Nighttime London slid past the window of the taxi, but Jo barely noticed it. Desolation swept over her, making her feel weepy. She didn’t want to go home. She couldn’t face her silent, empty flat. She fumbled in her bag for her mobile and scrolled through the list of contacts. She found the one she was searching for and made the call.
“Tim? It’s me,” she said softly. “Yes, I know, it’s been a long time,” she said in response to his exclamation of surprise. “Are you free tonight? Okay, see you soon.”
Jo ended the call and tossed the mobile back into her handbag. She fished out a compact, powdered her face, and refreshed her lipstick before running a hand through her hair. She wouldn’t be alone tonight.
Chapter 11
Tim turned onto his side and propped his head on his hand, looking down at Jo with a soft smile. She reached out and brushed the blond forelock out of his eyes. She liked to see his eyes. She felt infinitely better than she had two hours before when Rhys casually dismissed her from his presence. She’d known Tim for years. He was a fellow photographer she’d met on assignment in Haiti. Tim was intelligent, witty, always up for a shag, and very much married. His wife, Stephanie, knew of Tim’s dalliances, but didn’t seem to mind as long as he came home to her in the end, and their arrangement seemed to work for them. Jo had briefly wondered if Stephanie played the field as much as her husband. She didn’t care much about Stephanie’s feelings, but thought it only fair that she played by the same rules as her husband.
“So, what really brought this on, Jo-Jo?” Tim asked as he studied her face. “It’s been a long while since you’ve required my services.”
“I didn’t fancy being alone tonight.”
“You’ve never minded being alone before.”
“No, but things have changed. A lot’s happened since I saw you last.”
“Yes, I heard about Kabul. I’m glad you’re all right, Jo-Jo.”
“I’m not sure that I am.”
“Tell me,” Tim invited. He was a good listener, and someone who never betrayed a confidence. Jo suddenly realized that she’d invited him over not so much for sex as for conversation. She was in dire need of a confidant, and Tim was the closest thing she had to a trusted friend—besides her agent, Charles Sutcliffe, who could be useful in certain situations but not when it came to matters of the heart. Charles’s black-and-white view of the world didn’t sit well with her own shades-of-gray perspective, and she had no desire to see the disappointment in his eyes or the telltale pursing of his lips, which was becoming his usual expression when dealing with her.
“I’ve found my birth family, Tim. Or more accurately, it has found me. My twin sister, Quinn, came to the hospital in Germany. Since then, I’ve met my biological dad and two half-brothers. I have yet to meet my biological mother and my other half-brother, who’s currently unavailable.”
“Sounds promising,” Tim said. “Aren’t you glad?”
“It all sounds good on paper, but real life and real feelings are never as straightforward, are they?”
“So, what’s troubling you? Are they a bunch of tossers?”
“Not at all. My dad is American, believe it or not, from Louisiana,” Jo said, imitating Seth’s southern drawl to pronounce the name of the state. “His family had a plantation and owned slaves before their Civil War.”
“Plenty of Brits owned slaves,” Tim replied, misunderstanding Jo’s comment. “You can’t hold that against him.”
“I don’t. I’m just giving you a bit of background information. My father has a son, Brett, who lured my pregnant sister to a family tomb and locked her in when she discovered that we’re descended from one of the slave women the master had bestowed his attentions on. Seems he wasn’t too pleased to learn he had Negro blood running through his veins. Brett’s now serving a ten-year prison sentence for attempted murder.”
“Ah, so it’s that kind of birth family,” Tim joked. “And there I thought they were going to be dull as dishwater.”
“No, they’re anything but. My half-brother Logan is engaged to his partner Colin. They’re lovely, both of them. Logan is by far the most pleasant surprise of all. His younger brother, Jude, recently OD’d on heroin and nearly strangled himself with a belt while shagging his strung-out girlfriend. I met him briefly, but I don’t think he’s at a point in his life where long-lost sisters are a priority.”
“And what about your sister?”
Jo sighed dramatically. “Quinn is remarkable.”
“As in remarkably irritating?” Tim asked, picking up on Jo’s tone.
“Sort of. Quinn doesn’t realize how lucky she is, Tim. She has amazing, loving adoptive parents who think the sun shines out of her bum, birth parents who want nothing more than to be a part of her life, a husband who practically walks on water, and two adorable children,” Jo replied. “She also hosts a top-rated TV program and has a boss who dropped everything to travel to Kabul to look for Quinny’s missing sister. I have never met anyone who’s more loved or appreciated.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“It’s not; it’s just that I don’t think I can ever live up to her expectations. She is so eager to get to know me, to bring me into the fold. And I want that; I really do. But some primitive, insecure part of me wants to run away and hide in a cave until the danger passes.”
“Jo, please don’t hate me for saying this, but love breeds love. There’s a reason people flock to your sister.”
“She’s warm, caring, and selfless, and I feel like she sucks the air out of the room as soon as she walks in.”
Tim shook his head and grinned, amused by Jo’s petty jealousy. “You silly cow. Here you have someone who’s desperate to love you and you’re scared shitless because no one has cared enough before to try to break through that wall you’ve erected around yourself. Do you want to spend your life alone, Jo?”
“No. I want what my sister has, and that makes me angry.”
“Why does it make you angry?”
“Because I don’t know how to go about getting it.”
“Maybe you should start by not trying to find reasons not to like her. Sounds to me like she’s desperate to have a relationship with you, and she’s willing to do all the work. Let her. I know you can’t knock down your protective wall overnight, but maybe just lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis enough to let someone in.”
“Problem is, once you let someone in, they tend to want to stay.”
“Would that be so terrible?”
Jo opened her mouth to reply but was surprised by the sob that tore from her chest. Silent tears slid down her cheeks and she allowed Tim to pull her close, burying her face in his shoulder.
“Jo, you’re going to have to let someone in sometime, or you’re going to die alone.”
“I nearly did,” Jo whimpered.
“You’ve been given a second chance. Don’t waste it, love.”
Jo nodded into Tim’s shoulder. “You’re right. I just don’t know where to begin.”
“You’ve made a start already. You admitted how you feel. I know that wasn’t easy for you. What do you think the next step should be?”
“I suppose I should meet my birth mother.” Jo sniffled and wiped angrily at her streaming eyes.
“Then do it.” Tim opened his mouth as if to say something more when his mobile buzzed. “Gotta fly,” he said after reading the new text.
“Go home to your wife, Tim,” Jo said. “I’ll be all right.”
“You know, Jo-Jo, there are better things in life than being all right. There’s such a thing as being happy.”
“Are you happy?” Jo asked, peering at Tim in the dim light of the bedroom.
“Believe it or not, I am.”
Tim bent down and kissed the tip of Jo’s nose before getting out of bed and giving her a glorious view of his sexy bum. He pulled on his clothes and slid the mobile into his back pocket.
“See you again soon?” Tim asked, smiling.
>
“Don’t count on it,” Jo replied, smiling back.
She turned onto her side and closed her eyes, finally tired enough to go to sleep. She was already breathing softly by the time Tim let himself out of the flat.
Chapter 12
Jo towel-dried her hair and pulled on a comfortable old jersey and a pair of leggings. She’d woken late, and the only proof Tim had been there was the scent of his cologne on the pillow. Jo made coffee and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster, then carried her breakfast to the lounge and sat down on the sofa. She had some decisions to make about her new family, but her thoughts strayed to Rhys instead. A part of her was still hurt by his rejection, but in the cold light of day she was glad their evening had ended when it had. She’d enjoyed her romp with Tim. It was easy and uncomplicated, the type of sexual experience she was most comfortable with. As she took a bite of toast, Jo wondered how she would feel if Rhys had been the one she had slept with last night.
She’d have enjoyed the physical side of things; she was sure of that. She’d been with enough men to tell when someone would be a good lover. Rhys would be better than good, she decided. He was a giver by nature, not someone who took what he needed and moved on. Even a one-night stand would get Rhys’s full attention in bed; it’d be a matter of pride for him to know that he’d left the woman satisfied and wanting more. But she didn’t want a one-night stand with Rhys. Things could get awkward if the two of them weren’t on the same page. At this point, Jo wasn’t even sure they were reading the same book. What did Rhys want from her? Love? Friendship? The satisfaction of knowing he’d helped someone in need? She didn’t need his pity or his patronage. If they came together, it had to be on her terms. Relationships were always on her terms, and they ended on her terms as well. But she couldn’t play this game with Rhys; he was too close to Quinn.
Jo folded her legs beneath her and wrapped her hands around the warm mug. Had things with Rhys gone differently last night, would she feel happy? Awkward? Desperate for him to leave? Would she feel suffocated if he suggested spending the day together? It’d been a long time since she’d spent a day with a man—lunch, dinner, an entire night, sometimes even breakfast afterward, but she hadn’t spent an entire day with anyone since Jesse. Those days had never been a hardship. Being with Jesse had felt easy and natural.
Jo felt a familiar pang of regret. Jesse had loved her, and she’d loved him. He had made her feel treasured and safe, something she hadn’t felt with anyone else since. It’d been a long time since she’d asked herself if she’d made a mistake letting him go. She had been too young to get married, but he would have waited had she asked him to. He would have understood. Instead, she’d run away, left the country, and changed her name. Perhaps Tim was right and the wall around her was too high and too thick. She couldn’t blame her impregnable defenses on her parents’ betrayal or Michael’s crime against her. Many people suffered at the hands of those they loved, but they didn’t allow their pain to define them, to rule their lives. Am I damaged beyond repair? Jo asked herself as she stared at the milky light of the misty morning.
Perhaps, but it wasn’t too late. She could still turn things around. Maybe, after years of running away, it was time to confront the people who’d caused her so much pain. The first person who’d betrayed her had been her birth mother. Sylvia had left her, ill and alone, when she was less than a day old. Jo didn’t want to speak to Sylvia or see her, but if she were to confront her demons, her birth mother would be the first person on her list.
“Right,” Jo said out loud to herself. “Sylvia, here I come.”
Chapter 13
September 1588
Connaught, Ireland
As the pain of the captain’s wound intensified, the men pushed deeper into the woods and settled by a shallow creek. There were still several hours of daylight left, but the captain needed to rest, and Rafael was tired of walking aimlessly and fearful of being set upon by the locals. He cleaned the captain’s wound and washed out the bloodstained bandage, hanging it to dry on a low branch.
“Leave the wound uncovered, sir,” Rafael advised the captain. “The fresh air will help the blood to clot.”
“Are you a physician now?” the captain asked, but did as Rafael suggested and kept the fabric of his breeches away from the still-bleeding cut.
Rafael left the captain to rest and wandered off, scouring the area for any plants that might prove helpful. He wasn’t familiar with the flora of northern Europe but hoped something might look familiar. His father used eucalyptus, garlic, and apple cider vinegar to treat a festering wound, but none of these remedies were readily available in an Irish forest. Rafael bent down and picked up a sprig of a weed-like plant. It had jagged leaves and tiny yellow flowers, and looked like celandine, which was of the poppy family. His father administered a potion made of brewed celandine leaves to his patients for the purpose of cleansing the liver. Rafael hoped that if applied locally, it might prevent a wound from festering. It certainly wouldn’t do any harm. He collected several more springs and headed back toward the makeshift camp.
The captain was slumped against a tree, his eyes closed, but roused himself as soon as Rafael came near. “All right?” he asked as he watched Rafael approach.
“I found some celandine. I’d like to apply it to the wound,” Rafael said, showing the captain the plant.
“Go on, then.”
Rafael worked the sprigs between his hands until they formed a sticky mush, then pressed the pulp into the raw-looking wound. The captain gasped and went pale but allowed Rafael to continue with the treatment. The bandage was almost dry, so Rafael wrapped it around the leg to secure the poultice. He then washed his hands in the creek and reached for the bread he’d saved for supper.
“I’m not hungry,” the captain protested when Rafael held out half the bread to him. “You have it.”
“Sir, you need your strength to recover. I won’t take no for an answer.” Rafael’s stomach growled, undermining his resolve, but he held out his hand until the captain accepted the food.
The captain broke his portion in half and handed one of the halves back to Rafael. “Eat,” the captain said.
Rafael didn’t argue. Since he’d eaten a few hours ago, the hunger that had been dormant had roared back to life and Rafael was secretly glad he’d get to enjoy a few more bites of the bread, although it wasn’t nearly enough to fill his belly.
The captain took a tiny bite and chewed slowly, savoring the meal. Rafael was tempted to wolf the bread down but followed the captain’s example and ate very slowly. The bread lasted longer that way, and he felt almost sated by the time he was finished. Rafael washed down his meal with water from the creek, then stripped off his doublet and shirt and washed his upper body. The water was icy, but it felt good. He wished he could shave. Stubble had quickly grown into a thick beard and his skin itched unbearably, but neither man had a knife. Rafael dressed and returned to the captain.
“You know something of healing?” Captain de Cuéllar asked.
“Not really, sir,” Rafael replied. He had no way of knowing the captain’s views on medicine and had no wish to arouse his suspicion.
“You needn’t fear me, son,” the captain said. “I don’t believe healing to be a form of witchcraft. To help a fellow human being is divine, in my opinion.”
Rafael nodded. He wouldn’t be drawn into a theological discussion. The sentiments might seem harmless enough, but many a man, and woman, fell for a sympathetic ear and found themselves accused of heresy and tortured until they admitted to their crimes. Some were executed, their guilt based on nothing more than a whisper from a malicious rival, or a confession obtained by means that would make anyone confess to anything just to make the unbearable pain stop for even a second. No, he wouldn’t fall for that.
“How is it that you speak English?” the captain asked, his shrewd gaze fixed on Rafael’s face. He’d know a lie if he heard one, so Rafael answered as truthfully as possible.
“My father believes an educated man should speak several languages. I can also speak Latin and Greek,” Rafael replied. He only knew the Latin he’d heard in church and seen in his father’s medical texts and didn’t speak a word of Greek, but if he admitted to the captain that his father had insisted on him learning only English, he’d be opening himself and his family up to suspicion, since the captain might think he’d been planning to jump ship and remain in England. In truth, Rafael wasn’t even sure why his father wished to teach him English. It wasn’t as if señor de Silva ever entertained the possibility of escaping to England.
“Your father is a wise man, de Silva. What does he do to earn his living?”
“We heard you were sentenced to hang,” Rafael said instead of answering.
“Yes, I was. I was accused of disobedience.”
“Did you intentionally break formation?” Rafael asked. He was curious about this man, who seemed so selfless and brave in the face of certain death.
De Cuéllar shook his head. “I wasn’t on the bridge when that happened. The first mate misread the signals and broke formation.”
“Why did you not tell that to the tribunal?” Rafael asked, mystified. “Surely they wouldn’t have sentenced you to death.”
“They would have executed the first mate,” de Cuéllar replied.
“But it was his fault.”
“It was my ship, my responsibility. I should have been there.”
“You can’t be on the bridge all the time,” Rafael argued.
“No, but I should have been there at that time. I felt ill and went to lie down for a bit. I neglected my duty.”
“Were you scared?” Rafael asked. He had no right to ask the captain such a prying question, but having spent several days with the man, Rafael felt that a certain intimacy had developed between them.
The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 7
