His shoes were battered white leather. She had heard of white leather but had never actually seen it because of the cost. Elaborate stitching intricately wove through the leather and laces that threaded through holes. An unusual substance coated the bottom of the shoes. The letters on his footwear spelled out NIKE. The Goddess of Victory? Had someone sent her a champion?
A champion was what she needed. She could no longer handle Flynn on her own. What she wouldn’t give for a tenth of the power she had once had, anything to control the helplessness that roiled in her gut. She would wake the stranger and find out who had sent him. Perhaps powerful allies in the fae world had heard her pleas. She leaned over to touch his shoulder and immediately jumped back.
’Tis a hoax. Flynn has sent him. He’s from elsewhere, an enchantment. His garments are strange. Prepare for the worst.
She needed a weapon. There were knives on the table, but she didn’t know yet if she would need to actually kill him. Stephen had other weapons, but they were all in the lonely, silent room behind her. She had not allowed herself to go in there yet. She grabbed the skillet laying at the edge of the hearth which was heavy and familiar.
She hefted it in her hand. She could not stand and wait for the enchantment to wear off. Some enchantments lasted weeks, months, even years. If this man planned to be in her house for that long, she would rather he be awake and of some use.
She kicked out with her bare foot and struck him in his blue-covered leg. He mumbled something and rolled over on the hard floor, moving his arm to cradle his head. His odd blue breeches molded to his skin. It disturbed and pleased her at the same time and left nothing to the imagination. She hadn’t been with a man in this human life, but she had many memories of what lay hidden beneath a man’s breeches. This one looked like he had more than enough to satisfy any woman. She circled his body and let her eyes linger on every part of him. Aye, definitely pleasing.
She leaned down, reaching to brush the hair from his face, but bolted upright.
Don’t touch him. Remember the others.
Surely no harm could come to him with one touch. The desire to put her hand on his arm burned inside of her. Beneath his sleeves, his arms rippled with muscle, and light brown hair peeked from beneath the cuff at his wrist. She wanted to see what the snowy white cloth of his shirt concealed and tug at the curious little device that held his breeches closed. The metallic clasp intrigued her, and she wanted to know whether the bulge was real or a part of his clothing. If she lifted that little tab, it looked like it might slide on some kind of groove, and when it parted she would have a clear view of— Oh, what thoughts floated through her head? She couldn’t risk a man’s life to satisfy her own curiosity.
The little voice in her head seemed to think it worth the risk.
You don’t know him, Arleigh. He’ll ne’er know. Run your fingers across that blue cloth, lift that little tab and touch what you like. And if he’s a cause to die because you touched him, so be it. You didn’t invite him here. But if he lives and you’ve determined every inch of him is real, you can wake him and—
No, no, no, that could never happen. The man sighed and snuggled into his arm. He looked so peaceful, so content and, for some reason, it irritated her. She kicked out again, and this time her foot connected with his shoulder.
“Stop it, Charity,” he mumbled. “It’s Saturday.”
“Oh!” Arleigh cried. “Wake up!”
She kicked him again, and the man jerked and sat up, his hands smacking against his forehead. He moaned for several moments, then pulled his hands away from his face and looked around the room, squinting in the pre-dawn gloom. In the glow of the fire, his eyes were a beautiful, warm shade of brown—friendly, curious, and very charming.
She blinked then swallowed thickly. Heat blazed through her body as something at the edge of her consciousness nipped and gnawed at her memories. A drop of sweat slipped between her breasts. There was something in his eyes, something that made her want to swoon. She clenched her hand tighter around the skillet handle.
This man was trouble.
He gave her a lopsided smile. “Hi. I had the most incredible dream. I think you were in it.”
When he started to rise, she hit him over the head with the skillet, and he dropped to the ground.
“What an odd champion,” she muttered.
Chapter 7
Ryder rubbed the top of his head and struggled to his knees. He shook his head, trying to clear away the fog, but made it worse. Little white dots of light flashed at the edges of his eyes. “Was that really necessary? I’m not here to hurt you. Christ, my head hurts. Got any aspirin?”
The woman backed up a step. Ryder managed to get to his feet, but the floor swayed slightly and he nearly lost his balance. She reached out to steady him but the moment her fingers touched his arm, she yanked back her hand like she’d been burned.
“This isn’t exactly how I envisioned our first meeting,” Ryder said. “When I saw you the night of the shotgun blast and later sitting at…” He glanced behind him, and the sudden movement made him woozy. “…this very table, I was hoping you’d throw yourself into my arms.”
The woman’s face changed. The puzzled look, mixed with a little fear, dissolved. He had said the wrong thing. Anger now glittered in her eyes. If looks could kill, this would be the one. He had pissed her off.
This is going to be interesting.
She sputtered for a moment, unable to form a coherent sentence. He wasn’t surprised. He felt the same way.
“’Tis why you look so familiar. You’ve been to this cottage? You’ve been watching me?”
Red hair. Creamy skin. She tried to disguise it, but he discovered he hadn’t been wrong about that lilt, and now the infamous Irish temper reared its ugly head. He’d seen the spectacle before in his three harpy sisters, but this woman might have been the inventor. She certainly looked the part. Her hair practically spit fire.
She rampaged up and down the plank floor, swinging the frying pan like a tennis racquet. Ryder ignored the temper tantrum. Perfection. He now had to convince her they had a date with destiny. He wanted to grab her and convince her now, but he thought she might hit him again. He ran his hands through his hair and felt a huge bump on the top of his head.
“I’m not really sure what’s going on, but I have a bitch of a headache. Now, I might have a concussion, which I don’t need. I’m having a hard enough time with the fact that this is all real, that you’re real.”
The woman stopped dead in her tracks. She peeked at him through the web of fiery hair. Anxiety shadowed her glance now. What a quick change artist she was.
“You think I’m not real?”
“Could be another hallucination or a dream. Maybe even a Jack coma. I’ve been drinking a little too much lately. One minute I’m standing in front of my desk and the next, bam!” She jumped. “I’m lying in my own study, being whacked on the head with a frying pan. Except it isn’t really my study, is it?”
“’Twas ne’er your study,” she said with a funny look. “Whatever that could be. You think you’re dreaming?”
“I must be. Maybe if I touch you.” He reached toward her, and she scooted away.
“Don’t you dare!”
“I need to know if you’re real. Beautiful women don’t appear out of nowhere unless I’m drinking. I’m not that lucky. I actually did have a couple drinks but—”
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“Hell yeah.”
She nudged a little closer to him. He had the feeling if he moved a muscle she would dart away, but the few inches of movement gave him hope. He could tame this little wildcat inch by inch. She was worth the investment. She peeked at him again through the riot of curls.
“Do you find me irresistible?”
“You’re definitely hot.”
“I don’t understand a thing you say,” she said, swinging the skillet/weapon/tennis racquet. “I’m asking you a simple question.”
Ryder took a step backward. “Didn’t I give a simple answer?”
She hefted the skillet in her hand. “I’m going to be using this on you again. Stop talking nonsense.”
Ryder held up his hands. “I could probably think better if you’d stop hitting me.”
The girl glanced at the skillet, sighed and lowered her weapon. “Aye, true enough. ’Tis sorry I am.”
“I wish I had my laptop. We could search for spells, or time travel, or pixie dust. We could go to www.I’m-trapped-in-the-past.com and see what pops up.”
“What are you talking about?”
He frowned, his glance roaming the room. A veritable museum dedicated to life in the early Colonial days. Not an electrical outlet anywhere. No heating ducts. Oh, yes, this would be a swell time.
“Scratch that idea. You don’t have any electricity, and the battery would never last. Do you have any Jack?”
“Jack Kensington? Do you know him? If you need—”
“No, I don’t know him.”
“Then which Jack are you talking about?” she huffed.
“What do you know about witchcraft? Hopefully something, ’cause I’m out of ideas. Did you bring me here? Or did the girl do it? I sure hope someone knows what’s going on.”
The woman peered at him, her eyes slits of hard emerald. “Are you mad then? ’Tis enough trouble I have without that.”
“No, I’m not mad. At least I don’t think so. Probably soon though.”
He offered her a smile, but she wasn’t buying it. He was trying to converse, really trying, but the only thoughts in his head seemed to revolve around her. A definite need burned inside of him. Touch her. Kiss her. Make sure she’s real. But she looked ready to jump out of her skin, and one move toward her might result in more damage to his skull. So instead of doing what he really wanted—touching her—Ryder moved around the room, touching everything else.
It seemed like his cottage, but different. The hearth was newly masoned, the wood pristine. He rubbed his hand across the intricate carvings and over the rough bricks. Stephen Caindale had been a master craftsman. He opened the cupboards, but his fiddle, flute, books, papers, everything had vanished. In their place were wooden bowls, spoons, jars of spices, and things he didn’t recognize, some of it very unappetizing. He realized, after ten years of studying history, he had been totally ignorant of what life had been like. He thought he had been prepared.
“What an idiot I am,” he mumbled, and the girl nodded enthusiastically. “I should have studied more. What kind of teacher am I? I don’t know shit.” She gave him a funny look, but he was getting used to her funny looks.
His leather sofa had absconded. Ditto the mahogany desk, the bookshelves, and antiques he had collected over the years. The irregular planks of the floor lay with exacting precision, and though they were rough and untreated, he recognized them as his own. The more he examined his surroundings, the more he admired Stephen Caindale.
The large table flanked by benches dominated half of the room. A work table leaned next to the hearth, and a cabinet holding a washtub stood nearby. A spinning wheel now occupied one corner, but dust coated it. Two chairs sat near the windows. One looked uncomfortable, and the other was a rocker. He gave it a tentative nudge, and it moved with an annoying squeak.
“Have to take care of that.”
A small table nestled between the chairs, piled with mending in a tidy little stack, a sewing basket, some pieces of parchment, a quill, and a solitary book. One book? How did these people survive? He picked it up and ran his fingers across The Bible’s leather cover. He turned to her.
“You don’t read much, do you?”
“Of course I can read!”
He held up his hand. “No, wait, sorry, I meant there’s only one book. The printing press has been invented, right? What year is this?”
“I knew it!” she cried. “Could my life get any worse? You are mad!”
“Not yet,” Ryder reminded her. “Just tell me what year it is.”
She huffed, rolling her gorgeous green eyes. “’Tis the Year of Our Lord Sixteen Hundred and Thirty Nine.” She took his breath away, and his concentration level bottomed out. “I don’t know much about this printing press you speak of, but, aye, ’tis sure I am there is one. Probably not here though.”
Ryder tried to focus. “So you should be able to buy books.”
“We can’t afford books.” She flashed him that look again, the cute one that implied insanity might be his middle name. “Only the wealthy can obtain them in Jamestown.”
“Oh, Jamestown, right. I keep forgetting I’m actually home. I know this. Okay, 1639.” He ticked off the list on his fingers. “So, I’ve managed to miss the typhoid epidemic, the starving times, the Indian wars. I can’t think of anything else especially horrible, except the fires, and they come much later. Anything else coming up that you know of?”
“Mysterious disappearances?” She tapped the skillet against her thigh and her eyebrows rose.
He shook his finger at her. “You’re quite funny. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“Not recently.” She blew out a tired breath. “What did you say about fires? Are you a seer, then? ’Tis a dangerous thing to be in this colony.”
“You mean a psychic? No, the Trinity got all the power. I got jack. Speaking of the Trinity, where are the little girls? Do you know they look exactly like my sisters?”
The way she looked at him made him feel a little crazy, but she was cute as hell. “The girls?”
“I know they have to be here somewhere. It’s kind of early for chores, right? Still sleeping?”
The woman watched him very carefully, her fist gripping the skillet. He stayed a safe distance away. She squinted, and the look would have scared him if she hadn’t been such a tiny thing. She wasn’t any bigger than Charity.
“How do you know about the lasses? Have you been watching them, as well?”
Ryder drew back. “Christ, don’t say stuff like that! I’m a freaking teacher. Are you trying to get me fired? Do I look like that kind of guy to you?”
“’Tis unsure I am what kind of…guy, did you say? Did Cameron Flynn send you here?”
Ryder cocked his head. “The name’s kind of familiar, but no. I have no idea how I got here. But the oldest girl said she needed me.”
“So the sisters contacted you? How?”
Ryder laughed. “It was all a little creepy. I started seeing things and questioned my sanity because of the stress. My dad died recently, and we’ve had some trouble at home. The girls have been so sad, and I've been drinking a little too much, and—” Her murderous stare focused his thoughts. “Sorry, anyway, when the little Faith-clone looked at me, I felt a little better. So I’m here now, and the two of us can protect the girls and get to know each other—”
She held up the skillet. “I’ll be using this again if—”
“I haven’t done anything!”
“You’re annoying me,” she said. “’Tis simple we need. Who are you? What is your name?”
What would she do if he gathered her face in his hands and kissed her? He imagined she would be soft against him and would melt against his body. He wanted to get straight to business and show the woman why he was really there, but she still tapped the skillet against her thigh. Her eyes were hard green stones. What had she asked him? Oh, yeah, something simple.
“Kendall. My name is Ryder Kendall.”
“So you’re a Caindale?”
“No, Kendall. Well, yes, Caindale. We changed the spelling.”
The woman cocked her hip and blew out another exasperated breath. She was a huffy little thing. “The spelling? Knowing how to write is rare, spelling rarer still. What possible difference would the spelling make?”
“Someone liked it better, I guess.”
“You’re a very odd man. Are you related to Stephen?”
“Stephen? Yes, I…”
How old was Stephen? Should you be a brother? A long lo
st son? Do you want to be related to Stephen? Was he a mass murderer, a child abuser, a rapist? The answer is D, none of the above. This woman saw a future with him, so Caindale had to be an okay guy.
He took a shot, hoping he hit the target. “Of course I’m related to Stephen. I’m his brother.”
She tapped her bare foot against the floor. Her gaze swept across his face, scrunching with displeasure, lingering on the hair that fell into his eyes. Okay, he needed a haircut, but at least it was clean, and it probably wouldn’t stay that way long. Her glance roamed over his shoulders, down his chest, and fell to the bulge in his jeans. He had no control over his dick. It had been hard since he woke up and had a mind of its own. Her glance shot back to his face, and he loved the flush that spread over her face. She pursed her lips in an obvious effort to cover her embarrassment. Her clipped tone chilled him a little, but it was damn cute with that accent.
“Do you know about Stephen? What happened to him?”
“Not exactly, but I’m guessing the bundle I saw didn’t hold Christmas presents. Things around here seemed pretty grim.”
He decided not to mention the banshee. He thought she might be coming around.
She sidled a little closer and seemed to be trying to smell him. Her eyes fluttered closed for the briefest of moments. “You look so familiar. Have I seen you before?”
“The visions seemed to be one-way. I don’t think we’ve met in person because I’d sure remember it. You’re not a lady a man would forget.”
He smiled at her. For the first time, she offered a tentative smile in return and became even more beautiful. So small, pretty, perfect. She placed the skillet on the table but didn’t move far from it.
“’Tis odd Stephen ne’er spoke of you.”
“Black sheep,” Ryder said with a wink.
“I still think you might be mad.”
“A distinct possibility.”
Carlton, Amber - Trinity Magic (Siren Publishing Romance) Page 7
