by Sakwa, Kim
“Which is it?” Stephen asked. “Her fault? Or mi—”
“Bloody hell, stop with the blame! I was a spy, they sought to hurt me. And they did.” Alexander knocked back his own drink, then turned away for a moment. That evening was a living, recurring nightmare in his head. “When she looked at me and said Callie was slipping, I knew she was going to let go. I just knew.” He rubbed his left hand where faint scars remained from that night. The scratch marks Amanda had made in her desperation to take hold once he’d found them dangling from the cliff’s edge. And crescent-shaped nail marks on the underside of his wrist from when she’d dug in once he’d grasped her.
“Amanda was terrified you had jumped in after them,” Sam said. “She wasn’t even sure she and Callie would be okay.”
In fact, Alexander had tried to jump after them and he was about to open his mouth to say as much, but Stephen swore and got up to pour his own drink. “I wouldn’t let him.”
“Amanda and I never had time to test our theories on where, when, and how the portal would open.” He took another pull of scotch. “We had only four months together before I lost her.” His words were laced with regret.
“Alexander.” Samantha waited until he gave her his full attention. “Amanda was devastated she’d been torn away from you. She was so worried that you would try to go through, too, and something awful would happen. Until we found the ledger last summer.” She shook her head before saying, “When we were still in New York, she would stand in front of that big picture window and stare at the Atlantic as if willing you to sail home to her. It was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“That bloody ledger. We almost had our hands on it.” Alexander and his men had been searching for it since they arrived. “Stan’s men beat us to it by a day, if not hours.” It was the last piece of hard evidence of who he really was, and from where he really came.
“If you wanted it to be expunged, then it was,” Samantha told him. “It’s gone.”
“Gone?” Alexander repeated.
“Destroyed. The night Zander was born. Once they’d sedated and restrained Amanda, Stan came back to the estate. I didn’t wonder why he was here. Your wife was on a seventy-two-hour psych hold. We didn’t want anything adding to or setting back her fragile state of mind. We met at the front doors. I’d already taken the ledger from the safe. We walked to the beach together and lit that fucker up. Then we collected the ashes and drove the boat ten miles off the coast before we dropped them into the ocean.”
While he appreciated their thoroughness, he’d give his right arm for Amanda to have not gone through the torment she had in thinking he’d been executed. It felt like each time she or Callie had encountered tragedy or misfortune over the past year, he’d been so close! Alexander swore under his breath; blast his bloody timing.
“Wait, let’s go back. How did you get caught?” Samantha asked. “You should have at least made it to America, based on what Amanda told me about those men, that night.”
“After searching the water beneath the cliffs,” Stephen jumped in, “he stood on the rocks beneath the ledge and waited.” Stephen didn’t say for their bodies to wash ashore. “He didn’t want Amanda and Callie to be alone. Twelve days and twelve nights he stood sentinel. The only reason he left was because they’d dragged him away in chains. He begged me not to leave.”
“My brother kept vigil for six more days,” Alexander said. “Then he and our men came to the same conclusion I already had. Amanda and Callesandra had somehow made it through the portal. Together.”
“Amanda said you knew there was something about that cliff that made it different.”
“When I was just a boy, my father showed me the odd pattern that ran up the entirety of the rock wall,” Alexander said, remembering. “He often told me tales, but they weren’t tales after all.” He shook his head. “Bloody hell, they were real.”
“What kind of tales?” Sam asked, her glass empty, but still in her hand.
“He’d say that sometimes one of our ancestors would, by a twist of fate, have a terrible wrong righted.”
“So, Rebecca was your wrong—and Amanda righted it.”
“Simply put, I suppose so.”
“You know, Amanda had a fascination with you before she even met you. Did she tell you?”
He tilted his head. Very little surprised him anymore, this however did. Warmed his heart too. “No,” he told Samantha, “I had no idea.”
“Without jumping too far ahead and leaving off much of the story,” Sam said, “she found an accounting of your ancestral history, your military rank, your marriage to Rebecca, the birth of Callesandra, the death of your son…that all mysteriously ended in 1774. When Amanda returned to the British Isles with Callie, she eventually told me everything. It wasn’t easy getting the story out of her, and there was the matter of her wrist.”
Alexander’s hand flexed at the mention. He’d tried to hold on to her, even after she’d let go. He’d crushed her wrist in the process. It was now healed, post-surgery, and worked just fine thanks to titanium and the wonders of modern medicine.
He walked out from behind the bar and to the large picture windows facing the sea. He turned back to Samantha and shook his head. “Losing Amanda and Callesandra changed everything.” He circled the piano, then fingered the coaster before setting his drink on it. When he looked at Samantha, she nodded, confirming it was where his wife had placed his drink each evening.
“She played the most wonderful music I have ever heard.” He could picture them at home, their home in eighteenth-century Great Britain. He smiled as he recalled one of many evenings he and Amanda would sit upon the piano bench after Callesandra had been put to bed and his wife would play and sing to him. She was amazing. “God, I’ve missed her. She made me laugh more than I ever had before.” He brushed his fingers across the keys. “Amanda changed our lives, my life, in a way—”
“Are you talking about me?”
Amanda was standing in the doorway. They all turned to look at her.
She stood within the massive entrance to the room as if she belonged there. Star that she was, a presence of her own. Tall with auburn hair and breathtaking cornflower-blue eyes. She was gorgeous, even five days after giving birth. Fresh faced, hair straightened and pulled back, wearing a soft gray cashmere lounge set. She had Zander tucked up tight to her chest, and Helen stood less than a pace behind her, lips pursed.
Amanda was obviously in charge and Helen none too happy about it. Stan appeared next.
Sam spoke first. “You look pretty, sweetie.”
“For a mug shot,” Amanda replied dryly.
“Mama!” Callie hollered, coming running across the foyer from God knows where with Rosa, Amanda’s house manager, hot on her heels. Callie came to an abrupt stop at the sight of everyone and wrapped her arm around Amanda’s leg before pressing her face to the side of her long, lean thigh.
Amanda looked down at Callie and smiled. “Hi, baby,” she said, rubbing her head affectionately, which caused the cuff of her sleeve to move, revealing still-dark purple bruising. When Amanda brought her arm back up, she readjusted her sleeve to cover her wrist.
“Hi, Admiral,” Callie said before sticking two fingers in her mouth. A rank Alexander in fact carried, and one she had often called him, as had been his man Goodly’s practice. Callesandra had loved Goodly and had mimicked most all of his salutations. “Hi, Aunt Sam,” she giggled softly, her shoulders scrunching, before she looked at Stephen and said, “Avun.” Callie called her Uncle Stephen “Avun,” short for avunculus, the Latin word for uncle. Though her pronunciation made it sound like “aboon” instead. It was adorable.
“I’m going to New York,” Amanda announced.
Evan walked into the room at the tail end of Amanda’s declaration.
Bloody hell, welcome to the circus.
“Amanda, we spo
ke of this just moments ago,” said Dr. Childress.
“Why do you want to go to New York, sweetie?” Sam asked.
Amanda looked at Sam for a long moment, a very long moment, then said, “I don’t know.”
Alexander knew Amanda had stayed in New York upon her return from Great Britain. She had an estate she’d inherited from her father overlooking the Atlantic. According to Stan, in the terribly short time he’d been able to speak with him, Amanda had never wanted to leave that New York estate. She’d only done so because she felt it was in Callesandra’s best interest to settle in her home state of California. Frustrating, but under the circumstances that was as far as they had gotten.
Dr. Evan Childress guided Amanda toward the deep oversized sectional. Helen helped her sit and then pushed two pillows behind her back. Evan continued, “Amanda, you were heavily sedated for forty-eight hours. We need to give your mind time to clear itself of the effects of the drugs you were given. I’m sure your body would like some time as well.”
Callie crawled onto the cushion and tucked herself against her mother’s side. Helen reached out her hands, but Amanda shook her head and stroked Zander lovingly. Helen looked to Alexander pleadingly. He understood her frustration and told her in French he’d give the baby back to her charge shortly. He also thanked her for taking such good care of Amanda. There was no way she’d been able to shower and dress so impeccably without assistance. Of course, Stephen had to add his two cents of gratitude, and not a moment later Callie’s head popped up from where she lay and asked, in French, if he and Stephen were staying for dinner.
Amanda did a slight double take and sat up a little straighter. She looked at her daughter. “Callesandra Eleanor—you speak French?”
“Oui, Mama.” Callie grinned.
Amanda looked at Sam, and then back to Callie. “Do I?” Amanda seemed to consider it, then shook her head. “No. I don’t. Jeez.”
And so ended the length of her mental and physical rally. She tried not to let it show, but Alexander easily saw through it. Her eyes stayed closed longer than her usual blink, and she began to inhale deeply through her nose. He was fondly aware of his wife’s tells, so to speak. Coping mechanisms she’d learned over the years, useful especially when she was in large crowds or had to give a performance. Seconds later, he was at her side to take Zander into his arms without drawing undue attention. She hesitated a moment, in which he assured her it was okay. It seemed to be all she needed.
“Option two,” he whispered fervently into Zander’s tiny ear. “Option two.”
Alexander transferred his son to Helen’s eager, capable hands, then reached back down, intent on taking Amanda back upstairs, relying on her instinct to trust him as her lifeline.
Amanda shook her head; she didn’t want to leave the room. She just needed a few moments to adjust. She couldn’t remember her home being so full before. Seriously, she couldn’t remember a lot. Which reminded her. “Were you speaking about me?” she asked Mr. Montgomery. She’d grilled Stan as much as she’d been able to. Aside from being told Mr. Montgomery may be richer than God and required a large retinue as well as the fact that she felt she owed him more than gratitude for freeing her from her restraints and the hospital, she still knew only two things. No, three.
One—there had been a changing of the guard.
Two—the brothers Montgomery were now in charge.
Three—she should feel way more apprehensive than she did, but for some reason she didn’t.
“We were. I had just remarked on what a talented pianist and vocalist you are.”
Good lord the man had an incredible voice and accent. She remembered now how it made her feel safe and grounded last night. Talking to Art Fisher about the Montgomerys helped a lot too. He really was like a father to her. Mr. Montgomery looked at the face of his watch, then signaled Stan and his brother on the other side of the room. Seriously, the man signaled, like made a motion with his hand to tell them something. She almost laughed when she saw it. Stephen walked out of the room and Stan said something to Rosa. Then Amanda remembered. Stan and his cohorts often used hand signals when she was in need of more than just his assistance.
Light flashes came to mind as she remembered a morning news program and the subsequent award show. Gosh, when was that? She’d had a detail of three then. Sam had been holding Callie just off set. It had to have been months ago, September maybe? She could picture what she was wearing—jeans and heels, blouse and cardigan, her favorite belt. She hadn’t been showing, pregnancy wise. Jesus, how could she not remember who the father of her children was? Or giving birth to not one, but two babies?
Tally off the memory column: Amanda Marceau, singer and songwriter. Check. She loved to dance too. Check. Wait, she’d been teaching Callie ballet. And piano. Check. Check. Heir to the Marceau fortune. Check. She fought off a wave of sadness thinking of her father, who’d died in a plane crash with her stepmother a few years ago. She looked around the room—where was Robert? Her stepbrother was usually around to mark important occasions. You’d think the birth of a child would be one. Not that she missed him; she always had a bad feeling when he was around. Sam, best friend, boarding school and college roommate. Check. Stan, guy who takes care of everything. That was a weird thought. Bodyguard, check. Rosa, best house manager and cook ever. Check. Done with her mental housekeeping, she looked back at Mr. Montgomery.
“What did you tell them?” she asked.
Mr. Montgomery smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. Handsome did not do this man justice. At well over six feet tall, with dark eyes, dark hair, and a ridiculously impressive physique, he was nothing short of extraordinary. There was something so very familiar about him, yet she would swear she’d never met him before in her life. Maybe it was just that he’d taken her from the hospital, and she was still under the influence from the medication they’d given her.
“I told them I needed to speak with them privately. And the count for dinner tonight.”
“I like big family dinners,” she told him, not knowing if was true, but the second she said it, she wanted it to be. “The bigger, the better.”
He took her hand, embracing it within both of his. “Then you’ll be ridiculously pleased as our current head count is twenty-two. However, only fourteen of us will actually dine together, and that number includes Zander.” He looked at the scars that marred the back of her hand. “Your house is entirely wired, Amanda, as I’m sure you’re aware. As am I, and all of our men,” he told her, pointing to his left ear. “We’re all just a call away.”
He walked from the room and Evan followed him. Which left only the girls and Zander. She hugged Callie closer as Sam joined them on the sectional, then she reached back out for her baby. Helen deposited him back in her arms.
Sam stroked Amanda’s forehead. “How are you, Ammy? Really?”
Samantha was the best best friend. Ever. Memory loss aside, that she knew. And that Sam only used “Ammy” when it was really important.
“Sore. Tired. And missing some things.” She rolled her eyes toward her forehead. “Like upstairs.”
Sam laughed. “It’ll come back and you’ll be feeling better in no time. You just need some rest.”
Amanda woke up later, with neither Zander nor Callie anywhere to be seen, but Sam was reading next to her and she could hear male voices coming from the bar. The sun was making a beautiful, picture-perfect descent outside. Jeez, she must have slept for a good few hours.
“She’s up,” Sam said.
“Good, let’s eat.” Mr. Montgomery’s reply carried from across the room. He was at her side a moment later and reached down to assist her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and helped her from the sofa. “Can you manage?” he said quietly in her ear.
She turned her head and told him just as softly, “I’m going to try.”
“Then let’s do this, sweetheart.�
�
That startled her. Sweetheart? She remembered he’d called her sweetheart in the hospital. There was nothing placating or sexist in the way he said it. It was as if he’d dubbed her that nickname and it fit perfectly. Which was a really weird thought. Maybe she was still under the influence of what they’d given her in the hospital. She’d been home only a day now. She did feel oddly comfortable with him, though. She couldn’t say why, she just did.
Mr. Montgomery stayed by her side as their large procession slowly made its way to the kitchen.
“Why did Callie call you Admiral?” Amanda asked as they continued down the hallway.
“It’s my rank,” he said, not looking at her.
“You’re really an admiral?” she asked, not knowing quite what being an admiral meant, but just that it was impressive.
“I was.”
“Wow. Here in the States?”
He looked at Evan before he answered. “British Royal Navy.”
“Admiral of the White,” she added without thought. Where did that come from? “Wait. How do I know that?” she asked.
“You’re terribly smart, Amanda,” he said, suppressing a smile.
She put a hand on his chest when he would have ushered them forward. Was her memory wrong? “No, I mean you are an Admiral of the White.”
“Admirals of the White don’t exist any longer.”
Amanda shook her head. “Maybe I’m getting con-fused. My father bought an estate in Abersoch years ago. As a young girl, I loved to travel there. Honestly, it was one of my most favorite places on Earth.” Her eyes widened with realization. “You share a name with one of its ancestors. I wonder if you’re related.”
Mr. Montgomery only stared. The man was utterly still. Then she realized how quiet it had become. She looked at Sam for a cue. “What? Don’t you remember?” Amanda had definitely talked about it with her best friend before. She’d been fascinated with the Montgomerys as a teenager. “Come on, Sam. I researched everything I could on that castle—oh! And I remember now. That story I found, so intriguing, but so sad.” Amanda was on a roll now, her memories of being a girl poring over books in the estate coming back to her. “It was about one of the original descendants’ great-great-great-grandsons, Alexander Montgomery.” She jabbed Mr. Montgomery’s chest playfully. “Isn’t that incredible?”
