by Jenny Lykins
Shaelyn staggered to a stop, holding her side and panting for breath.
Where was she? She couldn’t be more than a few minutes from the dock. She’d spent summer vacations in Cape Helm for years, since she’d been a teenager. She knew every nook and cranny of this tiny Maine port.
And this dirt street didn’t belong here.
She limped on, holding the stitch in her side, beginning to feel the effects of her tumble from the carriage. She desperately scanned her surroundings for a familiar landmark, spying an intersection half a block away.
Turning her walk into a limping run, she arrived at the cross street; another dirt road. Her heart stopped beating and her breath rushed from her lungs.
On the corner stood a familiar landmark. McBane’s Apothecary. She’d spent many hours in that shop as a teen, drinking sodas at the quaint, old-fashioned fountain, pouring over the latest makeup colors with her vacation friends. She’d been in there just the day before, talking to Mr. Edwards about the article she was doing on the last year of the millennium in small town America and how she’d be participating in the living history on the Sea Queen, Cape Helm’s newest - or oldest - attraction. He’d asked her if she planned to cover the opening of the time capsule, buried by the town fathers in 1830, and she assured him she would be there on New Year’s Eve for the final article in her series. They’d even talked about how the stone marking the location of the capsule seemed in such a strange place, in a corner of the square so thick with trees, Shaelyn had never even seen it until she went looking for it.
And now she stared at McBane’s Apothecary, a fairly new building instead of the nearly two century old structure of yesterday, standing alone on the corner instead of surrounded by other buildings, as it should be. The sign that read “Proudly serving Cape Helm since 1825” was nowhere in evidence.
She squinted at the building as icy hot chills crawled across the back of her neck. Panic seized her, making her earlier struggle with Charles feel like afternoon tea. As she stared at the drugstore, a woman dressed in early nineteenth century clothing stepped out the door, opened a parasol, then nodded to a man in equally antique attire as she strolled away. The man tipped his hat, then turned to admire the view from behind. A horse-drawn carriage rattled down the street.
Shaelyn’s heart tap-danced in her chest. What in the world was happening to her? How hard had she hit her head in the companionway? Surely she was hallucinating.
She looked down the street, saw the familiar view of the ocean, and her breath turned to shallow, panicked gasps. Though her mind raced for possibilities, she could find no explanation for what she saw. She turned slowly, sweeping the landscape with her gaze, her mind vaguely registering the sight of Charles, bent and limping, making his way toward her. What registered clearly was the recognition of many of the homes she’d seen for years, newer now, some a shadow of what their remodeled structures would be. Dusk fell where streetlights should have brightened the landscape. Another carriage rolled down the street, and a rider on horseback trotted along at a fast clip.
Strong hands grasped her arms from behind in an ironclad grip. She didn’t struggle. She was too numb to struggle. She simply moved one foot in front of the other as the hands pulled her back toward the carriage.
The grip gentled when she failed to resist, and Charles’ face swam before her eyes as he guided her into the carriage.
Shouldn’t she try to run? Shouldn’t she scream for help? But she knew it would be useless to fight him right now. How could she fight a hallucination? She tried to remember if he had given her something to drink. To eat. How had he drugged her?
She had no concept of time, no idea how long they’d been in the closed carriage before it lumbered to a stop and the door flew open. A fresh gust of cool night air swirled inside, teasing her numbed mind, stirring a hint of life back into her.
“We’re home,” Charles said, the first of his words to penetrate her consciousness. She didn’t bother to answer. Stepping from the carriage, she sucked in her breath at the magnificent house before her, perched above the ocean like a sentinel. Built of huge blocks of granite, the home was a sea lover’s dream, with sweeping arches, large, diamond-paned leaded windows looking out in every direction, stone balconies with sets of French doors opening onto them.
Ten foot tall, double-wide arched batten doors swung inward and a diminutive male figure appeared carrying an oil lamp. Behind him, candles and more lamps illuminated the entry hall that looked to be lined with portraits.
The now familiar, now welcome numbness crept back into Shaelyn’s mind. She stood in the crushed shell drive, staring vacantly at the house until Charles took her elbow and guided her up the wide, shallow front steps.
“Martin, this is my wife. Prepare the east room next to mine,” she heard Charles say, as if from a distance.
Seconds passed before the small man erased the shock from his features, said, “Yes, sir,” then disappeared into the house.
The carriage rumbled away into the darkness as Charles led her into an entry hall and up a flight of stairs at least eight feet wide.
Nowhere in the house was there a sign of the twentieth century. No evidence of electricity whatsoever. No light switches, no alarm systems, no TV’s or radios. This house was no more a part of the twentieth century than the one she’d run to for help.
The harder she looked for some hidden, overlooked piece of modern technology, the more she receded into herself, until she felt like a small child, peeking out at the world from within a dark, comfortable hiding place. Was she hallucinating the home as well, or had she fallen into a drugged sleep to dream its existence?
A maid garbed in a long black dress and white apron scurried around the room into which Charles guided her. The young, red-haired girl fluffed pillows on a bed big enough for a family of four. She drew back heavy brocade draperies the color of clotted cream, then drew back the matching lace sheers beneath to throw open the leaded, diamond-patterned casement windows facing the ocean.
Shaelyn stood in the center of the room, watching, not moving, until the girl left and Charles asked if she was hungry. She looked up at him and blinked. He seemed terribly uncomfortable for some reason. Why should he be uncomfortable? He asked her if she wanted food brought up and she continued to stare. Her mouth didn’t seem to want to work, and she wasn’t quite sure what the right answer was to his question.
Finally she turned away, a voice deep within telling her to pull herself together. Catching her reflection in a tall pier glass in the corner, she stopped and stared at the familiar face framed by an unfamiliar bonnet. Dirt smudged her cheeks and her arms had cuts on them from her tumble from the carriage. She reached up and pulled the ends of the bow on the now-battered hat, then dragged the frilly bonnet off and tossed it on a chaise. Her hair tumbled in a wavy mass from where she’d stuffed it under the hat. She plowed her fingers to her scalp and shook out her hair, fluffing curls back into it, working out some of the tangles, trying to clear her mind.
Charles made some odd sound deep in his throat, but she ignored him. Maybe if she ignored him long enough, he and the rest of this hallucination would go away.
Turning her numb thoughts away from him, she slipped out of the short, bolero-type jacket, then dropped to the edge of the chaise and kicked off the soft, green slippers.
Another strangled sound came from Charles’ direction. He said something about sending someone to help her undress, which she ignored, then he strode across the expanse of the gleaming parquet floor, opened a heavily-carved pocket door into the wall, then slid it shut behind him.
Shaelyn wanted nothing more than to shut her mind down and let it rest. Perhaps then she could make sense of these bizarre happenings.
With the skill of a contortionist, she managed to unbutton the top and bottom buttons on her gown. She shed the layers of clothing, unsnapped her pouch purse, slipped it under the mattress, then crawled into bed and fell asleep before her head hit the pillow.
*******
What had he gotten himself into? Had he married a mad woman?
Alec paced the floor while he peeled off his jacket and then his tie. He finally loosened his collar, as he had wanted so badly to do all day. With a yank that nearly pulled the cord from the wall, he rang for a servant.
Within seconds a quiet knock sounded on the open door to the hallway and Margaret stood just inside, waiting to do his bidding. Fiery red curls escaped the prim cap on her head and Alec wondered idly if she’d been indiscreet again with the gardener.
“Please take a tray of food to…the lady’s room, then see if she needs help undressing.” Even though she only bothered to half dress to begin with.
He’d thought Phillipa would offer an explanation when she removed her bonnet and her hair tumbled out, obviously having been merely crammed underneath. But she’d only shaken the curls loose with a contented sigh as if it were a common thing for her to wear her hair in such a fashion. But when she’d unashamedly removed her jacket to reveal a gaping expanse of unfastened buttons, Alec could only conclude that she was either mad or a loose woman, of which he desired to be wed to neither.
He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and dropped into a chair, immediately feeling the damage her knee had done earlier in the evening.
Never had he done such an insane thing in his life. Indeed, this may have been the only insane thing he’d ever done, which only gave justification to all his years of common sense.
He had been prepared to weather the considerable wrath of his father in order to free Charles to find his own happiness. He’d been prepared to be a dutiful, as well as discreet, husband to Phillipa. He’d been prepared to be a good, loving father…the type of father he and Charles had never had. And now it seemed he’d better prepare himself to spend a lifetime of making excuses for a beautiful wife who lived in her own world, who said her name was really something else, who only bothered to partially dress, who ran into strangers’ homes, babbling incoherently…
Alec moaned, long and loud, then stood and shrugged out of his suspenders. He tried not to think as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it over the back of a chair.
This day had certainly not gone as planned. He’d expected to wed a homely woman today and then get on with his life. He should be in her room right now, consummating the marriage so that Charles could have a life with Mary. But the woman seemed distraught enough already. He wouldn’t do anything tonight to add to her unstable frame of mind.
He’d unfastened the top two buttons of his trousers when a strange, high-pitched sound came from behind the closed pocket doors. Alec stopped and listened, then realized it was the sound of his new wife crying.
He stood at the door for only a moment before sliding it open and crossing to the bed. She’d left every single lamp burning, and Alec could see she was crying in her sleep. He should leave her alone; go back to his room and retire for the night. But her muffled cries were so pitiful, so childlike.
He sank to the edge of the bed beside her. The covers bunched around her chin and she huddled beneath them, her hair curling like silk auburn ribbons across the pristine white of the pillow. Saint’s blood, she looked like an angel. A slight frown creased her brow and her dark lashes came to inky spikes from the tears that dampened her cheeks.
Was she crying in her sleep because of him?
Shame swept over him as he stared down at the uncommonly beautiful face. He’d not given a moment’s thought to Phillipa’s feelings, how she would feel at being swept up and married to a stranger the moment her ship tied up at the dock. And how would she feel when she learned that she’d been deceived, married to a man she had no knowledge of, quite possibly didn’t even know existed, instead of the man her family had betrothed her to in childhood?
And while he was being painfully honest with himself, Alec had to wonder if he would have given any of this a second thought, were he gazing down at the homely face he’d expected to marry. Indeed, would he be looking upon her at all?
Spurred by the shame he was not accustomed to feeling, he decided then and there to make his unconscionable behavior up to his wife. He would not insist on consummating the marriage until she was ready to take that step. He would do what he could to ease her into the position of being married to a stranger. And he would worry about a possible annulment only if the occasion arose.
She sobbed again and he found himself gently brushing a tendril of hair from her cheek. The moment his hand touched her skin, she shot upright and flew into his arms, wrapping her arms about his neck and burying her face in his bare shoulder.
After a moment of shock, he realized she was still asleep. He started to lay her back down, but the feel of her hair against his cheek, the warmth of her body, her scent, all felt so good, so right, that he brought his hands up to pull her closer.
Bolts of fire shot up his fingertips when they encountered bare skin at her back. The woman had no nightclothes on!
Someone knocked on the bedchamber door and a moment later the door swung inward.
Alec swiveled on the side of the bed when the tray of food in Margaret’s hand rattled as if she would drop it. Phillipa jerked awake, jumping away with a yelp, staring first at Alec and then at Margaret. The sheet covering her fell, revealing her lack of clothing in all her glory. Margaret stammered an apology and fled while Phillipa scrambled to cover herself.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” she screamed, loud enough to do damage to his hearing. She tried to shove him off the bed, but he held his ground.
“You were crying in your sleep--”
“I don’t cry in my sleep.”
“Yes, you do. I came in to see if you needed comforting.”
“I don’t cry in my sleep, and I sure don’t need comforting from a whacko kidnapper! Get out!”
He stood then, some of his earlier shame melting away at her words.
“Phillipa, I realize now I should have waited--”
“My name is Shaelyn! S-H-A-E-L-Y-N! If you were out to kidnap Phillipa, you’ve got the wrong woman! Just take me back to the ship and--”
“But the ring--”
“You want the ring? Take the stupid ring! Take my credit cards! Take whatever you want! Here…”
She struggled to pull her betrothal ring from her finger. He stopped her with his hand but she jerked away and continued to struggle.
“Phillipa, I don’t want the ring.” He tried to take her hand again, but she turned her back on him. “I see my presence is upsetting you. I’ll leave now, but in the morning we are going to have a long talk.”
She made a rude noise as he rose, but he simply closed his eyes and shook his head.
When he shut the door behind him, a wave of relief nearly weakened his knees. The woman was indeed mad, but what he could not credit was this strange, overwhelming attraction he felt for her. Almost from the moment his gaze had fallen on her. And then to have her press herself against him, warm and fragrant and naked…
With a disgusted sigh, he shoved his arms into his dressing gown and went in search of Martin, whom he found inspecting the kitchen.
“Send someone to fetch my wife’s aunt, Martin. Ned should be on his way back with the trunks, and he can give directions to where she’s staying. I have yet to introduce her to the staff. I shall attend to that tomorrow.”
Martin nodded, his face as impassive as ever. “As you wish, sir.”
Fatigue crept into Alec’s mind and body, and suddenly all he wanted was to lose himself in sleep and put this day behind him.
“I’m not to be disturbed for the remainder of the night.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alec climbed the stairs back to the second floor, wondering the whole way if he would find sleep this night, and if he did, would it be without nightmares?
CHAPTER THREE
Ned stood just inside the bedchamber door, holding a canvas bag, crushing his cap in his fists, looking ready to run as Alec gawked at
him in disbelief.
“What do you mean Phillipa Morgan is dead? She is asleep behind that door. I married her yesterday.”
It was Ned’s turn to gawk. When the man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed like a buoy on rough seas.
“All I know, sir, is what the Cap’n told me. Phillipa Morgan’s great aunt Euphilia took sick and died last week, and not an hour after they buried her at sea, Miss Morgan took to her bed as well. She died two days later. They buried her at sea the same day. The Cap’n said he ain’t no doctor, so he don’t know what they died of. He weren’t happy to be having a sickness on his ship. Said he lost six passengers to it.”
Alec dropped into the leather chair by the window, trying to absorb the meaning of Ned’s words. He flinched when Ned cleared his throat and rolled his eyes in Alec’s direction.
“There’s more?” Alec groaned. At his coachman’s squirming reluctance to answer, Alec stood, poured himself a healthy measure of whiskey and tossed it down his throat. He couldn’t recall having ever before drunk whiskey at six o’clock in the morning. Of course, he’d never before had the need. “Out with it, Ned,” he wheezed past the fire in his stomach, certain he didn’t want to hear more.
“The Cap’n said she weren’t traveling with nobody else. He let me talk to the crew. Some of the men said they saw a woman onboard, after the boat docked, a real looker, but she weren’t on the voyage.” He wrung his cap between his hands and grimaced as he peered up at Alec. “They said she looked to be getting herself wed to some swell, but they couldn’t figure out why they was doin’ it onboard, since neither one sailed on the ship.”
Alec turned to the window and rammed a hand through his hair, but Ned cleared his throat again. Alec let his head drop to his chest before he turned and growled, “Go on.”
“The Cap’n said Miss Phillipa’s trunks’d been gone through, and these,” Ned held up the canvas bag, “was found in the cabin. He sent Miss Phillipa’s trunks along, since your brother was her betrothed and all.”
