by Jenny Lykins
She’d never really cared about looking for her birth parents, partly because there were no clues or paper trails to follow, and partly because she had no desire to meet anyone who would abandon a three day old baby in an airport terminal, but mostly because her adoptive parents had given her so much love and support, she couldn’t imagine biological parents doing more. She loved her parents every bit as much, if not more, as her friends loved theirs. As far as she was concerned, Louisa and Jack Sumner were the best mom and dad anyone could ever ask for.
How many of those parents had agonized for years over having a baby? Filled out reams of paperwork? Had their lives and lifestyles scrutinized under a microscope until the agency knew more about them and their families than they knew themselves? And that was just to get a baby. Then came the social workers, showing up at a moment’s notice, inspecting the house and the child, checking off every item the courts deemed necessary for a baby to have, even though parents with their own babies were left to their own devices.
Jack and Louisa Sumner had never begrudged the stiff requirements. They had even taken up for Shae’s birth mother, reasoning that she had probably been a young teenager, confused and desperate. She’d probably left Shae in that infant carrier in the airport because she’d known the baby would be found quickly and taken care of. Besides, they’d always pointed out with a hug and a smile, if the girl hadn’t left Shaelyn there, then who would they be hugging right then? More than once, Louisa had puddled up and told Shaelyn how grateful she was to that young mother and the sacrifice she’d made; how she’d like to thank the woman for giving her a child. And Shaelyn had come to thank that mother herself.
The whimpers increased as she fought her way out of the nightmare. Finally her mind surfaced enough from the swirling images to wake herself. She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness, then rolled over, trying to escape the oppressive loneliness already settling in. As always, not a hint of the dream lingered. Just the loneliness.
She tossed the light quilt aside and swung her feet to the floor. Had Alec heard her this time? Would he burst through those doors and scoop her into those strong, safe arms of his?
She listened for him, hoping, but she could hear no sounds in the other room.
With a sigh, she rose from the bed, turned up the low-burning lamp, pulled on one of Phillipa’s looser gowns, then slid her feet into a pair of leather slippers. What she wouldn’t give for her jeans and tee shirt left draped across the bunk on the ship.
She closed her burning eyes in defeat. She had more to worry about than the fate of a pair of jeans.
No doubt the conversation with Alec and his attorney had triggered her nightmare. Nothing like having a guy desperately deny sleeping with you, even if he actually didn’t, to make a girl feel wanted. Especially when his goal was an annulment for a marriage that never should have happened.
She fumbled with the buttons on the gown and stared at her reflection in the night-blackened glass of the window. If she was honest with herself, she would admit that she’d wanted Alec to beg her to stay married to him and to leave the ring on her finger. Whether or not she could do that - stay in 1830 and never see her parents again, never see her native time - she didn’t know.
But she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that when she went back to 1999, she would miss Alec for the rest of her life.
With the last button fastened, she tiptoed to his adjoining door and listened one more time. When she still didn’t hear any signs of activity, she fought down the stab of disappointment, then coughed delicately, but loud enough to be heard. Still nothing. She gave some thought to dropping a book or “helping” a window slam shut, but decided maybe it was best if she just walked off her nightmare in the gardens.
She crept down the stairs and made her way outside, tripping over the hem of her gown twice before collecting the skirts and throwing them over her arm. The darned things were cumbersome enough with petticoats, but without them the hem dragged the ground by a good two inches.
When she stepped into the gardens, the cool night air swept away the last remnants of the nightmare. She combed her fingers through her hair and let the flower and salt scented breeze sweep the strands behind her. How she loved summers in Maine, with nights so cool one could curl up comfortably in front of a fire. So different from the oppressive, smothering heat of Louisiana. Even at this time of night the air there would be thick with moisture and still heavy from the heat of the day. But the winters at home were wonderful. Sunny days. Christmas shopping in shirt sleeves.
She sighed.
Caught between two worlds. Would she ever feel like she belonged in one place over another? And now one time over another? With every day she spent there, every moment she spent with Alec, she felt more and more comfortable in the nineteenth century than her own time. Even with all the stuffy, unwritten rules and lack of conveniences.
Small rocks and shells crunched quietly beneath her feet as she roamed aimlessly through the paths of the garden, the peacefulness reminding her of her all-too-brief vacations there in the future. Amazing, how little this 1830 part of Maine had changed from its 1999 counterpart.
An assortment of fragrances wafted on the breeze - roses, petunias, several unnamed flowers which thrived in the cool summers of the North but would never survive the enervating heat of the South. She plucked a waning rose and idly pulled off the petals as she walked.
The soft, golden lights of a ship bobbed in the Stygian waters fifty yards off shore as it slowly made its way up the coast.
She found herself at the steps overlooking the water, and as always, she was drawn to the beach as the tide is drawn to the moon.
The damp berm muffled her footsteps along the water’s edge. Gazing at the star-spattered sky and sorting through a myriad of emotions, she leaned against a huge boulder and stared up at the heavens, the remnants of the rose still in her hand.
How could it be that one moment all that separated their lips was a ragged, warm breath, and the next Alec was facing her across a desk with an attorney, raking desperate fingers through his hair and searching for a way to get rid of her?
The sound of oars slapping against water pulled her attention from her contemplative thoughts. She squinted, scanning the gently rolling waves, then finally caught sight of a rowboat when it scraped to shore. A man jumped out, dragged the boat onto the beach, then tied it off as two other silhouettes staggered from the boat. Had they come from the ship headed north?
A frisson of twentieth century panic froze her. She was alone on a deserted beach in the middle of the night, and the three passengers of the dark rowboat were dressed in black, as camouflaged as a guerrilla in jungle warfare.
Shaelyn pressed herself against the rock and dropped the dark, heavy skirts to cover her legs. If she didn’t move, would they see her?
Murmuring male voices drifted to her but she couldn’t make out the words. One of the three silhouettes, Shaelyn realized with a start, was a woman who’d fallen from the small boat onto her knees, the unmistakable sound of retching mingling with the men’s voices. One of the men helped her to her feet, and the two followed the one who had tied off the boat.
As they drew closer, Shaelyn inched her way around the boulder, trying not to step on crunchy shells, praying that they would pass by her and disappear down the beach. She caught snatches of a deep voice distorted by lapping waves and three sets of feet scuffling across the rocky shore.
“...stay in the cave...authorities looking for you...”
She held her breath and willed herself invisible. They drew nearer. The woman moaned occasionally. Shaelyn planned what she would do if she were caught. Three against one. But the woman was obviously sick. Could she escape two men?
She could hear their footsteps on the other side of the boulder now. Would they pass by? Could they see the edge of her skirts? She took one more tiny step to the left and breathed a sigh of relief…until the tiny shell beneath her slipper crunched. To her it sounded like t
he crack of a gunshot inside a church.
The footsteps halted. Shaelyn held her breath. She pressed against the rock, then slumped in relief when the footsteps resumed.
“Who are you?”
She yelped when a hand grabbed her left arm and yanked her away from the boulder. Without benefit of thought, her knee came up and plowed into the groin of her attacker, making contact a split second before she gasped his name.
“Alec!”
His breath whooshed from his lungs like air wheezing from a bellows as he curled forward, gagging.
“Alec! Are you all right? What are you doing out here?”
He stayed doubled over, his knees together, his hands cupping that so dear to all men, dry heaving. She tried to help him upright, but he shrugged off her hands and crab-walked several feet away. Undaunted, she followed him.
“I’m sorry, Alec! I didn’t know who you were! For all I knew - ”
“Don’t!” he managed to gasp. He moved away from her again, but she followed, tripped, tossed her skirts over her arm, and trailed after him as he tried to walk off the pain. A massive, gentle hand touched her arm before she reached him.
“Ain’t nothin’ you can do to help him.” Shaelyn looked up into the face of a huge black man, his eyes gentle yet wide with fear. “You needs to let him be, so’s he can lay down.”
Her gaze swung back to Alec, who’d staggered to a relatively smooth patch of beach and dropped to his knees. He fell to his side and continued to gag. She looked back at the man, then moved her gaze to the woman beside him.
Runners, she thought, her mind automatically thinking in the Southern vernacular. Even in the twentieth century, in the stories of long-ago runaway slaves, they’d been called runners. The bayous of Louisiana were filled with such stories. Where had these two come from, and why were they with Alec?
Was he part of the underground railroad?
“Shaelyn.” The raspy, pain-filled voice made her cringe.
“Yes, Alec?” she answered, her voice about as meek as it had ever been in her life.
He writhed on the ground several more seconds, visibly forcing himself to regulate his breathing and to stop moaning. Finally he rolled onto his knees, then staggered to his feet, still bent at the waist, his hands on his thighs now as he tried unsuccessfully to straighten.
When he glared up at her, the glittering gold of his eyes nearly visible in the colorless shades of night gray, Shae mentally squirmed at having done this to him a second time.
“Saint’s blood, Shaelyn,” he finally gasped, “what are you doing on...” he stopped and cringed for a moment, “...on the beach at this hour?”
She took a step toward him, but he stopped her with a glare.
“I...I couldn’t sleep. I always walk on the beach when I can’t sleep.”
He cursed under his breath and took a few more crouching steps.
His attitude irritated her more than a little. She had a right to walk on the beach whenever she darn well felt like it. All she’d done was protect herself. He’d more or less asked for her knee to his groin both times she’d delivered it. Would he rather she make it a habit of swooning or getting the vapors whenever she felt threatened?
“What are you doing on the beach at this hour?” She threw his question back at him, with enough defiance in her voice to gain herself another glare. She ignored him and turned to the couple witnessing this whole exchange.
“Hi.” She offered her hand to the enormous black man. He stared at it suspiciously. “I’m Shaelyn Sumner...Hawthorne.” She flicked a glance at Alec, then went on, undaunted. “I’m Alec’s wife. And you are...?”
Neither of the frightened slaves answered nor made a move to take her hand.
“Who they are is not important.” Alec limped up to the little group, grabbed Shaelyn by the arm, and dragged her toward the steps back up to the gardens. “Go back to the house. We’ll discuss this later.”
She jerked her arm free and snatched up her skirts to keep from tripping. “Let me help you, Alec. Women worked on the underground railroad all the time.”
She had to hand it to him. He didn’t bat an eyelash. Instead, he laughed a humorless laugh.
“Don’t be ludicrous, Shaelyn. I know nothing of the underground railroad, other than it is a myth concocted by journalists to sell newspapers, or politicians to stir the slavery issue on both sides. I took this couple off one of my ships bound for Nova Scotia because Naomi was seasick and the physician feared she would lose the baby. This couple is free. Robert is a blacksmith. He’s going to work there.”
Shaelyn nodded and rolled her eyes. “That’s why they’re scared to death. And why you said something about the authorities looking for them.”
He stared her down. She didn’t blink. She wanted to help, darn it. Imagine helping someone escape to freedom. Imagine a twentieth century woman working on the underground railroad. And a journalist at that!
As they waged their battle of wills, Robert and Naomi fidgeted, staring down the beach with worried looks. Finally, Robert crushed his hat between his beefy hands and cleared his throat.
“Mistah Hawthorne, suh. They’s somebody comin’.”
Alec jerked his head around, then hustled the couple behind the boulder.
“There’s a narrow cave back there. Get into it, then pull the bushes back across the opening.”
Once the couple had disappeared, Alec turned back to Shaelyn and yanked her toward the steps.
“Get back to the house and call for Martin. I’ll try - ”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’ll see me go up the steps. How will you explain what you’re doing out here?” What was the penalty for helping slaves to freedom thirty years before the Civil War?
“Shaelyn,” he hissed as the voices grew louder, “I said go back - ”
Without thinking, she threw herself into his arms, locked her mouth to his, then pulled his shirt free from his trousers. When he recovered from his shock, he wrapped his arms around her and did a very convincing job of thoroughly kissing her. She took a moment to loosen the top buttons of her bodice and drag one side slightly off her shoulder, their lips never parting. He deepened the kiss and she rose to meet him as he turned and pressed her against the boulder, every inch of his body now contoured to hers. Their tongues met, and Shae nearly convulsed at the heat that arrowed through her. She melted against him, slid her hands under his shirt, shivered at the indescribable feel of hard muscle under warm skin. The air was so cool, the wind off the ocean chilling, but inside his shirt rose the heat of a Louisiana night. She traced the outline of his muscles while his hands worked their own magic, working their way up her bodice and down to her hips, pressing her ever closer to him. A tiny sigh escaped her throat as the heat of his hands burned through the thin fabric of her gown.
“Well, what have we here?”
When Alec jerked away, Shaelyn didn’t have to fake her gasp of surprise. His touch, his kiss, had wiped the existence of these men from her mind. He’d reduced her to a weak-kneed, aching mass of lust.
“Be on your way!” Alec ordered, his voice as raspy as Shaelyn’s knees were weak. He glared at the two men while he tucked in his flapping shirttails. Shaelyn made a half-hearted attempt to drag her gown back over her exposed shoulder, more to get the men’s minds off looking for Robert and Naomi than from an sense of modesty. After all, she showed a heck of a lot more than a shoulder every time she went to the beach in her own time.
Her gesture drew their attention, and their leering gazes evaporated the last lingering effects of Alec’s melting kiss.
“I said be on you way,” Alec repeated, more threatening this time, “or explain why you are trespassing on my property.”
The two men dragged their gazes from Shaelyn’s exposed flesh to glare at Alec. One of the men, the smaller of the two, sniffed constantly, as if he had a bad cold. The other man, tall and thin and harsh, stared at Alec. Shaelyn could see from the look in the man’s eyes that he was not
one who would be easily tricked.
“Did a small rowboat come ashore near here?” he asked, ignoring Alec’s demand. Though it shouldn’t have, the man’s heavy Southern accent surprised Shaelyn.
“I will not ask again,” Alec growled. “Either leave now or explain yourselves.”
The man stared Alec down, then finally nodded in acquiescence.
“Franklin Tilburn, suh, of Georgia. I am chasin’ a shipload of runners.”
“Overland?” Alec snorted.
“We were on the ship followin’ them.” Alec’s body stiffened beneath Shaelyn’s fingers, but he showed no outward signs of concern. “We saw a rowboat meet the ship, so Riggs here and I followed. We lost sight of where they came ashore.”
Shaelyn watched the three men, certain that any moment they would start circling each other like dogs. The side bulges beneath the two Southerner’s coats were undoubtedly guns. She gasped, deliberately getting the attention of all three men.
“Why, Alec, darlin’,” she drew out her thickest Southern accent, which always seemed to surface anyway, whenever she got nervous. “Do you suppose those men in the boat...” She turned to Tilburn, hoping her eyes were wide with shock. “Why, suh, you mean to tell us those men were slaves?”
Tilburn’s hand moved to rest on the bulge at his side.
“You saw them? Where? Where did they go?”
Alec stepped in front of Shaelyn protectively. “If that is a weapon you’re holding, Tilburn, I’ll warn you not to use it on my property.” He turned to the perpetually sniffing Riggs. “You, either.”
“I have the authority to apprehend those slaves and return them to their masters,” Tilburn argued. “If you attempt to interfere - ”
“I am not interfering. I am protecting my property and my loved ones. The men came ashore where that boat is.” Alec pointed toward the shadow of the rowboat further up the beach. “Before I could get to them to question them about their business, they were met by a man with three horses. They rode north up the cliff path nearly a quarter of an hour ago.”
