Smiling at the happy tale, Jillian swish-swished down the attic stairs, along the travertine hall, and across the graveled drive to her waiting rental car.
25
· JILLIAN ·
Le Mans, France, 1908
Jillian tumbled into the chill of December, 1908, landing on her backside, mercifully padded by the stacked pleats of her skirt. Immediately she regretted not having grabbed the motoring coat, but it might have led to questions from Everett; she suspected he was the sort of man who would notice what a woman wore. Probably in order to judge her for it.
She stood and brushed bits of grass and dirt from her skirt and then strode free of the wooded area and began searching for Everett.
There were people everywhere. In the grandstands, in the field picnicking on blankets or folding chairs, and of course hovering around the Flyer III. Later, the US Army would rechristen this version the Model A, but the Wrights hadn’t used that name in 1908, so Jillian had to follow suit.
Jillian’s attention was caught by two small boys breaking away from the crowd, giggling as their father—or a big brother, maybe?—chased after them, roaring like a bear, arms stretched overhead. The boys looked about the same age as the ones who were servants to Everett, but these were at least allowed to play, as children should. The man grabbed both boys at the same time and tackled them to the ground, where he tickled them, roaring and declaring half in English, half in French that they tasted good, so good, such delicious little boys.
It was only when the man stood to brush off his jacket, pulling sweets out of his pockets and handing one to each boy, that Jillian realized with a shock it was Everett. That the boys were the same children. She frowned. Everett played games with his servants? They were hugging him now. Well, the littler of the two was pummeling Everett’s belly, swinging a little too wildly for safety, but Everett just laughed, eventually tossing the child into the air while the older boy on the ground cried, “Avion! Avion!” which Jillian knew meant “airplane.” Immediately, Everett switched to flying the older boy over his head while making airplane noises.
She was still trying to figure out what it all meant when the boys whooped and ran toward a grandmotherly figure now approaching them. Everett brushed himself off and greeted the woman.
Jillian opened her mouth to call to Everett, but he was now replying to the boys in English: Oh-ho! They wanted to meet Monsieur Wright, did they?
Feeling as though someone had doused her in cold water, she realized that Everett’s, “Looking for Mr. Right?” line hadn’t been a pick-up line at all. Wright, not Right. Rolling her eyes at herself, she called as loudly as she could.
“Mr. Randolph!”
Everett turned, the smallest of his servants raised perilously in midair. The boy squirmed, and Everett let him down.
“Miss Applegate!” Everett strode toward her.
“I never told you my name,” she said, her brows drawing together in confusion. “Did I?”
Unless Jillian was much mistaken, Everett’s cheeks turned slightly pink. Flushed or not, she’d forgotten how striking his appearance was. Those eyes with their intense Caribbean blue . . . If she had needed to advertise sunglasses or hats or shaving cream, she would’ve hired him on the spot.
“Whether you remember it or not, we have met before,” he said.
“Ri-ight,” murmured Jillian.
She must have introduced herself automatically on her earlier visit, which for her had been two plus weeks ago. For Everett Randolph, only fifteen minutes had passed. Of course he remembered her name, even if the intervening weeks had erased her memory of having given it to him. In any case, it didn’t matter. What mattered was using his peculiar belief that he knew her to her advantage.
“I’d like you to introduce me to Mr. Wright,” she said. Then she added, “If you would be so kind. And I’m in a hurry.”
Without waiting for a response, she started toward the airplane in the middle of the racetrack.
“He’s not there now,” Everett said, catching up to her. “He retired to his work shed a few minutes ago.”
Jillian stopped, frowned, and stared at the crowd around the plane.
“That’s Monsieur Bollée everyone’s talking to over there.”
“I see.” Jillian turned to him. Smiled at him. Wow, was he ever easy on the eyes . . . “In that case,” she said, corralling her thoughts, “would you be so kind as to show me the way to Mr. Wright’s work shed?”
Everett grinned and let out a small laugh. “You’re not in earnest, surely.”
“I am. And I don’t have time to waste.” She checked her pocket watch. Three minutes down. “Will you please introduce me?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He folded his arms, the very picture of someone who wouldn’t dream of something.
Jillian clenched her jaw. This was ridiculous. Everett was ruining her timetable.
“Not now at least,” added Everett. “When he’s purposely left for some peace and quiet.”
“Fine,” said Jillian. She was going to have to go off script. Why on earth had she thought this self-absorbed young man was going to be any help? Her own hands on her hips, Jillian did a quick sweep of the area. Behind them both stood a sizeable barnlike structure.
“Is that Mr. Wright’s work shed?” she asked.
“Yes. But you can’t just go in there—”
Murmuring to herself, Jillian cut Everett off. “Watch me.”
She was on borrowed time. Literally. Time borrowed from space–time, if she understood Khan’s notes, and space–time wasn’t a particularly forgiving entity. Like it or not, she had only twenty-two minutes in which to meet Wright. On the other hand, if she hurried and if Wright was alone, maybe she could do it all in one visit.
Her intended swift departure was impeded by something in the browned weeds hooking to her skirt. She tugged it loose before Mr. Child Labor made an attempt.
Everett spoke. “I’m just trying to save you—”
Jillian whirled on her heel. “Did I ask you to save me?”
A smile wound itself across Everett’s mouth, from one side to the other. It was dead sexy. She’d seen fraternity boys at Cal smile like that. She rolled her eyes and kept walking, muttering under her breath about boys who thought their smiles could stop traffic.
“Listen, I’m sure you’re a mighty important young woman back home,” Everett said, striding after her. “But out here you’re competing with crowned princes and heads of state, and if Wright pays them no heed, well . . . Trust me. He won’t be pleased to be interrupted.”
“He’ll see me, or he won’t,” she said impatiently.
“He won’t.”
“Says you,” she muttered. “What do you know anyway?”
She sounded like a five-year-old. Generations of Applegates were turning over in their graves in response to her bad manners, no doubt including Aunt Beverly. What was it about Everett that got to her like this?
“I know plenty,” said Everett. “I know you’re a wealthy American, probably an heiress, probably used to getting her way with a few bats of her eyelashes.”
She felt a flash of anger and snapped at him. “Then I guess you’ll want to be on your way.”
He was a total jerk, and that was on top of his child labor violations. And as if that wasn’t enough, Everett had made her lose her temper, and Jillian Applegate never lost her temper. She closed her eyes and took a slow breath.
She opened her eyes to find Everett had crossed in front of her, forcibly halting her progress.
His jaw was tight. He shoved his hands in his pockets, a nervous gesture.
“Listen,” he said. “Clearly we got off on the wrong foot. I ask for your pardon. I meant no offense. It’s just likely Mr. Wright will turn you away. Over here, your type is a dime a dozen.”
“My type?” Jillian blinked. If this was Everett Randolph’s best attempt at an apology . . .
“Yes,” replied Everett. “Your type—”
“I don’t need a lecture about my type,” she said. She hated Everett for being so smug. She hated him for being the first to apologize (if it could be called that). She hated him for being so good-looking. She hated him for (probably) being right about interrupting Mr. Wright, thereby demonstrating that he, Everett, employer of the underaged, had better manners than she did.
Slowly, she inhaled. Slowly, exhaled. She reminded herself why she was here.
And then, in a much more regulated tone, she said, “I must ask you to kindly stop pushing your way into what is not your business.”
“Me?” Everett uttered a quick laugh. “I’m not the one about to push my way into the sanctuary of the world’s greatest inventor.”
She felt her temper rising again. She wouldn’t answer him. She would not. But then, as if two decades of repressed bad manners were trying to get out while they had the chance, she muttered, “It’s not interrupting if he agrees to see me.”
Everett’s eyes narrowed. “I’d say the man has earned the right to . . . to privacy. To leisure.”
“Leisure?”
“Yes. Leisure. Rest from accustomed labors.”
“Says the man who employs children,” retorted Jillian. How could Everett stand there preaching to her about leisure?
“Children?”
“You heard me. Your servants. They can’t be more than six or seven. Tickling them and handing out candy does not make up for the exploitative practice of employing them in the first place. Children should be in school, not carrying picnic baskets for someone who is perfectly capable of lifting his own—” Here, Jillian broke off because Everett had laughed again.
“You think this is funny?” she demanded.
“The boys aren’t my servants. I don’t employ so much as a manservant.” He said it a bit stiffly, as though it cost him something to make the admission. “If you want to examine the particulars, I’m their servant, or at least their grandmother’s.”
Jillian stared at him, dumbfounded. Everett was a servant? Conceited, snappy-dressing Everett? Who forced small children to carry things that weighed more than they did?
“You said they were your servants,” she said at last.
“Louis and Louis are cousins. Thanks to Mr. Wright, I work for their grandmother, who is a relation of Léon Bollée. He’s rather important around here, in case you hadn’t heard.” And then, more quietly still, “I’m lucky to have the work.”
“So why on earth did you call them your servants?” Jillian asked, in exasperation.
Everett shrugged. He no longer looked conceited or haughty. He looked . . . self-conscious. “It amuses them. I let them carry my things around at their request. It gives their poor grandmère a rest from their shenanigans.”
Jillian felt her face flushing. “I didn’t know you were joking. I thought . . . I thought you were—”
“You took me for a fellow heir of the titans of industry, no doubt. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but some of us actually leave the nest and make their own lives rather than relying on Daddy for everything.”
He’d said it coolly, but Jillian felt the accusation like a slap in the face. Suddenly she was back in middle school, overhearing students mocking her for having a driver who picked her up on Fridays, mocking her for having stables and having been stupid enough to admit to it out loud. She flushed darkly. She knew what it was to be judged on appearances and not for who she was.
And she’d just done it to Everett. She’d judged him on appearances and drawn the wrong conclusions. She took a shaky breath. This wasn’t middle school. She was an adult now.
“I’m sorry I misjudged you,” she said softly.
“You wouldn’t be the first,” Everett replied. It wasn’t an accusation. It was just an admission. A tired admission that hinted at a past perhaps not so different from her own.
“Listen,” he added. “I’m sorry, too. Sorry for implying . . . all that.” He flicked his hair out of his eyes. Eyes that seemed to pierce hers, to cut through all of the decades and experience that separated them.
In that moment she felt only the ways in which she understood him. She felt as if she knew him. How could she have ever found his gaze cold? It was as warming as summer.
“It’s all right,” she said shyly.
“You must allow me to say it anyway.” He bowed slightly. “Please forgive me.”
She smiled softly. “So long as you forgive me, too.”
Another bow. And then something in his eyes shifted. He examined Jillian from head to foot, frowning all the while. “Say,” he said, “weren’t you wearing that scarf of mine a few minutes ago?”
Jillian felt her throat tightening. “I, um, removed it.” She’d completely forgotten about returning his scarf. It had become something she wore almost constantly at Berkeley on cold days. She felt herself coloring.
Thankfully, Everett didn’t ask further questions about his scarf.
Instead, he smiled softly and asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a nice hot cup of coffee instead of bearding the dragon in his own den? We could start over, you and I, from the top.”
Jillian bit her teeth into her lower lip, a habit her mother deplored. “Honestly that sounds very nice, but I have to speak to Mr. Wright.” She held out her hand. “Friends?” she asked.
A lazy smile appeared on Everett’s face. That dead-sexy smile.
“I reckon we became rather more than mere friends when you planted a kiss on me five years ago.”
Nonetheless, he took her hand and gave a firm shake.
Flushing, Jillian shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I think you must be confusing me with someone else.”
His eyes narrowed, making the dark lashes more prominent than ever. “Never in a thousand years.” He said it with such assurance. “I would never forget those lips. Or those eyes.”
“My eyes?” Jillian laughed nervously. Her eyes were just plain brown. Not even any flecks of color to make them interesting.
“Yes, those eyes. Large and brown, just like a fawn startled whilst eating roses in the garden.”
At this, Jillian emitted a tiny laugh. “You’re a flirt, Mr. Everett Randolph.”
And he was good at it.
“No, ma’am,” he replied. “I merely report the facts.”
“I really am sorry I can’t remember you,” said Jillian. “I’m sure it would have been a very nice kiss—that is, I mean . . .” Her cheeks burned. “I’m sorry. If you’ll please excuse me . . .”
Shaking her head at herself, she turned away and strode to Wilbur Wright’s work shed. She had only eleven minutes in which to carry out her revised plan.
At that moment, the door to the shed swung wide, and out stepped the famous inventor himself, Wilbur Wright. He looked from one to the other of them, his eyes settling on Jillian, narrowing slightly.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” Wright said softly. He placed both hands, one of which held an empty coffee mug, on his hips. “Give me a minute. I recognize you. It will come to me in a minute.” He took a handkerchief-weight cloth from the pocket of his tweed suit and dried the coffee mug in his other hand. “It will come to me,” he said again. His words, like his movements, were slow and deliberate, belonging to a man who did not seem to know the meaning of “hurried.”
Replacing the cloth in a pocket, he extended a hand and spoke. “Miss Applegate from North Carolina, unless I’m much mistaken.”
26
· KHAN ·
Wellesley, Florida, the Present
Khan reentered the twenty-first century swearing a blue streak, breathing hard, and dizzy. On top of this, he thought he might be getting a sinus pressure headache. He stopped swearing long enough to catch his breath.
He had a task: a single, all-important task to be performed immediately and without further complication. He had to haul his tagalong back to 53 BC. Beside him, the tagalong looked as though he was about to be sick. Khan passed him a wastebasket, hoping the m
an had the sense to use it, and then began keying in a new series of instructions for the singularity device. He really should reconfigure the damn thing so that it was possible to change only the time of day without reentering everything else.
One of his ears popped loudly at the exact moment the man at his side retched.
“Really?” snapped Khan. “You couldn’t have used the bucket?” That was one more thing he’d have to clean up. “Come on, come on, come on,” he murmured to the device. Did he have to go through every single screen? The question was rhetorical.
“Servus, ubi sum?”
Where am I? Khan ignored the question.
“Servus!” repeated the man.
“Stop calling me slave,” said Khan, his fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Servus!”
Khan scowled. “I’m not a slave. Servus non sum! Jules Khan sum. Julius Khanus.”
The man blinked his large dark eyes. “Ubi sum?” Where am I?
“In Florida estis,” snapped Khan, hoping that would shut him up.
It did not.
“Qui estis?” demanded the man. Who are you?
“Tace!” Khan remembered the command form of “shut up” very well from his high school Latin class.
At which point the Roman began to speak so rapidly Khan couldn’t understand one word in ten. Not that it mattered; he was almost ready . . . almost.
When he reached for the man’s arm to pull him back onto the platform, however, Khan was most unpleasantly surprised. The Roman grabbed Khan’s arm, twisting it up and behind his back.
Khan yelped, the shrill boyish sound escaping his mouth. Just as suddenly his brain threw warnings to him: Knife. Dagger. Short sword.
There was a sword at his throat.
“Libera me,” whimpered Khan. “Libera me.”
The Roman did not free him. Not at first. Then, there was a sudden twist of his arm and a noise between a pop and a snap, and the Roman was gone, running for the door. He seemed to understand the use of both door handle and bolt, and before Khan’s tears of pain had spilled from his eyes, the man was gone.
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 13
