"Lady Mayfield..." Her name sounded like a warning on his tongue.
"I'm so sorry. I don't know why this happened. Why you are not you. This is your home in the future, Sebastian." She made a helpless gesture with her hands.
Laurel watched him stalk away and start looking at random items on the dresser and nightstand. Picking up a brush, he examined it and set it down. He did the same with a can of shaving cream that she'd left out earlier in the morning. Depressing the top by mistake, he ended up dropping the can in surprise when shaving cream streaked out. Snatching up a newspaper, he scanned the print. Shock registered on his face again when he read the date: May 2, 2009.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he said. "But this cannot be."
For the first time since Laurel had known him, Sebastian was reeling. He sank down into a chair, staring at the print, and then glanced across the room at her.
"It's the truth. This is your life in two-thousand-nine. Your house, your things," she said. "We're…you and I…we're…" She didn't know how to phrase their status.
He let the paper float to the floor, thrusting his hands back through his hair in agitation. "We are what, my lady?" His voice had taken on a gravely edge.
"Lovers. We're lovers, Sebastian."
"If nothing else, I believe that at least," he said, and rose from the chair.
Laurel stood still as he approached, hesitant and worried over his mood. Surprised when he looped an arm around her waist, she sank against his chest, reveling in his warmth and the steady beat of his heart. In his own way, despite his own shock, she thought he was trying to comfort her. When she spoke, her words were muffled by his shirt.
"Cromwell called Katherine and I into a meeting this morning, and probably several other ladies in waiting. They were trying to get confessions from us about what men had been having an affair with Anne. Cromwell was setting them up so that Henry could be rid of her and be free to marry Jane. Your name was on that list, Sebastian, and I denied that I'd ever seen you together, even though I know that you and she were secretly married."
Chapter Fifteen
I know you and she were secretly married.
The words rocked him. His careful secret was not the secret he believed it to be. In a world turned upside down, he tried to make sense of it all.
This was his future.
The lady was his lover.
He'd spoken the truth when he said he believed it. Their reaction to each other was too raw, too powerful. The desire to comfort her was as great as his shock and he kept his arms around her while she pressed against his chest. They anchored each other, he thought, through the turmoil they both felt.
The news about Cromwell and Anne sieved in slow, a steady drip of agony when he realized what the outcome would be.
"Jesus, he means to have her executed," he said, whipping his attention to the door. It was still just a regular door now, solid and sturdy. He looked down at Laurel and saw the truth of it in her eyes. There was agony there, too, for having to be the one to tell him.
“Yes.” She whispered the word. “Anne will be executed…and they will arrest you and…and…t …torture you. Beat you…so badly that…you cannot even walk … to your own e…execution.” By the time she managed to finish the sentence, the words were broken by quiet sobs.
Using his thumb, he swiped at the tears as they coursed down her cheeks, sharing her pain at his fate. Many things made sense now. She'd known the whole time that his life would be forfeit to Henry's whim. Her grief over his death made his heart beat double-time.
“I must go back. I cannot let her die alone, my lady,” he said, squeezing her before loosening his arms. He and Anne's situation had been foisted upon them against their will, at least in the beginning. Henry would not be denied. Anne had come to enjoy her position and although his pride had suffered, Sebastian could not allow her to face death by herself. It meant his own arrest and torture but his concern was for Anne rather than himself.
“Is it possible? I must return.”
He read the instant shock on her face at his suggestion. Like he had dealt her a physical blow. Her eyes widened, their expression horrified.
“… wh…no. Oh god, never. We can never go back. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry but that’s not possible. It failed the first time, and even the second. What if we wound up even further apart or something else went amiss? What if I was the one who did not remember? No, please. You have to understand. It’s too dangerous for the both of u--”
“And what of Elizabeth, her daughter?” He interrupted her and pinned an intent stare on her face. Sebastian felt sick at the possibility someone might know that secret, too.
“Elizabeth?” Laurel looked confused. “I'm not sure, Sebastian. If I remember correctly, she does not share Anne's fate.”
He took a second to steady his breathing, his self control and said nothing more for now on the subject of Elizabeth.
“If I am executed, how do we come to be lovers in this…time, my lady?” The realization had been startling when it first occurred to him. Cradling her cheek, he tried to stem the flow of her tears but he was stunned at the vehemence of her opposition to his return.
He didn’t belong here. And Anne. The sweet, passionate lover of his youth. His chest constricted when he considered her dying alone, a pawn in a game of power. For a moment his heart faltered in a strange, unhealthy beat that left him breathless and dizzy. It eased, leaving him with a light sheen on his brow.
“Well, you see, there was an intervention," she said through her distress.
Drawing in a deep breath, he focused on Laurel's words, dismissing the odd interlude in his chest.
“An intervention?” He moved his hand to her shoulder and then brought it up through the strands of his dark hair.
Tear-spiked lashes framed a pair of blue eyes that she pinned on him. At some point, she'd picked up a leather-bound book off the table. "This is your journal. You gave it to me some time ago to read. On your way to your execution, someone intervened. You were taken away and healed, I think, and then you were…ah…" She stammered into silence.
He glanced down at the open journal and was surprised to see his handwriting. The words had great impact on him.
Today, I die.
His head spun and started pounding. Pain pressed creases into his brow. “I do not understand you, my lady.”
“I’m afraid to tell you," she whispered.
He was too overwhelmed to push for details right now. Reeling, he watched her close the journal and set it on the table and realized how exhausted he was. He had been awake most of the night and had spent the morning taking his frustration out on sparring partners.
It seemed a million miles away now.
“Let’s rest first. Let me see to your wound, get you something to drink-- eat," she said, touching his arm with gentle fingers.
At the mention of his wound, he reached up as though in a fog and felt the cut on his jaw. When he drew his hand away his fingers were smudged with blood. His eyes had taken on a dull sheen, suggestive of some sort of shock. It was understandable. In a matter of moments the world as he knew it had undergone a radical change. Despite his current state, the wisdom of her words penetrated and he nodded terse agreement. He needed his wits about him, and he needed to be fed, rested, and rid of this god-awful pain in his head before he could think clearly.
Just as she turned away, a man's voice came out of nowhere.
“My lord, Caleb has returned and has a report."
Sebastian's gaze darted around the room. He saw no one but the lady. Who the devil was Caleb? He looked at Laurel with a question and confusion in his eyes.
“That’s Bernard,” she said. “He is upstairs. I’ll have him bring some food down.” She stepped toward a box on the wall beside the door and pressed a button.
“Bernard, will you…bring some food down? Meat, I think. Fruit, vegetables. Potatoes. Sebastian won’t be seeing Caleb at the moment. Things are…unusual right n
ow.”
There was a pause, and then -- “I will be down presently, madam.”
Sebastian watched as she talked to the box on the wall that somehow talked back. He had the strangest sense of helplessness; an emotion he had never been subjected to in his life. He was a Duke, master of his domain, in control, a man of power. But here…he had no idea how to survive here, how to understand this place.
He didn't register that she approached until she took his hand and led him toward a door.
“Bernard is your servant?” he asked as she led him.
“No,” she said. “He is your servant. This is your home.”
There was only a moment to let that sink in before they crossed into a smaller chamber, gleaming with white porcelain. She snapped a switch and lights shined down from overhead, startling him. He squinted upwards, trying to see the source of such vivid illumination. Just as he was about to inquire, she started explaining items in the room.
“This is the shower, and this is the toilet. A modern privy. You flush here.” She gestured toward a small silver lever.
While she stepped away to search for something beneath what he could only assume was some sort of washbasin, he bent down to inspect the toilet. Curious, he depressed the metal lever, startled when water rushed in and was sucked away. He watched in fascination, his keen mind making the connections, seeing the usefulness in having such an arrangement.
He almost smiled. “Clever.”
“Yes, very useful,” she agreed. "I admit I have missed it a lot."
Crouched, she searched through well-ordered boxes and bins, one hand braced on the edge of the basin. When she found what she sought, a white box with a red cross on the front, she stood up. Setting it on the counter, she rooted through the contents.
Straightening from his inspection of the toilet, he strode over to the sink next, reaching to turn one of the silver handles until water rushed from the spout. He ran his hand beneath the cool stream and marveled at the ease with which one could acquire fresh water.
“…shower, and a bath,” she was saying. “You can run hot water there. It feels great.”
“Hot water at the turn of a lever?” He glanced over as she talked, noting the wan smile she wore. At her direction, he dropped to his knee on the floor so she could reach to tend his wounds. In her hands she held a bottle of something that smelled stringent when she opened the top, and a puff of cotton.
“Yes. It’s wonderful to soak in the bathtub. The shower will spray it down over your shoulders and back,” she said. “This might sting a bit.”
She reached up to dab the medicinal smelling cleanser against his wound, and in the process the tee-shirt she wore rose up, revealing a sliver of bared flesh between that and her breeches. Sebastian’s eyes were drawn to the spot that looked so silken and tempting, and against all odds he could feel a distant stirring in his blood for her.
Almost before he knew what he was doing, his hand rose up to feather against her hip, and the strange material of her trousers. “Do you often wear breeches, my lady?” he asked, his glance flickering up to her face.
“Yes. These are called jeans. Women in this era wear them often. In fact, they wear pant-- breeches-- often.” She smiled as she spoke, a pale echo of what he knew she was capable of, and glanced down to meet his eyes. With a sudden look of mischief, mouth ticking at one corner, she said, “The Sebastian who lives here does not wear them often though. He wears suits and looks hot all the time."
“But it is cool in here.” Pause. “Suits of…armor?”
Her laughter was a balm on his weary soul. He found himself grinning despite the seriousness of the situation.
"That means…well that means that I think you look fantastic in suits. And no, not armor,” she said.
Sebastian remained an uncomplaining patient as she dabbed the stinging medicine on his wound, distracted by her attire and the way it framed her womanly curves. His hand slid up from her hip so he could finger the hem of the tee shirt, testing the softness of the material.
“It is very soft,” he said, his thumb inadvertently slithering across the bared sliver of skin on her belly. He heard her faint rasp of pleasure and glanced up. When their eyes met, he did feel hot.
He saw desire slip through her gaze before she finished cleaning his minor wound. Giving it a last few dabs with the cotton ball, she tossed it into the trash and capped the bottle.
Sebastian rose up from his kneeling position. His attention was drawn to the overhead lights set into the ceiling. "What manner of torches are these?”
From the corner of his eyes, he saw her mouth twitch.
“Fluorescent, I believe. Here, look,” she said, and his gaze stalked her as she moved to the wall and flipped a switch. Off. On. Off. On. “It’s called electricity. Some chubby bald guy hung a key on a kite, I think, and lightning struck it. Somehow, he was able to make electricity out of it. Sorry, it's been awhile since science class.”
Surprised, and amazed over this new discovery, Sebastian laughed and reached toward the switch to make the lights flicker like magic. Off. On. Off. On. Off. On … until he was dizzied and let his hand drop from the wall plate.
When the lady backed out of the bathroom, he followed, running a hand over the strange shirt and even stranger breeches he wore.
“It is scientific, this…electricity?”
“Yes, it certainly is. These are your clothes,” she said, stopping before a large armoire to open the doors.
Curious, he stepped up beside her and glanced at the clothing arranged on hangars. Picking a suit out, he held it up and examined the material. “Hn.”
He put it back, about to take out another when his eyes fell on a feminine dress with skinny straps and slinky material.
“Is this a nightshirt?” he asked, holding it up with a perplexed expression. It was…short.
She muffled her quiet laugh behind her fingertips. “No, that’s a dress.”
“Husbands allow their wives to be seen in this?” He was incredulous over the notion that women paraded around in so little in the modern age. At the same time, he couldn’t help but imagine what she would look like in such a thing. It made a devastating grin spread along his mouth.
“Yes, and much less than that, if you ever go to the beach. Women today are more relaxed about sex--”
Both their attention turned as Bernard entered the room, bearing a tray which he set on the table in the sitting area of the room.
“My lo--” the servant began, only to stop mid-sentence and give Sebastian a long, assessing look.
“Ah, thank you … Bernard, is it?”
Bernard’s eyes snapped in Laurel’s direction, his features a little paler than they had been.
“Quite so, my lord,” answered the older man, though he still stared at Laurel.
Sebastian turned his attention on her as well, and he could see the stricken expression that she shared with what was obviously his servant. He hung the dress back in the armoire.
“Things did not quite go as planned,” she said to Bernard.
“Evidently, madam.”
Bernard seemed about to say more, but quieted as Sebastian approached him, undertaking an intense study of his clothes and his demeanor. Clapping the servant on the shoulder, he veered around him toward the covered dishes on the tray, intent on replenishing his strength before finding a way to get home.
Laurel watched Sebastian walk over to the food, weary to the pit of her soul. When Bernard turned his attention to her, she met his concerned gaze. The butler was usually so stoic, but even she could detect the disturbance under his polished veneer.
“What happened?” Bernard asked, keeping his voice low.
“To put it simply, he did not know me at all when we went back to Tudor. I spent days there, hoping he would remember me, trying to figure out what to do. And then I was forced to bring him back when…when it was apparent he was in danger. I thought everything would be fine once we returned, but he still does
not know me, or any of this,” she whispered, gesturing around them. “I have explained a little of it to him, but I cannot…I haven’t told him about the vampires yet. He is aware something happened, though.”
“Perhaps it is better left unsaid for the moment. What danger was he in?”
“All right. I'll try to avoid speaking about it. And it was Cromwell. They were going to frame him for treason and take him to the tower. Was I wrong to bring him home? Should I have left him there?” she asked, rubbing at her temples with her fingertips. She followed Bernard's gaze to Sebastian, watching him sample the different foods on the tray.
“Delicious,” Sebastian remarked.
“You could not have known, madam. But I believe, yes, he needed to stay. History, and his subsequent becoming needed to occur. You altered his history in returning with him,” he said, but not unkindly. “And thus his future has been altered.” Bernard was thoughtful as he spoke, trying to puzzle things through. “It is my belief that you will have to return him to his time, and let history play out as it will. But allow me to research the subject first.”
Alarm spread through her like wildfire. She searched Bernard's eyes, distraught that she'd made such a gross mistake, and turned away to drop her face into her hands. She didn't think she could send him back there, knowing what he was going to endure. It was too painful, too heart wrenching. Sebastian was so alive, so robust and hearty. It felt cruel to send him back to that fate.
“My lady, in the meantime, we must try not to let the knowledge of his mortality lea--”
"What happened to Sebastian?" Sara's shocked voice came from the doorway. Her eyes were as wide as Laurel's. On her way to the pool, she wore a bikini, hips wrapped in a red sarong.
Sebastian turned at the sound of his name. He stopped eating mid-bite, no recognition in his eyes, though he looked quite surprised at Sara's state of dress. “My lady?"
Bernard cleared his throat and intervened before the situation could get entirely out of hand. Escorting Sara by a light touch at her elbow, he exited the room with her in tow so he could explain the situation.
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