Beyond Time (Highland Secret Series)

by Elizabeth Marshall

  Resting his elbows on his thighs and stretching his arms out in front of him he clasped his hands thoughtfully. His eyes stared at the flames as they danced and leapt around the brickwork of the fireplace. This was how it had all began, he thought. Idle eyes staring dimly at a flame, a blurred image materializing within the flame.

  Had he the slightest belief in sorcery and magic he would almost certainly have killed this woman on sight. But he had never paid attention to the ramblings of the witch hunters. Magic was simply unexplained events and sorcery didn’t exist.

  He mused over the irony of his conviction. In his readiness to dismiss her as a master of evil magic he had allowed her to enchant him.

  As if aware of his musings she shuffled across the bed. She sat cross legged beside him, her hand resting lightly on his thigh.

  “Do people in the future move through time often?”

  She looked startled. “No. Time travel isn’t possible.”

  “Not impossible,” he replied.

  “No, I suppose not, but it’s deemed to be.”

  “Yet you are here.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Do you believe in witches?”

  “No, that’s daft. Witches aren’t real. They exist for the purpose of children’s tales and adult fantasy. They are no more real than magic is.”

  “If magic is isn’t real and witches are fantasy and time travel is impossible, how do you explain how you got here?”

  His words hit her with the force of a physical blow. She stared at his face, the color draining from hers.

  “I can’t.”

  He watched her, his dark eyes blazed dangerously. She met his look and held it as fear ripped through her. His eyes demanded the truth but she had none to give.

  “I know,” he said, eventually. “There’s no reason why I should trust you, but I do.”

  He got up from the bed and moved to close the shutter. The flame from a single candle glowed against the white-washed wall behind her bedside table. She watched anxiously as he stoked the fire and the flames grew up around the fresh logs.

  “Did you love your husband?” he asked, replacing the poker on its stand.

  “I thought I did... once.”

  “And now?”

  “No,” she whispered quietly.

  He lifted her backpack and handbag and set them on the bed beside her.

  “Tomorrow we will go through this. These things must be destroyed.”

  “No, Robert you can’t.”

  “I can and I will,” he said, sternly. “If you are ever seen using any of these things you will face trial for witchcraft.”

  He was right and Grace understood the risks. But she had no intention of letting him destroy anything she had brought with her.

  Fumbling with the zip she opened the backpack and emptied its content onto the bed.

  He stood on the opposite side of the bed watching her as she reached for a small square box.

  “See these?” she said, holding the box up for him to see.

  He nodded silently.

  “These are called painkillers. They do what their name suggests. They kill pain and fever. Robert, they save lives.”

  “Grace, you were not listening to me. The usefulness of these things is not in question. Your survival is.”

  “We can hide them. No one need ever know.”

  “And where would you have me hide these things?”

  Flustered her eyes flicked frantically around the room, settling on the oak wardrobe that would remain in this room for nearly four hundred years.

  “In the wardrobe,” she said, excitedly.

  A loud laugh bellowed from him, breaking the tension of the room.

  “So no one is going to find them in there?”

  “No... No, they won’t. Not if you add a false bottom to it.”

  He pursed his lips, pondered her suggestion for a few minutes.

  “Alright, I’ll do it,” he said, suddenly.

  “You will?”

  “I will,” he said, letting a broad smile cross his lips.

  A soft glow from the embers of the fire lit the room. He reached out and touched her gently with his hand as she turned restlessly away from him. She rolled onto her back and her eyes sprang open. The beamed ceiling glared down on her. Her mind twisted and in fits of confusion, her heart pounded and her stomach churned.

  “I saw her,” she whispered.

  “Saw who?”

  “Jenny.”

  “Your daughter?”

  She sat bolt upright, her hand fumbling for the photograph on her bedside table.

  “Yes,” she breathed, clutching the picture to her breast, “my daughter.”

  “Tell me what happened?”

  She stared at him blankly, her mind fighting to recover the dying images of her dream.

  “She’s in trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A knot of fear tightened in her stomach as she replayed the dying moments of her dream to him.

  “Jenny was screaming; a desperate terrified cry for help. I tried to get to her but I couldn’t.”

  “Where was she?”

  “I don’t know... but it felt like... I was in water and... the closer I got to her, the thicker the water became until I couldn’t pull myself through the water anymore... And I woke up.”

  “It was only a dream, Grace.”

  “No, it was more than a dream. Jenny needs me and I don’t know how to help her.”

  In desperation she sprung out of bed and grabbed her cell phone. She flicked madly through her the address book looking for Jenny’s number.

  “I know what to do,” she said, suddenly staring at the cell. “I need the portrait.”

  He came to stand in front of her, his arms moving to encircle her waist. She slipped from his embrace and ran to the fireplace. She turned to him, her eyes pleading.

  “I can’t reach it.”

  In one stride he was beside her, his arms stretched toward the portrait.

  “Grace, sit down and we will talk about this,” he said, handing the frame to her.

  She shook her head frantically, taking the frame from him.

  “No, there’s no time,” she replied, dropping to the floor. “Robert, pass me the backpack, please?”

  He did as she asked and then slid to the floor beside her. He watched her as she ripped the bag open and scrambled through its contents.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The pens, Robert, I’m looking for my bloody ballpoint pens. Have you got a desk?”

  “I have. Why?”

  “Cut the legs off it. Now,” she screamed.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, get the damn legs off it.”

  “Grace, this is enough. Stop.”

  “I can’t, Robert, there isn’t much time. It might be too late already.”

  “Alright, I’ll cut the legs off the desk but you are going to tell me what is going on first.”

  Blind with panic she grabbed a pen but he caught her hand and held it steady.

  “Grace, tell me what you are doing.”

  “Just let me go, please,” she said, struggling to extract her hand from his.

  He shook his head seriously. “Not until you tell me what you are doing. Now give me the pen and start at the beginning.”

  Her hand trembled as she released the pen.

  “Thank you,” he said, setting the pen on the floor beside him. “Now tell me what you were going to write and to whom?”

  “A letter, Robert, I need to write a letter to myself.”

  “And how is this going to help Jenny?”

  “Well it won’t directly help her but it will lead to something that will help her,” she said, falling over her words as she raced to finish the explanation.

  “I’m not following you, Grace. Start at the beginning, please.”

  With much reluctance she told him about the let
ter she had found on the back of the portrait in her hotel room and how his desk had come to belong to Kate because she had fallen in love with the idea that Robert had commissioned the making of the desk specifically for her.

  “If you don’t make that desk appear to have been made for me then Kate will not buy it and the future will be altered. I was meant to come here. I see that now but I also know that we must not change what should happen in my time. You must write a note with the exact measurements of your desk and it must appear as though you had it made for your wife.

  He smiled a broad slightly cheeky smile and she shot him a look of disapproval.

  “What are you smiling about? This isn’t funny.”

  “I know it’s not funny, but you have twice answered a question you said you should not.”

  “What?”

  “You will be my wife?”

  She clapped her hand hard over her mouth realizing with horror what she had done.

  He moved her hand slowly from her mouth and gently kissed her lips.

  “You haven’t changed anything. I knew from the first moment I saw you that you would be my wife.”

  Her head spun in an ever tighter vortex of confusion, the only coherent thought being that she needed to help her daughter.

  “You are right and I’m sorry but I can’t think about it now. I have to help Jenny.”

  He nodded, handing the pen back to her. She took it from him and began to write, her hand darting furiously across the canvass. When she was done he placed the portrait back on the wall above the fireplace.

  “Is that it?”

  “No, please pass me my cell?”

  One dark brow quirked in question.

  “That... thing over there on the bed.”

  She took the cell off him and ran her fingers over the touch screen, then lifted it to her mouth and began to speak.

  “Harry, this is Grace and I need your help. My daughter is in trouble. Please, Harry, you’ve got to find her? She lives at 114 Monnies End, Clowne, Derbyshire and her name is Jenny.

  “The details for my bank account are in my hotel room. Use the money as you see fit. When you find Jenny, please give her this cross. She will know it is from me and understand its significance,” Grace paused and tapped the cell against her top lip. “Harry, tell her that I love her.”

  Grace lifted her hands to the back of her neck and unclipped the chain. She watched it as it dropped neatly into the palm of her hand.

  “Robert do you have a metal box?”

  “I do,” he said, disappearing from the room, to return a few minutes later. He laid the box on the floor in front of her, along with a small leather pouch. She looked up at him quizzically.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just a little something to help my future nephew through life.”

  Grace gently untied the leather thongs and pulled the pouch open. She gaped in amazement at the shining gold coins.

  “Robert there’s a fortune here.”

  “Only a small one, assuming gold still has a value in your time.”

  “Oh yes, gold still has a value in my time,” she said, weighing the heavy coins in the palm of her hand.

  “I take it you have a way of getting this... cell to Harry?”

  Grace opened the lid of the metal box and placed the cell phone, the silver cross and the leather pouch into the box.

  “I do,” she said, routing through the backpack again.

  “What are you looking for now?”

  “My purse. Jenny will need my bank card to get access to the funds in my account.”

  “If you have no idea how you moved nearly four hundred years in time, how are you going to move this box?” he asked, frowning down on her.

  “Yes, that is easier than it sounds. We need to go back to the post house.”

  “The post house?”

  “Yup.”

  “Not now, surely?” he said, casting a disapproving eye at her.

  She nodded solemnly. “Yes, please?”

  “Grace it’s the dead of night. The snow is knee deep and still falling and you have no coat. Can’t this wait until the morning?”

  “No, Robert it really can’t. I will go on my own if I have to, but this has to be done now.”

  A low guttural groan emanated from his throat as he pulled a cotton shirt over his head.

  “It won’t take long, I promise,” she said, wrestling herself into the borrowed gown.

  “Exactly why does it have to be the post house?”

  “Because in the letter I have just written on the back of your portrait I told myself to tell Harry to look under the floorboards in the post house.”

  “I see,” he said, as understanding started to take hold. “You are putting these things somewhere for Harry to find in the future.”

  She nodded excitedly. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Couldn’t you have told Harry to look under the floorboards in this house?”

  “No, because I’ve already given him the message.”

  “I see. We’d better go then,” he said, handing her an oversized black coat.

  “I can’t take your coat.”

  “You can and you will. I have another one,” he said, as they made their way through the main living room downstairs.

  “Robert, wait,” she said, opening a cabinet and removing a glass bottle.

  “From what you’ve said, Harry can do without any more whisky,” he said, stopping beside her.

  Grace pulled the cork from the neck of the bottle.

  “It’s not for Harry,” she said, lifting the whisky to her mouth and drinking deeply from the bottle.

  “Steady, girl,” he said, lifting his hand to take the bottle from her.

  She gasped and shuddered as the liquid slid down the back of her throat.

  “It was for me,” she finished.

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  “Funny,” she said, smiling gently to herself.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Harry used to call me, girl,” she said, hooking her arms into the long black coat.

  Robert chuckled to himself as he watched her move clumsily toward the door. The coat hung heavily around her shoulders, her arms lost in the sleeves and her small frame drowned by the thick cloth.

  “You look ridiculous,” he said, trying to suppress a laugh.

  She shot him an angry look but it did nothing to suppress the laughter building inside him. Unable to help himself he put his arms out and drew her into an affectionate hug.

  “I shouldn’t have laughed at you. I’m sorry,” he said, trying to sound serious.

  “Let’s just go,” Grace snapped back.

  They made their way through the darkened city. The snow still lay deep underfoot and Grace struggled with the added weight of the coat on top of her dress, but she was grateful for its addition nonetheless. The night air was bitter. Her eyes watered and her cheeks stung, but the only thought she had was for her daughter.

  Robert slid the key into the lock and turned it. The door pushed silently open into the main room of the posting house. They fumbled their way toward the bar, looking for an oil lamp. Grace stared in shocked silence as Robert flicked the lighter and brought the flame to the wick of a lamp. The light guided them to the small room off what would be the kitchen. Robert placed the lamp on an oak table and looked curiously at the floor.

  “How can you be sure no one will find this before Harry does?”

  “I can’t,” she said, simply.

  “So you don’t know for sure that he is going to get this?”

  “No. I left him before he lifted the floorboards,” she paused thoughtfully, “I’m not sure what would have happened if I’d stayed. On one hand, I would have known for sure that the box was still there. On the other hand... I would probably have headed straight back to Jack had I known Jenny was in trouble.”

  He frowned curiously at her. “Tell me, Grace. Your cell, could it exist in two times?
”

  “I don’t think so... at least I can’t see how it could.”

  “So perhaps it is a good thing you didn’t stay and watch Harry lift the boards.”

  “Perhaps, but now I will never know if Harry will get this box.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  “How?”

  “We leave nothing under these floorboards.”

  “That’s a great idea,” she said, sardonically, “Absolutely bloody great. So I get to know for sure that Harry never finds anything there.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And how exactly is that meant to help Jenny,” she snapped.

  “We’re going back to the house.”

  “No, Robert, we can’t. I’ve got to get this message to Harry.”

  “We will.”

  “But he is expecting it to be here.”

  “Am I right in saying that it doesn’t matter where he finds it?”

  “Well... I guess it doesn’t matter, just so long as he gets it. But, he won’t know to look anywhere else for it.”

  “He doesn’t have to.”

  “You aren’t making any sense, Robert and we’re wasting time. Please, just help me lift the floorboards?”

  “No, we’re not lifting anything. Trust me, Grace. Harry will get your message.”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  “No, you don’t,” he said, with all seriousness.

  They made the walk back to the house in silence. Dawn was breaking and the city rose around them. Grace pushed the heavy weave of the coat aside and gathered the sodden skirts of her gown in her hands in an attempt to speed up their journey but progress was still slow. Robert walked steadily beside her, matching her pace. It made her think of Jack and how he would charge off ahead of her and Jenny whenever they were out together. He believed it was the woman’s place to walk behind her husband. In truth the man had walked so fast that the two of them had often found themselves running behind him in their attempt to keep up. Yet here was a man, who should see her as inferior, yet he chose to walk steadily beside her.

  His heart broke for the woman beside him. He understood her pain and was wise enough to know that there was little he could do to ease it. Time, he assumed would be the most efficient healer. But he doubted she would ever recover fully from the loss of her daughter. His fists clenched at the thought of the man who had forced her to leave her daughter. They were common enough; weak in nature and bullies at heart, he despised such characters. But for now there was the more pressing issue of her daughter. He was fairly confident he had devised a plan that would ensure the timely delivery of Grace’s message.