Timeless (A Time Travel Romance)
Page 18
Robyn had a temper to match her bright red hair. Her red hair had gone missing, but her temper was fully present, and in great functioning order. “Why you arrogant, self-important, pompous hypocrite,” she exploded. “If you didn’t have such a good opinion of yourself, you might have noticed that you’re not being offered my body or my heart, or any other part of me, for that matter.”
William laughed mockingly. “Am I not?” He walked across the room and reached out his index finger, running it lightly from her throat to the center of her breasts. “If these luscious breasts of yours are not an offer, then I would like to know why your nipples are peeping out so enticingly from behind that veil of lace fichu. That was a clever idea, my lady. A hint of mystery is so much more appealing than a blatant display of your charms.”
“That lace isn’t there to entice you!” Robyn said furiously. “It’s there because the neckline of this dress is too low!”
“Not too low, my lady. Let us say rather the perfect height for its purpose.” Before she had any idea what he intended, William was running his fingers along the inside of her velvet-trimmed neckline, pushing gently downward. Lace and gown immediately parted company and Robyn’s breasts sprang free.
For a moment neither of them moved, then William very slowly rasped his thumb across the tip of each nipple. “My compliments, my lady. As I said, the perfect height for its purpose.”
Robyn wanted to tell him to go away, to stop making physical overtures that were entirely repugnant to her, but when she opened her mouth, the only sound that came out was a strangled gasp. She turned her head away, chagrined and angry, but William cupped her chin and forced her to look up at him.
“You offered, my lady, and I am taking. We neither of us have to like our bargain, but by God, you will look at me as we make the exchange. You will not fantasize that it is my brother who caresses you.”
“I’m not thinking about your brother! Stop it, William! I... want... you... to... stop.”
His thumb circled first one nipple, then the other, and all the time he stared deep into her eyes, watching her with cynical amusement, watching her desire intensify into full-scale arousal. “Say that again, my lady, and I may believe you, which would disappoint us both.”
Robyn balled her hands into fists, as if that way she could regain her vanishing willpower. She drew in a deep breath. “I want you to stop touching me, right now this minute. Please, William.”
The agonizing, wonderful caresses ceased with humiliating promptness. He stepped away from her, sweeping at once into an elaborate and ironic bow. “When next I can be of service in one of your ladyship’s games, pray do not hesitate to summon me.” He held up the lace fichu and smiled mockingly. “In the meantime, I believe I shall keep this, my lady. A fond memento of an evening that ended all too soon. Too soon for both of us, I’ll wager.”
Robyn finally regained her voice. “Go to hell,” she said.
Chapter 9
Dusk was falling; the gardeners and outside laborers had long since packed away their tools. The inside servants were busy clearing away dinner or eating their own meal, and Robyn had seen William retreat to his library as soon as dinner ended. She drew in a deep breath. Time to leave. Escape from Starke Manor was never going to be easier than this.
The pretense that she was dreaming had been proving harder to maintain with every passing day. Yesterday, after William left her, Robyn had paced her bedroom for hours trying to make sense of a situation that defied reason. In the aftermath of William’s kiss, her entire body had trembled with a potent mixture of frustration, fear, anger, and desire, creating a jumble of feelings too powerful to ignore. She acknowledged, finally, that she could no longer explain what was happening to her in terms of a dream. The illusion of a prosperous eighteenth-century manor house was too complete. The people of Starke—quite simply—were too real.
But if she wasn’t dreaming, then what was happening to her? Robyn paced her room some more. She kicked the furniture, the shiny new eighteenth-century furniture. She cried, even prayed a little. In the end, she was left with no choice but to accept the impossible truth staring her in the face. If she wasn’t dreaming, then she was truly living the life of Lady Arabella Bowleigh, wife of the Baron Starke, in the year of our Lord, 1746. And since wishing herself back into the twenty-first century had achieved nothing, it seemed that if she wanted to return to her own time, her own life, and her own body, she would have to take a more active role in catapulting herself back into the lost world of Robyn Delaney.
Her plan for escape was simple, and she hoped that simplicity was in its favor. The transfer of her consciousness into Lady Arabella’s body seemed to have taken place right after she was shot in the parking lot of Starke Manor. The last thing she remembered was pitching forward onto the hard ground in a pool of blood, a few feet from the ancient, wrought-iron gates that marked the entrance to the Starke Manor Hotel. By a bizarre twist of fate, it seemed that Lady Arabella had fallen from her carriage and pitched forward onto the ground in the same spot, at the same time—although centuries earlier. Logically, if logic was the word to use, Robyn could only conclude that a return to the precise place where she and Lady Arabella had both suffered head injuries was the course of action most likely to work a little reverse magic. She was even willing to bang her head on the ground again if unconsciousness was what it would take to bring about a transfer through time into her own body.
Baby Zach presented the only major snag in her planning, because she wasn’t willing to leave him behind. Robyn had worried about the baby all day, but she had no real choice. Since she wasn’t prepared to be separated from him, she would have to bring him with her, and there was no point in worrying about how his presence would affect her plans. No point, either, in worrying about how William would feel when he discovered that his wife and infant son had disappeared from the face of the earth.
She glanced down and checked the knots of the makeshift linen sling that held baby Zach nestled against her ribs. Her handiwork seemed secure, and Zach was sleeping peacefully, his fists scrunched into soft little balls against his face. She couldn’t resist giving him a quick kiss. Then, mouth dry, heart pounding, she slid open the heavy sash window, recoiling guiltily when the cords let out a raucous screech.
She huddled against the wall, palms pressed against the rough plaster, waiting to be discovered. No one came. The bustle of the house remained faint and distant, and her heartbeat slowly returned to normal. William had issued orders that she was not to leave the house, but nobody expected her to disobey those orders and she wasn’t guarded, or even closely watched.
She straddled the broad windowsill, hunching protectively over Zach’s tiny body. Stretching her legs to their limits left her toes dangling at least three feet above the grassy mound outside the window. The air felt chill and dank, but the temperature hovered above freezing so the ground wasn’t too hard. When she jumped, she would get muddy, but she wouldn’t kill herself or the baby. Drawing another deep breath, she tightened her fur-lined cloak around Zach, hitched up her cumbersome skirts, and jumped out of the window.
She landed with more force than she’d expected and toppled onto her knees, unbalanced by the weight of the baby. The impact of the fall snatched her breath away and made Zach whimper, but neither of them was badly hurt. She scrambled to her feet and broke into a run. She was on the north side of the manor, and the entrance gates faced southeast, which meant that she needed to turn right at the first comer. The wind, salt-tanged and chill, sliced into her face with knife-edge sharpness, blowing the drizzle of misty rain against her cheeks. Her sense of urgency was so great that she scarcely felt either wind or rain. Holding her cloak over Zach’s face, she fled across the grassy knoll, keeping to the shadow of trees and bushes. She was so close to freedom, she couldn’t afford to have William see her now.
She had barely run three hundred yards when she had to double over to cut the stitch in her side. Her breath came in great shu
ddering gasps, and she felt as exhausted as if she’d attempted a ten-mile race. Her mind knew how to move her limbs and muscles in rhythmic, economical strides, but Lady Arabella’s body had apparently never before been asked to move so fast or so far. Stumbling and gasping, Robyn made her way toward the shelter of a cluster of outbuildings.
She leaned against the damp stone wall, wondering if Lady Arabella’s out-of-condition body was going to throw up from the minor exertion of running less than a half mile. Gradually the roaring in her ears faded and she realized she could hear horses snorting and neighing on the other side of the wall. She huddled under the thatched eaves, trying to figure out which would be the shortest and least wet route to the front gates. To her dismay, she realized that she had somehow taken a wrong turning. Instead of skirting the manor and ending up by the front gates, she had rounded a courtyard and ended up at the back of the house, near the stables.
She was on the point of unlatching the stable door and seeking a few moments of warmth and dryness when she was stopped by the sound of gruff male voices. Creeping to a lead-paned window, she peered inside. A young lad, clad in the homespun, eighteenth-century garments she’d come to expect, was sitting on an upturned keg, polishing harness. An older man lounged comfortably on a pile of hay, covered with sacking. Belching richly after a long swallow from the wooden mug he held, the older man wiped foam from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“ ‘Tis good news about the Dalrymples, lad, and that’s a fact.” His voice carried clearly through a crack in the lead pane window.
“Aye. Happen they had some gold put by that none o’ us did know aught of.”
The old man banged his mug against his thigh in derision. “They Dalrymples don’t have a penny to scratch with. You knows that better ‘n most, my lad. You’d ‘a’ bin in a pretty pickle if ‘is lordship ‘adn’t taken you on last winter. Couldn’t even feed you, they Dalrymples.”
“That’s true, I reckon. They never had no money, and what little bit o’ plate and jewels they still ‘ad, they gave over to the Stuarts two year an’ more past. Eatin’ their dinners from wooden bowls they be. Not a silver fork or plate left in the ‘ouse.”
The old man spat his disgust. “A curse on all princes, that’s what I do say. ‘Specially Stuart princes from across the water.”
The stable lad stopped polishing for a moment. “They do say as ‘ow he’s a wonderfully ‘andsome fellow, the Stuart prince. Bonnie Prince Charlie, the young master did call him.”
“Aye, so ‘e did, and that proves lords are bigger fools than the rest of us. The roof were near fallin’ in round his ‘ead, and what does young Dalrymple do? He ups and rides off to fight for some furrin prince what claims God wants ‘im to be King o’ England.”
“You shouldn’t speak ill o’ the dead, uncle. Remember the young master got hisself killed a-fightin’ for the prince.”
“Hah! More fool him.”
“I dunno ‘bout that. I do reckon Stuarts have a better right to be kings of England than they Hanoverian upstarts. Why, the old King couldn’t speak a word of plain English, only German gibble-gabble, and this new un’ ain’t much better. By my tellin’, King George and his brood o’ Germans be more furrin than the Stuart prince if you want the truth of it.
“Shh!” The old man shook his head. “Don’t ‘ee have the sense of a peahen, lad? If one o’ Captain Bretton’s men hears such talk, you’ll be clapped up in jail. The sooner you learns to be a loyal servant of ‘Is Majesty, King George the Second, the better. ‘Tain’t never worth risking your life for kings and princes. Let they kill and fight each other.”
“Bain’t nobody here to listen but us,” the lad said, shrugging. “Tell me, uncle, if the Dalrymples didn’t ‘ave the money to pay that fine theirselves, who paid it for them?”
“That’s a right good question, that is.”
“ ‘Tis my belief they was given the money by the same person what’s hiding Master Zachary.”
The old man snorted. “And who might that be, pray tell? ‘Tain’t nobody from these parts as has money to spare, ‘ceps mebbe Richard Farleigh, and he’s King George’s man from ‘is arse to ‘is elbow.”
“True enough.” The stable lad spat on a brass buckle and rubbed vigorously. “Richard Farleigh and the master here, they make a matched set, don’t they? Prim as a pair o’ parsons. Abide by the law. Obey the established king. Keep out o’ trouble. Not like Master Zachary—”
“You watch your mouth, my lad. We should all be grateful ‘is lordship don’t mix and meddle in pol’ticks. Fine fettle we’d be in if ‘is lordship had declared for Bonnie Prince Charlie. And as for Master Zachary, we don’ even know if he do be alive, save that Captain Bretton do keep sniffin’ round the Manor, makin’ life difficult for ‘is lordship and ‘onest folks like us. I don’ hold with rebellions, but I don’ hold with what Captain Bretton and his dragoons is do-in’ neither. Vicious man that captain is, and I wish ‘im out o’ here.”
“Do you think Master Zachary is alive, uncle?”
“Better you don’t ask questions, lad. That there Dook o’ Cumberland, he’s a-waiting to snatch honest folks’ land at the first hint o’ treason, and Captain Bretton’s waitin’ to help ‘im. ‘Is lordship could lose the Manor quick as a wink if he don’t watch out for hisself. Master Zachary were seen in the thick o’ battle, and that’s enough to make ‘is lordship suspect, they being brothers an’ all.”
“Aye, Master Zachary fought like ten men I did hear tell.” The stable lad set aside the buckle and reached for a stirrup. “Culloden, that’s where they fought their last battle. Funny old name, that is.”
“ ‘Tis Scottish, look you. Fearful strange names you find up in they wild parts up to the north.”
“Any road, wherever they fought, Master Zachary, he covered hisself with glory.”
The old man snorted. “You cain’t cover yourself with glory when you be fighting on the wrong side.”
“Nay, uncle, the Stuart prince were never the wrong side.”
“He lost the battle,” the old man said dryly. “That means he were the wrong side.” He pulled himself to his feet and headed toward a ladder. “Well, I’m for bed. My bones is aching in this damp. Make sure you douse the lamp, me lad, and hang up all that tack afore you dosses down for the night. ‘Is lordship pays ‘ee ten pound a year. That’s a right good wage. See that you earn it.”
The direction of the wind changed and the rain started to blow in under the thatched eaves of the stable, soaking Robyn’s hair and chilling her bones. But it wasn’t the wind or the damp that made her shiver. It was the conversation she had overheard. Dear God, if ever she had wanted proof of the fact that she wasn’t dreaming, this conversation had provided it. The farther she traveled from the confines of her room, the more she seemed to become trapped in an alternative reality that got progressively more vivid and more alien.
The stable lad hung up the leather girth he’d been cleaning, scratched his head and his armpits, then ambled toward the door. Afraid that she’d be seen, Robyn pulled the hood of her cloak farther over her face and hurried down the path that led away from the stables and Starke Manor toward a copse of trees.
After twenty minutes of walking, she realized that she was hopelessly lost. The trees she had seen were not part of the small ornamental copse at the front of the manor, but rather the edge of a large, dense wood. The path she was following probably skirted the wood, but she wasn’t sure she had the physical strength or the mental stamina to walk around the entire perimeter of what was looking more and more like a small forest. Dusk had given way to winter dark. Clouds covered the stars and the rain had begun to fall in a steady, soaking sheet. Her cloak was sodden and the path was rapidly turning into a puddle-strewn bog that pulled at her shoes and splattered the hem of her gown with dollops of heavy mud. Sensing her discomfort, Zach stirred restlessly in her arms, giving occasional fretful cries to let her know that he wasn’t enjoying his outing one bit.
At the sound of her voice, Zach opened his eyes. In the shadowy light of the cloud-veiled moon, it seemed almost as if he smiled at her, his gaze full of wry sympathy. Then his mouth puckered as he realized he was awake and hungry. His anxious wriggles freed his hands from their shawl, and his flailing fists pummeled his nose. Zach was delighted by the encounter. He latched on to one of his fingers and sucked eagerly.
“You want to eat again?” Robyn asked, unable to resist stroking his soft cheek. “You know what, fella? I think it’s time you and I had a chat about your eating habits. You don’t seem to remember that it’s less than two hours since your last meal.”
Zach tried to turn toward the sound of his mother’s voice. He lost his fist and promptly expressed his frustration with loud, angry cries.
Robyn chuckled. “Okay, no need to yell. I’m open to negotiations if you’re that hungry.” She saw a convenient tree stump and sat down, glad of an excuse to stop a walk that seemed to become momentarily more pointless. The thickness of her fur-lined cape kept out the dampness of the stump and her outer clothing was already so wet that sitting down couldn’t possibly make her any wetter. She loosened the laces at the top of her gown and held Zach against her breast, protected under the tent of her cloak. She stroked the top of his head as he nursed hungrily.
“You and I should read Dr. Spock together,” Robyn murmured. “I think it’s time you learned about the pediatrician-recommended, four-hour feeding schedule.” She rocked back and forth, aware of the absurdity of nursing a baby in the pouring rain, seated on a tree stump, and yet somehow feeling oddly at peace.
She sighed. “Eat up, honey, and then I guess we may as well go home. We’ll try our great escape plan tomorrow, when it’s daylight, and we’re not so likely to get lost. The grounds of this place don’t look anything like the parking lot around the hotel. I’m all disoriented.”