“Here." She shoved a length of rope and a burlap sack at them. "I told Connor I would get the rope and the bag and here they are." The men took the articles with obvious reluctance. Lydia's brows knitted in an exasperated frown. “I see I truly must go over this. Listen closely."
The pair leaned forward as if mesmerized by her words.
"The woman you are to kidnap is in the library. Down this hall, through the door, third room on the right. Threaten her with this." Lydia disappeared behind the shrub once more and returned brandishing a wicked-looking weapon. Her startled henchmen gasped and even in the faint glow of the moonlight, she saw them pale at the sight of the gun.
"Don't be such ninnies," Lydia said impatiently. Were these two really as dim-witted as they appeared? She sighed in resignation. They would simply have to do. It was far too late to change her plans now. "It isn't loaded."
In perfect harmony, the men released pent-up breaths. Did each do everything in tune with the other? Lydia shook off the fanciful thought and returned to the matter at hand.
"Now go in there, threaten her with the gun—"
"Begging your pardon, milady," the short one said, hesitation in his voice. "But what should we be sayin' to her?"
The question took her by surprise. “Why, say anything you like, I suppose." She paused to think. "No, wait. Don't say too much. Just tell her she's being kidnapped and to keep quiet and she won't be hurt." Pleased with herself, Lydia brightened. "Yes, that will work quite well, I think. Then tie her hands. There's a strip of cloth in the bottom of the bag. Put that in her mouth, the bag over her head, and voila, it's done." Lydia beamed at her obviously impressed audience.
“That's right clever, milady," the taller kidnapper said, admiration evident in his tone.
"Thank you." Lydia smiled modestly. "Now," she said, her words again brisk and efficient, "did Connor at least tell you where you are to take her?"
The pair again traded looks, the short one speaking with a new air of confidence. "That he did, milady. Don't you worry yourself none. We'll take care of it."
"I have the utmost confidence in your abilities. Now one last thing.” The men leaned in as though hanging on every word. "You must make absolutely certain she is not harmed in anyway. It would defeat my purposes if she were at all injured. Do you understand?" She gave them each her sternest look and was gratified to note the almost worshipful expression in their eyes.
Regardless of the class of men one dealt with, their responses never differed when it came to an attractive woman. The same instinct that told Lydia when a man was about to attempt to kiss her or, heaven forbid, ask for her hand, now told her these two would follow her instructions to the letter.
***
Jane Austen's words danced before her eyes. Maggie had read the same page three times. Sighing with frustration, she tossed the book aside. Her mind refused to focus on the written words. Too many thoughts crowded her head. Thoughts she had resisted all day. Thoughts now demanding attention.
Restlessly, she pushed herself off the sofa and, wrapping her arms over her chest, paced the room. She always could think better on her feet. The emotional turmoil gripping her inside refused to let her sit still. How many steps was it to the wall anyway? One . . . two . . . three . . . It was definitely time to sort out her feelings, past time to face the facts.
The love she shared with Adam was nothing short of remarkable. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined the intensity of such feelings. How her heart leapt at the sight of his strong, handsome face or the touch of his gentle, knowing hands. Even his infuriating sexist attitudes and his annoying habit of lifting one eyebrow in that superior expression now endeared him to her.
"Damn," she muttered. It wasn't fair. Why did she have to come nearly two centuries into the past to find the one man who filled the empty, aching spot in her soul? The one man who gave her what she never even knew she searched for. The one man she didn't have any possibility of a life with.
"I just don't get it," she cried, surprised to find she had spoken out loud. Fine. Maybe the sound of her own voice would help her work out this mess. It sure as hell couldn't hurt. All day it had been easy to push aside reality and pretend she and Adam could share a life, build a future.
“Future. Yeah, that's the problem, isn't it." She sighed and paced off the room again. Twenty-eight steps, pivot . . . turn, twenty-eight steps, pivot . . . turn . . .
The future, her future, did not include Adam. An unknown force tossed her through time and into his arms and no doubt would snatch her away again in, what? Nineteen days? She and Adam were as star-crossed as Romeo and Juliet, their love just as doomed.
"I can't leave him," she said to the empty room, "but I can't stay." Book-lined shelves towered above her. The literary wisdom of the ages stared. Silent. Accusing.
“Don't you see?" she pleaded with the rows of leather-backed spines, mute jurors in her trial of passion. “Staying, even if I had a choice, could screw up the next two hundred years. I'm not supposed to be here. I’m out of place, out of sync." Maggie fought to find the words, for Shakespeare and Chaucer and Dante. And more, for herself. "I don't belong here. I have to go back."
A nagging thought throbbed the one-word question she'd evaded and denied and refused to face.
Why?
"Why?" Confused, she tried to focus her words into a cohesive argument. "Why? Because of paradoxes and ripple effects and all those things science fiction writers preach about." She shook her head slowly. "None of that stuff has ever been proved, but it makes sense. I have to go home." The firm tone of her voice made her wonder who she was trying to convince.
She resumed pacing, picking up where she left off. Eighteen . . . nineteen . . . twenty . . . As she passed the fireplace another persistent thought struck her with the breathtaking impact of a cold blast from a garden hose on a blistering summer day. She pulled up short.
What if I'm wrong?
Maggie stared unseeing at the flames leaping in the marble hearth. "What if I throw away everything, go home, and I don't have to?" She spoke quietly to the fire. "What if Adam was right when he said maybe, just maybe, this is my destiny?"
She whirled to face the faceless leather-bound volumes, reaching toward them in desperate supplication.
"How do I know?" she asked her noncommittal witnesses. Quiet. Condemning. Her voice dropped to a whisper; her hands fell to her sides. "How do I know?"
***
Maggie lost track of time standing in the middle of the room, staring mesmerized at the dancing flames. The hypnotic effect, the primeval appeal of the fire, calmed her. She would do what she had to do, what she believed was right. No matter how much it hurt. And, she had no doubts, it would hurt.
Somewhere on the fringes of her consciousness, she heard the library door open.
Adam! Marshaling her control, she pulled a smile to her lips and turned to greet him. The smile froze on her face. "Who in the hell are you?"
Two of the most disgusting-looking men she'd ever seen inched toward her. Actually, disgusting gave them too much credit. Grubby and somewhat slimy in appearance, they reminded her of characters from a Charles Dickens novel. Characters who had gone a bit overboard to get that perfect scum-of-the-earth look. They were too exaggerated to be scary. The taller one held a mass of burlap in one hand, rope and a piece of white material in the other.
"What do you want?" she said in her most imperious tone, surprised and a little pleased to note she had picked up some of the lofty superiority of the British upper classes during her stay.
"Jist do as we say, milady, and ye won't get hurt none." The short, fat one pulled his hand from behind his back to reveal an odd-looking gun. Maggie's heart stuck in her throat. She knew next to nothing about weapons, but she could spot a gun, even an antique one, when she saw it. All of a sudden, the Dickens characters seemed a lot less ridiculous and a lot more sinister.
"What do you want?" she repeated firmly, refusing to let any fear show.
"We've come ta take ye with us, miss." The taller, weasel-faced one slowly approached, waving his rope and burlap at her. He looked so much like a dogcatcher trying to lure an errant hound Maggie almost choked, smothering a hysterical laugh. But the nasty gleam in his eye told her no matter how ridiculous the pair looked, they were deadly serious. And she was in real trouble.
Think! Her mind raced, desperate for a way to help herself. The duo inched slowly closer. She backed away just as slowly, matching them move for move. She'd spent a lot of time in this room. Surely there was more than one way out.
The window. That was it! If she could reach the window, she could dive through the glass to the outside. Of course, she'd only seen that done on TV or in the movies. How hard could it be anyway? Sure, in her own experience glass didn't break quite that easily, not when you wanted it to. But right now she didn't see any other choice.
She darted toward the door, hoping to draw them off in the wrong direction, then swiveled and broke toward the long windows, bringing her arms up to shelter her face. She steeled herself for the jump through and lunged at the glass. Unbelievably, hands grabbed her just as her feet left the floor. They were on her, one clutching her arms, the other trying to wrap the gag around her mouth.
Shocked by how much faster they were than she'd imagined, she struggled furiously but without success. Why couldn't she remember anything from all those self-defense lessons? They already had the gag in her mouth but she refused to give up. A well-placed Kick hit home and she gained a small measure of satisfaction.
The fat one screamed. “Bloody 'ell, Freddy, she kicked me in me bleeding jewels."
"Hit ‘er then," Weasel—face commanded.
Maggie's desperate fight accelerated, spurred on by panic and fear.
"But we ain't supposed to hurt 'er," the fat one whined.
"Don't be a bloody arsehole, hit 'er!" The weasel tried to contain Maggie's violent, frantic thrashing. A sharp pain exploded in her head. Shock registered for a split second. The fat one actually hit her! She didn't think he had the guts. It was her last thought before slumping to the floor and descending into blackness.
***
Lydia eyed Connor's henchmen anxiously. They carried Maggie through the back hall and out the door. The tall one had her tossed over his shoulder, well covered by the burlap bag. Obviously Maggie was cooperating fully. There was no indication of movement within the bag. Good. With a sigh of relief, Lydia headed toward the library to place the ransom note on the mantel. She did not want her future sister—in—law hurt.
Chapter Sixteen
Maggie's eyes snapped open to total darkness. Her head throbbed. The world bounced beneath her. Disoriented, she couldn't make sense of her surroundings. She lay on her side. Where was she? Why couldn't she see? A jarring bump shot a stab of pain to her head but jerked her mind into sharp focus.
Those costumed characters had kidnapped her! Why? More to the point, what did she do now? She was confined in some kind of scratchy bag, maybe the burlap Weasel—face was carrying. A sharp, acrid smell clung to the fibers and stung her nose. A scent reminiscent of . . . what? Spoiled onions? Rotten potatoes? A gag bound her mouth, and her hands were tied behind her back. She tested the bonds and to her delight found the knot loose. Ha! What a bunch of idiots. They must have figured if she was unconscious they needn't worry about keeping her tied. She'd show them. She wasn't a graduate of the Rocky Mountain School of Karate and Martial Arts self-defense course for women for nothing. Granted, it hadn't helped her much back in the library, but this was different. This time the element of surprise was on her side and she had way too much to lose to give up without at least trying to escape.
Quietly, with the barest of movement, she slid the rope off her wrists. Rough-edged voices murmured low behind and at a level slightly above her. Judging by the bumpy tide, she must be in some kind of wagon or cart. Apparently she hadn't been unconscious too long. Her arms and legs hadn't fallen asleep and weren't stiff yet. Hoping not to attract their attention, she slipped her hands up to her face and removed the annoying gag. Great so far, but she was still in the nasty, stinky bag.
The cart hit a chuckhole and she seized advantage of the bounce and rolled over. Now she faced the voices. Maggie edged a fingernail into the loosely woven fabric and pried it apart for a tiny peek hole. Just as she thought. The Dickens gang sat with their backs to her on a bench above where she lay. If she didn't make any sudden movement to alert them, she could simply slide this sack over her head. Cautiously she inched the bag off, then covered herself with it.
Now what? She sized up her captors. Her experience with them in the library proved they were much stronger and faster than they appeared. The tall one had an evil look about him that frankly gave her shivers. The fat one was a major-league whiner, but probably her best bet for escape.
The bare outline of a plan rooted in her mind. If this didn't work, they might kill her. And nobody in this or any other century would ever know what happened. Dammit! If she had to die she sure as hell wasn't going to take it lying down.
She curled into a crouch position. A scant inch at a time, she edged her way forward until she squatted directly behind the bench. So far so good. She held her breath and rose slowly. Her eyes drew level with the bench. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky. Lying there between them was the gun. Maggie nearly cried out loud with delight.
She sank down again, pulled her hem up, and tied her dress around her waist. There was no way she could do what she planned with fifty pounds of skirts trailing around her ankles. Finally she gathered the edges of the burlap bag together. Maggie took a deep breath in a hopeless attempt to steady her nerves and calm her shaking hands. Okay. On the count of three. One . . . two. . . three.
Maggie sprang to her feet and in one swift move yanked the bag over the head of Weasel-face. With an ear-piercing yell that would have done the entire staff and student body of the Rocky Mountain School of Karate and Martial Arts self-defense course for women proud, she twisted and turned like Master Ti had taught. With a nearly classic form she'd never shown in class, she executed one superb kick that sent the tall, Dickensian thug sailing out of the wagon in a perfect arc to land several yards away with a soft thud and a loud groan.
Maggie and the fat one stared at each other, one in horror, the other in amazement and more than a little pride. She swiveled and grabbed the gun. In her best television cop impersonation, she aimed it with both hands, straight at his head.
“Take me home, pal," she said. "Now!"
He turned shocked eyes toward her, then toward his partner, groaning under the burlap by the side of the road, then back to Maggie.
"Now!" Maggie gestured with the gun. If this gun trick looked as awesome in person as it did on TV, her kidnapper should be pretty damned intimidated by now.
The fat one snapped the reins, and the horse took off with a jerk that nearly threw her to the floor. She recovered her balance and glared at the driver. "You did that on purpose."
She clambered over the bench, untied her skirts, and settled beside him. The cart wasn't moving that quickly. Not nearly fast enough for Maggie, although she realized one horse could only go so fast.
The fat one gave her a sidelong glance. "It ain't loaded."
Startled, Maggie stared. "What do you mean, it ain't loaded?"
He kept his eyes on the road. "The lady what gave us the gun said it weren't loaded." He shrugged and glanced at her. "She said she didn't want you hurt none."
"That's great. Really thoughtful. Damned considerate." Sarcasm dripped off her words. "I don't suppose you call hitting me in the head and knocking me out hurting me?"
"You kicked me in me family jewels," he said indignantly.
"You were kidnapping me. What the hell was I supposed to do? Go along quietly?"
"Weren't my idea," he said in a lofty tone that seemed to absolve him of all blame in the matter.
She eyed him suspiciously. "What do you mean? Who
se idea was it?" Something he'd said earlier now caught her attention. "What lady gave you the gun?"
“The one in the alley. Looked like a bloomin' angel, she did." He sighed and Maggie could have sworn a look of adoration passed over his grubby face. "Said we was to take the gun, snatch you, and take you to someplace some bloke called Connor knew about."
He glanced toward her cautiously. "Since we was lookin' to break into a house or two tonight we didn't think it smart to argue with 'er."
She narrowed her eyes and considered his weird explanation. It didn't make a whole lot of sense. Of course, most of her life lately didn't make sense.
“Okay, if the damn gun isn’t loaded, why are you taking me home?”
He laughed, a rather nice laugh actually. She peered at him sharply. A closer inspection showed him to be fairly young, probably about her age. He wasn't even really fat. His clothes were merely extremely bulky. Just right to hide stolen goods in.
"Bloody 'ell, miss, I ain't no bloomin' kidnapper. I'm jist a housebreak, a common thief." Amusement twinkled in his eyes. Maggie groaned to herself. She was beginning to like this guy. "Besides, I ain't never seen nobody fly through the air like Freddy did. I didn't want to be takin' no trips like that." He chuckled. "Between you with your screamin' and kickin' and that pretty blonde acting like queen of the underworld it sure has been some night." He shook his head, grinning. "Wait till me Margaret hears about this."
"Margaret?"
"Me missus." He shook his head again. "She ain't gonna like it. Ain't none too pleased about my stealing anyways."
"Why do you do it?" Maggie asked, genuinely curious.
He shrugged and looked her straight in the eye. His were a pleasant green color. "Sometimes you ain't got no choice."
She stared back. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. Or maybe it was just the familiar resignation of the truly poor. "Sorry," she said but refused to pull her gaze away. “There's got to be something else you can do."
Yesterday and Forever Page 21
