notice how his gaze dropped to her mouth when she licked the last drop of gravy from her lips.

  For a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Hunger of a different kind playing in the shadows of his face. Or maybe that was just the dizzying effects of the medicine, because although he did lean down toward her, instead of her mouth, he left a damned near paternal kiss upon her forehead, careful not to touch her wound.

  Tucking the blanket in around her, he said, “Rest. You need to sleep.”

  He took the empty plate with him walked out of the room. He didn’t go far, only a few steps before she heard him stop. What he was doing, she didn’t know. From the sounds of it, he seemed just to be standing outside the door. But oddly, between the kiss and what he’d told her, Florrie was comforted. So much so that, although she wanted to wait for his return, warm and fed and without anyone there to distract her, her eyes grew heavier and heavier. Long aimless staring turned into long, drifting blinks. Blinks turned into resting her eyes, and that turned into sleep.

  A sleep filled with echoing footsteps, a crackling fire, the pattering rain of blood falling onto cobblestones, and knives.

  ***

  His lips tingled. His blood raged, pounding in his veins, his head and his cock. What was wrong with him?

  Standing outside his door on the narrow stairs landing, he leaned his big hands on the wall, head hanging low as he tried to get his body back under stern control. That was not Elise lying in his bed, with her soft lips, softer limbs and, softest of all, the luxurious heat of her waiting to welcome him beneath the blankets.

  Think of the differences, he chided himself. Memorize them, keep them always in mind, because there were differences and the longer he was around Florrie, the easier they were to see. Except, perhaps, by candlelight, in the darkness of a home he and his wife used to share. While she lay in a bed he had suffered alone for three incredibly long years now. And God knows, he hadn’t been a saint from then to now, but the last time he’d wandered Whitechapel’s dark alleys and pubs in search of a little temporary company… He couldn’t even remember how long ago that had been.

  He should go now. Grab a few coins or a slab of beef, find an unfortunate in need of supper or a drink, and drain some of this fire out of his system before he did something he already knew he was going to hate himself for. Something he might even hate himself for as he was doing it.

  Damn.

  Her skin had felt so good under his lips. He could still taste her on them. Eyes closed, he could still smell her too, the cleanness of her hair. Whatever soap she used, it had a subtle fragrance. It was probably expensive. He liked it.

  His cock throbbed.

  He liked it a lot.

  That subtle scent, the freshness of her skin, the youthfulness of her smooth hands… Who was Florrie? Was she some noble’s American wife or mistress, fallen from grace and now forced to walk the streets of Whitechapel in the wee hours of the morning? If she had family, he had to find them, but how? Parents, siblings… husband, he thought with a surprising degree of bitterness considering that he’d known her all of one day. Still, if she did have a bloke who let her go walking out at night, then she was better off without the tosser.

  As if he was any better, Draven scoffed, hanging his head even lower. Here he was wishing she had nobody and what kind of person did that? Worse, if she did have someone and he did as he promised, what kind of person returned her into that kind of life, knowing she was only going to end up back on the streets of Whitechapel? Back into the squeezing hands of the same murderer he had already saved her from once before? Some protectors they were.

  Some protector he was, for that matter. Think whatever he needed to salve his guilt, but really, what did he want but to lie with her, fold her into his arms, and call her by the wrong damned name?

  Draven pushed off the wall. Rubbing his face with both hands, he went quickly downstairs. Everything was shut up tight and had been since the police and Dr. Phillips had left. Slipping out the back door into the cool night, he scoured his fork and tin at the pump before heading back in. More to waste time than anything else, he checked to make sure everything was locked up yet again, before back up the stairs he went.

  Putting the clean dishes away on the kitchen shelf, he stoked the fire in the hearth to keep off the chill and, next thing he knew, found himself standing at her bedside. She was asleep, curled up like a child with one hand tucked up under her chin and a long lock of bloody blonde hair draped across her nose. Today he hadn’t dared to leave her, but tomorrow, he’d heat water enough for her to wash.

  As if with a mind all its own, his hand tried to tuck that stiff clump back from her face. He barely pulled it back in time. Turning, aggravated now, he stared out the window into the night where a single gas lamp did its dim-glowing best to beat back the London shadows. It was drizzling, spattering drops that obscured his view almost as much as the dirty smog, heavy with moisture and coal-fed smoke, drifting through the East End where too many factory chimneys raked the horizon as far as he could see.

  When Elise had been alive, she’d been fanatical about washing the glass panes. After she’d gone, he’d tackled it two, maybe three times, but frankly the butchery kept him busy enough. Looking around now, it was kind of embarrassing, the filth he’d gone blind too. Never mind the windows, because of Florrie, everywhere he looked something needed a scrub, a sweep, or a good sound dust—

  The shadows moved in a doorway just down the street, far out of the amber glow of that distant gas lamp. Had his restless gaze not been wandering, he would have missed the subtle shift of a pale sleeve as whomever made himself more comfortable. The sergeant still had his bobbies out there, watching him.

  Or maybe it was the shadow man, biding his time until the opportunity to finish what he’d started presented itself.

  Draven’s aggravation over his own inability to control himself did not mute, but it did shift, turning into a different kind of burning fury. Moving from the window, he systematically doused the lights in the room, gentling puffing out all but one of the candles. That one he placed on the nightstand by his bed. He let whoever watched from that doorway see him close the curtains, but was careful not to let himself be seen picking up his c
arving knife. He blew the candle out, casting the room to near darkness. Only the flickering coals of the mostly burnt hearth fire kept the black from being absolute, but even if it had, Draven knew every toe-stubbing obstacle in this room. After so many years of getting up before the sun, yeah, he knew the walk that carried him down the stairs to his shop and through it to the rear slaughter yard.

  He hopped the fence into Harrow Alley, skirting two slats of broken wood, a wet swatch of cloth from a torn shirt or petticoat, and other stray bits of garbage the likes of which found its way daily into every nook of the East End. Much like the smog, coal ash, and damp.

  Staying in the shadows, Draven hugged the wall as he neared the end of the alleyway. He craned his neck, venturing out only as far as he had to in order to see into that doorway down the street. At first, he saw nothing, not even the door he knew to be there. The archway was deeply set into all that brickwork and that made it a good hiding place for someone up to no good. Sure enough, there he was, although it wasn’t until he saw another movement that he realized someone really was there. What was he seeing? The flash of shirt as whoever tugged their coat up to ward off the chill of the rain. A glimpse of sleeve, maybe, as he stole a quick bite or two of food, fortifying himself to last out the long night ahead. There wasn’t anything he could take to fortify himself against Draven.

  Adjusting his grip on his carving knife, Draven steeled himself. His heart was pounding, not the fiery, passionate pulse of a man on the verge of giving in to his most basic urges, but now of a man about to do another great bodily injury. If the shadowy movement belonged to the constable’s dog, then that man was about to be sent back to his precinct with a well-deserved kick or two to the seat of his pants, some battered pride, and a new-found respect for letting the butchers of Butcher Row handle their own affairs. If he was anybody else, he’d be very lucky if Draven didn’t send him to the nearest cemetery.

  He drew a breath, steadying himself. He kissed the back of his thumb, the same thumb now curved over the end of his knife’s grip, a tradition left over from his soldiering days. Even if this was the killer lurking for a peek at his intended victim, Draven doubted he was about to get hurt.

  “For Queen and country,” he said wryly, another tradition he hadn’t quite been able to shed. Then he charged.

  He did it silently, giving no extra notice of his intent than what the owner of that small patch of paleness was about to discover bearing rapidly down upon him. Even without the yell, it didn’t happen silently. The hard soles of his shoes slapped the cobblestones, sending an echoing clatter up and down both ends of the street. And yet, that small patch of paleness hardly moved. He was three-quarters of the way to that doorway before he realized something was wrong. The doorway was empty. There was no man, bobby, killer or otherwise, lurking in wait, watching his upstairs windows. That flutter of white was nothing more ominous than a piece of cloth caught on a hook in one of the few wooden parts of the brick archway.

  No, not caught. Tied to it.

  Deliberately.

  Wary ears pricked for any sound, eyes sweeping the shadows of every nook and doorway first one way and then the other, Draven approached the cloth. He pulled it off the nail, just a torn section of white sail cloth, completely unremarkable until he turned it over and the folds opened across his wrist, laying bare a dark scrawl that he didn’t need any extra light to realize had been written in blood. He could smell it even as he backed into the street far enough to tip the cloth to the glow of the street lamp.

  I keep what is mine, it read.

  Draven’s stomach dropped to his toes. He all but tripped over it in his mad-dash run to get back down the narrow alley between his shop and his neighbor’s. He leapt the gate, knife in hand and at the ready as he tore back through the lower floor of his shop, taking the stairs up to his flat two at a time. He didn’t remember closing the door behind him, but it was closed all the way up until he hit it, throwing the heavy wooden slab open with violence enough for the latch to slam into the wall.

  His home was still, barely lit by only the smallest embers. They danced when he threw tinder on them, following that with a shovel-full of coal just as soon as the flames licked back to life. God, what the shadows did to the runnels and grooves of the quilt, running over her still form on his bed. His nose tried to tell him it could still smell blood. His eyes lied, almost convincing him that wasn’t shadow he saw dripping down to pool in flickers of light upon the floor. The truth wasn’t revealed until he was right up next to the bed and then it wasn’t the light, but her own movements as Florrie sighed in her sleep, rolled away from him onto her side and snuggled deeper into the feather-tick mattress.

  It wasn’t until she did that he felt the startlingly vicious thud of his heart as it resumed beating. Had it ever truly stopped? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was his chest ached from lack of breath and, despite the pitifully short distance’s run, his knees were shaking.

  He locked the back door and didn’t leave Florrie alone again that night. The crown jewels were not so closely guarded as she was, tucked in warm and safe in his bed. He blocked the windows, locked and bolted his flat door, and sat in a chair at the foot of his bed staring at it long into the night.

  His carving knife resting upon his knee, one hand gripping and re-gripping the well-used hilt, Draven kept the rest of his blades within an easy arm’s reach and did not move from his seat. Not to piss. Not to rekindle the fire in the hearth when it began to dwindle and long shadows once more crept across the room. His eyelids grew heavy, but he kept his gaze locked upon the door and his ears tuned to finding that first telltale hint of footsteps coming up the stairs.

  The fire sputtered, the orange glow of the coals remaining long after the last discernable flame died and Draven, fighting it every nodding step of the way, at last succumbed to the lulling rhythm of Florrie’s sleeping breaths. Fight it though it did, eventually, he slept.

  Chapter 6

  “But it’s worn!” Elise protested, flopping down to sit on the edge of the bed instead of making it. The rag quilt draped her lap. Sticking her finger through a hole in one square’s stitching, she made a face.

  “It’s functional,” Draven replied over a quick breakfast. “There’s nothing wrong with functional.”

  “It’s old.” Both her look and tone turned pleading. “The one Mary’s selling is pretty. I want it, Draven, please.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that one that needle and thread won’t cure.”

  Hands and quilt both dropping into her lap, she sulked.

  “We don’t need the expense.”

  “Stingy,” she groused sullenly.

  Putting his fork down, Draven half turned from the table to give her his full attention. “Ellie, my heart,” he warned. “You’re on the right way to a hot bottom.”

  Sulking openly now, she flounced off the bed and began to make it. Now and then, he caught her shooting him glances, as if calculating in the depths of those stunning blue eyes just how far she could push him. “I’m not allowed to speak my mind when me once-loving husband becomes a piker?”

  Wiping his mouth, Draven got up long enough to turn his chair around and thunk it back down again. “I’ve spoke my mind on the matter,” he warned. “We’ve bills to the rafter beams right now. If I get a wild burr to go spending extra money, it’ll go to the soft spot in the roof what needs mending. Now, there’s nothing wrong with that quilt. So, conversation done, yeah?”

  She vigorously snapped the quilt out hard over the bed, straightening each corner with a sullen tug. Her tone, however, was painstakingly cheerful. “It’s obvious you’ve made up your mind.”

  Grateful that she seemed willing, if not happy, to drop it, Draven turned the chair to tuck it back up to the table.

  “Heaven forbid no one listens when His Royal Highness speaks his mind,” she muttered nowhere near quiet enough to keep him from hearing it.

  Yanking the chair back out, he headed towards her. Dre
ssed for a day chopping meat, his sleeves were already rolled, which meant all he had to do was take her by the arm. He was halfway across the room when she seemed to realize she hadn’t really wanted that new quilt enough to push this far.

  “Wait!” Throwing up her hands at first, when he kept coming, she immediately changed her mind. She ducked to get around him, but he caught her arm with ridiculous ease. She was so small. Not only did his fingers overlap, but his hand almost engulfed her arm.

  For all that Elise wasn’t shy about speaking out at all the wrong times, whenever one of their rows got this far, she almost never put a lot of effort into getting away. She’d even confessed to him once, shortly after their marriage, as he’d held her through the weepy aftermath of what was perhaps only her third major tumble over his knee, that the discipline was one of the things she liked most about him.

  “You never let me get away with too much,” she’d said between sniffles and hiccups. “It’s reassuring, really.”

  Well, that was then, this was now, and she wasn’t saying that anymore.

  Digging in her heels, she heaved back on her arm instead of falling obediently into step back to his chair and the fate that awaited her there. “If you don’t want me to call you flayflint, don’t act the part!”

  She heaved back on her arm, forcing him to drag her until, abruptly changing his mind, he hooked his arm around her waist and lifted her off her kicking feet.

  “No!” she shouted, twisting wildly, but at this point, he was back to his chair. He set her down only long enough to sit, and then with a stern yank, she toppled facedown over his lap. “No, Draven. No! No!”

  Yes, was yanking her skirts up over her back and pinning her grabbing hand under her hip. Yes, was skinning her plain cotton bloomers far enough to bare the pale swells of her now naked bottom. Yes, was raising his strong right hand.

  God, he’d missed this…

  Draven paddled the milky white right out of her backside. She shrieked and squealed, her pleas falling on ears that knew better than to heed them too soon. She kicked and thrashed, snapping back her feet to cover her bottom, but that was a short-lived rebellion that ended once he got her legs hooked between his. With the stern flat of his hand, he paddled the backs of her thighs—actions, after all, had consequences—and only once she’d burst into wailing tears, did he return his attention to her now furiously blushing arse.