by Julie Leto
He’d free her momentarily. Once he was certain she’d listen. For as much as he’d always craved his freedom, he’d known for many years that this world was entirely unlike the one from which he’d come. The way she spoke testified to drastic change in time and place. Aiden had no idea where he was, how he’d gotten here, or whether any of his brothers had suffered the same fate as he, but he intended to find out at the first opportunity. And chances were, he’d need her help to proceed.
Unfortunately, she didn’t seem the least bit cooperative. She raised her head and, in a whirl of movement, slammed her forehead hard against his. Dazed, he had no defense when she shoved hard against one shoulder and rolled him off her body.
When he’d regained clear vision, he found her standing, legs balanced on bouncing feet, arms curved, hands open, eyes wide and focused. She was ready for battle.
He rolled over onto his back and tried to contain his laughter.
“Stand down, my lady. I am not here to hurt you.”
“As if you could if you wanted to, you thug,” she said, kicking out with her foot. Her heel connected with his knee and he yelped.
She moved to repeat the painful strike, but he reacted quickly, grabbing her foot and yanking upward so that her momentum sent her flying onto her curvaceous backside. She landed with a thud, but before he could offer an apology for his unthinking reaction, she arched her back, kicked up both legs and landed upright, back in the fighting stance.
Air rushed into his gaping mouth.
She quirked a grin. “Thought all my moves were special effects and stunt doubles, did you?”
Aiden drew himself to his full height. A good row was an excellent way to work through pent-up need. But having the woman who’d fueled his carnal desires as his opponent? He thought he might explode for the lascivious beauty of it.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, my lady, but it would be ghastly of me to take advantage of you in physical combat.”
She laughed. “Think you can?” With a curl of her fingers, she invited him to strike. “Bring it, brother. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Aiden grinned. The fear he’d caught in her eyes earlier had totally disappeared. The woman oozed confidence, and while Aiden knew he should have been scandalized by her attitude, instead he was enamored. He’d seen such feminine bravery only once before—in Scotland. On the opposing side. One of the rebellious clans had allowed a few chosen women to fight, though under great subterfuge. Nonetheless, once their ruse had been discovered, Aiden had been thoroughly disgusted that men would allow their womenfolk to face death…completely unlike the way he felt now.
He feinted left, then charged right, but she’d been ready for his false move. Grabbing him by the forearm, she spun, using his own momentum to twirl him around, then kicked his midsection with her powerful leg so that he went flying across the soft floor. Tucking his shoulder, he rolled and popped back to standing, just in time to catch her foot before he suffered another hard kick to his stomach.
He held her steady.
“You fight like a man,” he assessed.
“No need to insult me,” she countered, leveling a punch to the side of his jaw.
He staggered and released her foot. She spun behind him, then flattened him with a kick to his back.
Expecting her to pounce, he rolled over. Instead of diving atop him, as he so desired, she soared overhead in an arc worthy of an acrobat. When she emerged on the other side, she’d reclaimed the sword he’d so carelessly tossed aside. Once again the blade was leveled at him, but this time she didn’t seem so intent on cutting him to ribbons.
The edges of her mouth tilted upward in a tentative grin while her breasts bounced lusciously.
“Tell me…honestly,” she demanded, breathless. “Who…are you?”
With a sniff, Aiden stood, took two steps back and bowed as he would have to any of the gentle ladies he might have met at the court of King George II, his sovereign monarch. “I cannot tell you more than I already have, my lady. My name is Aiden Forsyth. I’m the second son of Lord John Forsyth, Earl of Hereford. I was a soldier in the army of George the Second, victorious under Cumberland at the Battle of Culloden, and was journeying to my family at the colony in Valoren when I was cursed by a black-hearted, vile sorcerer named Rogan and trapped in the sword you are now pointing at my heart.”
She blinked. “You’re either a very good actor or you’re a crazed fan.”
“I’m no actor,” he assured her. “And frankly, I have no idea what a ‘crazed fan’ is. So I can neither confirm nor deny if I am one.”
Her cynicism shone in her eyes. He could not blame her. He’d hardly believe the story himself had he not lived it. He considered leaving, but as a soldier he knew better than to charge into any situation without proper exploration and planning. Lives were lost when fools rushed in. Or out, as the case might be.
The world outside these mirrored walls was hers, not his. He guessed as much from his time on the mantel in the house above the ocean. The curse had trapped him, but from the moment Lauren had discovered the sword in the antiques shop, his awareness of his surroundings had increased. And yet he knew he’d need her help to navigate this time. To help him return to England. Perhaps to what was left of his family.
Unfortunately, in order to ensure her assistance he knew of only one way to prove that he was who he claimed to be.
“You bought the sword in a disgustingly dusty shop in Dresden.”
The sword wavered as she shook her head. “Ross could have told you that. He loved showing off his prize.”
He nodded. True enough. Aiden had been aware of the powerful man who’d bought the sword for Lauren, parading various people by the case and boasting of the minimal price he’d paid for such a worthy specimen—and how he’d had offers ten times the amount to sell to other collectors.
“But he purchased the sword for you, did he not? As a gift. A gift he kept from you, no matter how angry you became. You spent hours admiring the sword in his study, oftentimes after you’d had a swim in the pool just visible from the study where the sword was kept.”
She pulled the sword up tight. Had he made a tactical error?
“What are you? A stalker?”
“Another word I do not understand, my lady.”
She stepped back. “Ross has incredible security in his house. His staff has been with him for years.” Suddenly she charged forward and grabbed him by the collar with her free hand.
“I don’t recognize you. You couldn’t have been anywhere near Ross’s house without my noticing.”
“Unless I was in the sword,” he countered.
“That’s impossible,” she insisted.
She had a point. To anyone unfamiliar with the power of magic, what he claimed was insane. But he’d had centuries to come to terms with the magic. He was living proof.
He glanced at the sword. The curse had been imbued into the metal; of that he was sure.
“Then I will simply have to prove that what I’ve said is true,” he said, then disappeared into the darkness.
Three
Lauren screamed. After sprinting to the door, she flipped on the lights, gasping, her heart racing as she scanned the room for any sign of the man she’d just sparred with. He’d seemed so…familiar. So…solid.
Where had he gone?
Her gaze darted to the sword on the mat. With complete fascination, she realized that beside the weapon were two thick indentations in the cushioned floor—two indentations the size of a rather large man’s feet. Two indentations that suddenly started toward her.
She doused the lights again, hoping she could slip away in the darkness, but he grabbed her by the arm and reeled her in to him. She connected with his chest with a thud. He was hard and hot and very, very real.
And also very, very invisible.
“How are you doing this?”
When he spoke, his breath teased the side of her cheek. “Magic.”
Even though she couldn’t see him, she could feel his gaze rake down her body. Her nipples tightened, and the quiver of fear in her belly dipped lower and changed into something deeper, darker and hungrier. She’d seen him for only a few flashes in the deceptive blue light, but his attractiveness had been hard to miss. Dark hair worn past his shoulders. Light eyes. Pale blue, perhaps gray. And a body lean, muscled and honed for battle. She’d gotten in her licks, but she knew he’d held back, toying with her—not out of arrogance, but out of a clear intention not to hurt her. Lauren had seen enough street fights in her youth to know when a guy was holding back from kicking ass.
She reached out and found his shoulders precisely where she imagined they’d be.
“Holy—”
He cut off her curse. “Now do you believe me?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” she answered honestly, and was thankful he was holding her, because she suddenly felt on the verge of collapse. “In my line of work, there are geniuses who could make the Statue of Liberty disappear.”
A chuckle lilted his voice. “I assume this statue is very large?”
She closed her eyes tightly. This couldn’t be happening. Magic didn’t really exist. Magic was what the technicians and engineers and special-effects wizards created on the screen. Even in the studio, during a shoot that hadn’t yet been turned over to the CGI guys, she’d been amazed at the effects that could be achieved the old-fashioned way: with mirrors, wires and other cinematic sleights of hand.
But an invisible man holding her so tightly against him, her entire body was reacting in traitorous, yet delicious ways?
“Are you a ghost?” she asked.
“Do I feel ghostly?”
She swallowed thickly. Ghostly? No. Amazingly hard and warm and powerful? Oh, yeah.
“Why are you here?”
“You freed me from the curse. Released me from the sword.”
“How?”
“I am afraid, my lady, that I do not know.”
Every word he spoke aroused her as the adrenaline from their fight morphed into something even more elemental. His voice was incredibly confident and smooth, in keeping with his fighting style—restrained, yet brimming with power.
“I need to sit down,” she said, her voice shaky.
He did not release her. “You will not run?”
She took a deep breath. “Make yourself solid again.”
“I assure you, my lady, though you cannot see me, I am still quite solid.”
Yeah, she could feel that. There was a telltale bulge near her hip that she was trying—wholly unsuccessfully—to ignore.
She licked her lips, attempting to alleviate the sudden dryness there. “I stand corrected. Please make yourself visible. I don’t like talking to the air. Even in the dark.”
Seconds later he not only materialized into view, but the dim blue lights she’d doused bloomed again with their suddenly strange sapphire glow. If she hadn’t been standing so close, holding him with her own hands, she would not have believed the magic that was so clearly real.
“Okay, now I really need to sit down.”
After another slight bow that was totally congruous with his costume, which consisted of snug breeches and a stiff white shirt that smelled vaguely of rain, he led her across the room to a stack of trunks. Lauren hopped on top, spread her legs and lowered her head between her knees. Gulping in huge breaths, she tried to come up with a rational explanation for…
“What is your name again?” she asked.
“Aiden Forsyth.”
…for Aiden’s unbelievable appearance in her life.
“And you were trapped in the sword?”
“By a Gypsy curse, yes.”
The rush in her ears somehow made his story easier to believe.
“And what year did this happen?”
“Seventeen hundred and forty-seven.”
She wasn’t up to doing the math, but needless to say it was a hell of a long time ago. Centuries, even.
“You said Gypsies. Did this happen in France?”
The whole of her knowledge about Gypsies came from Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame and the various warnings she’d received prior to traveling to Europe.
“Valoren, actually,” he replied.
She sat up. Imaginary stars flew around her as her optical nerves adjusted to the retreat of blood from her brain. “Whoa,” she said, her balance skewed.
He grabbed her hand. God, he was warm. And strong. His fingers were slim sinews of muscle. His palm was rough and scarred.
“Are you—”
“I’m fine,” she said, swallowing thickly. “Look, I know crap about geography except what I’ve learned jetting around for location shoots. Where is Valoren?”
With a glance at the trunks, Aiden silently asked for permission to sit beside her. She scooted over to give him room.
“You are quite talented with a sword,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Honey. Vinegar. It’s all the same to me. Tell me more about Valoren.”
He pursed his lips, hopefully attempting to condense a large chunk of information into a quick sound bite. This was too crazy. Insane, even. She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d finally cracked and her divorce, the stress of trying to make the move from action-adventure heroine to more serious dramatic roles, the constant hounding from the paparazzi and her tragic lack of sex over the last year were driving her, like so many other actresses before her, beyond the edge of reason.
“Have you heard of King George?”
“I saw The Madness of King George,” she replied. “My ex is a movie producer. We watched a lot of movies.”
“What is a movie?”
“Never mind. You fill me in on your history first; then I’ll do my best to catch you up to this century.”
“Agreed. You do know that King George ruled England?”
“That much know,” she responded, somewhat proud of herself for retaining that tidbit. George, if she remembered correctly, was the crazy king who taxed the tea and caused the colonists to revolt. She’d caught that much knowledge during her sixth-grade play, when she’d been awarded the role of Betsy Ross.
“He was German; did you know that?”
“A German king of England? How did that happen?”
Aiden took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. “Very complicated succession. Let’s bypass that discussion.”
She smiled. “I’m starting to like you.”
“Likewise, my lady,” he replied, a glitter in his eyes. Which were, by the way, the most stunning platinum color she’d ever seen.
“London was quite overrun by Gypsies, who, with their very different ways, tended to live on the fringes of even the lowest society.”
“They were thieves and con artists?”
His mouth pinched a bit. Had she hit a nerve? Was he Gypsy?
“They were considered so, yes. And in many cases this was true. Those in the upper echelons of society wanted the king to imprison them all or, at the very least, expel them from the country. As you may know, Gypsies have no homeland.”
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t know that. I figured they all came from Romania or something.”
“They are wanderers,” he explained, and she guessed his advanced knowledge of the Gypsies came from a better source than her cartoons and travel guides. “The Romani believe in borrowing the earth, not owning it, which is why they do not stay in one place, if they can help it, for very long. However, the Gypsies of London were quite entrenched, having built a community that thrived. When I was but a boy, George the First was convinced by a rather kindhearted nobleman to move the Gypsy population to a colony of sorts, a track of land under the Hanoverian king’s control in Germany. The colony was called Valoren, and the village of the Gypsies, Umgeben.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“The place wasn’t discussed much in polite society. There the Gypsies, having no choice, established a small community.
They lived peacefully under the watchful eyes of this earl, who had been appointed governor.”
“Are you the earl?”
Aiden chuckled. “He was my father.”
“So you were next in line?”
“No, that delight would have fallen to my eldest brother, Damon.”
“You have more than one brother?”
“Five. And a sister. Half sister, truth be told. My youngest brother and sister were born to my father’s second wife. She was a Gypsy.”
“And she cursed you?”
“On more than one occasion, I’m sure,” he said with a rueful snort, “but not into the sword. She was a good woman. Made my father very happy. I wonder…” His voice trailed off, but he quickly snapped his spine straighter and continued his story. “The curse was placed, I believe, by an evil sorcerer by the name of Lord Rogan.”
Lauren listened intently while Aiden recounted the night he’d ridden with his brothers from the family’s estate into the village of Umgeben, not but a mile or so away, though tucked between two mountains in a treacherous valley that both protected the Gypsies from invaders and trapped them there for slaughter. She marveled at his matter-of-fact tone when she could see a swirl of emotions playing over his face. His jaw had tightened so that she thought it might snap the next time he spoke Lord Rogan’s name.
Instinctively, she cupped his chin with her hand. He stopped speaking, and his eyes, full of surprise, locked with hers.
“What?”
“This hurts you. To tell me, I mean,” she said.
He closed his eyes briefly, and when the lids lifted again the regret and anger she’d seen only seconds before were gone.
“Does it pain you to listen?”
She nodded. “Of course. A whole village vanished? An evil sorcerer who’d entranced them all into making him their leader?”
She shivered, thinking about Powers Boothe’s creepy portrayal of Jim Jones in that flick that had won an Emmy. And for a split second she wondered at her own blind obedience to Ross. She’d once followed that man around like a puppy: done what he told her, when he told her. She’d created a whole persona, from her hair to her clothes to her film roles, all on his “advice.” Advice, her ass. He’d been her Svengali, and she’d done nothing to fight him until she’d found him screwing his next creation.
