by Jenny Lykins
“I’ll fight you,” he heard himself saying, then wondered fleetingly when insanity had truly claimed him. He lowered his head and returned Stephen’s glare. “But I’ll fight you now.” A plan had formed in his mind. Perhaps a way to “duel” with Callen’s brother without chancing one of them getting killed. He would satisfy Stephen’s anger, then pray the portal would open to take him back to the twenty-first century. To Dan. To sanity. And then Callen could get on with her life, and he could get on with his.
Then why didn’t he feel relieved?
Stephen, immaculately dressed in gray pin-striped trousers, white lawn shirt, and matching black vest and cravat, raked his glare down the length of Ty’s body, stopping at the tee shirt, then the jeans, then the boots still dusty from roaming the ruins.
“Highly irregular, but then that should not surprise me.” He lifted his chin and tugged on his vest. “I will see you in the library in a quarter hour.”
During all this time Callen clung to Ty’s arm, crying, “No, no, you have just returned. You cannot do this! Stephen is an expert!” Her pitiful voice tore at his heart. How she must have loved her husband.
With a glare of defiance, he guided her past Stephen, past Magnolia - who had virtually melted into the background - then he led her onto the landing. Stephen stomped down the corridor, elbowed passed them, then disappeared downstairs. Magnolia quietly closed the door of Callen’s bedroom, giving them privacy.
He took hold of her arms with a gentle squeeze, and she looked up at him, her face stoic, resigned, unbelievably sad.
“It’ll be okay,” he promised her, and hoped like hell he would be able to keep that promise. She didn’t look convinced. “Things aren’t all that they seem, Callen, but I don’t plan on anyone getting hurt. And I promise,” – he took a deep breath – “when the fight is over, I’ll explain everything.” She deserved that much. Of course, she would never believe him, but spinning fairy tales for her would serve no purpose, either. “I promise,” he reiterated.
“Very well.” She looked away, blinking hard, her voice catching on the words.
That little sound dug knives of guilt into his soul. Guilt for what, he didn’t know, but the feeling was real enough to touch. He tilted her chin with the tip of his finger and turned her to face him for a reassuring look. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
“Kiss me?” she whispered after a long, hard stare.
Not a good idea. No way. Uh-uh, his mind warned. Her frantic kisses in the kitchen the night before had barely registered through his shock, and still had nearly devastated him. This would be deliberate. Premeditated. Full sensory perception. And completely, utterly stupid.
His lips grazed hers once, twice, then settled in to linger, to rock his world with the force of an earthquake. The feel of her, the taste, the scent, billowed through him like a hot, sun-kissed breeze. Like he’d been gone a long time and had just come home. Never in his life had a kiss, any kiss, ever shaken him as this one did. He gently cupped her face in his palms, drew the kiss out, his knees threatening to buckle, his tongue finding hers for a brief moment. He could feel her shock before she leaned even further into him with a sigh. Had her husband, the man she thought Ty to be, never kissed her in such a way?
Mourning the loss of her lips against his, he finally pulled away. This would only make his leaving more difficult, and even worse for Callen. With a deep, fortifying breath, he turned her toward her room.
“Go and get dressed,” he said. “I need a few minutes to myself.”
She took a step, then turned, wringing her hands.
“Tylar...please don’t fight him. You know what an expert he is.”
“No one’s going to die today, Callen,” he insisted, hoping like hell he was right. “Now.” He shooed her toward her room with a wink. “Go dress.”
When she finally turned, he made his way down the stairs and out the front door. He roamed to the side garden, playing out his plan in his mind. He knew next to nothing of the rules of etiquette when it came to Old South dueling. He could only hope to bluff his way through and put an end to this bizarre nightmare.
He paced for several more minutes, reenacting the scenario he hoped would come to pass, then, as ready as he would ever be, he went in search of the library.
*******
He heard shouting before he found the room, and the angry, volatile voice inside was Callen’s.
“You will not go through with this duel, Stephen!” she yelled, her voice carrying throughout the house, as non-Southern belle as it could get. “You took the most precious thing in the world away from me once. I’ll not allow you to do it again! He is my husband, no matter what you believe, and you will rescind the challenge this minute!”
Ty followed the voice to a closed door. He entered the dark, wood-paneled study without knocking, and Stephen leapt to his feet as if he were ready to go for Ty’s throat. A black man, stiff and uncomfortable, gaped at Ty, then recovered himself and pulled two heavily carved wooden cases from a shelf on the wall.
Callen stood there, still in her dressing gown, her ebony hair hanging all soft and touchable nearly to her waist. A light went on in her eyes and she gave him a brilliant smile, rushing to wrap her arms around his waist, but he still could feel rage trembling under her touch.
He could almost imagine sparks flying when their bodies met, so conscious was he of every warm, delicate curve. Again he envied this Tylar she loved so much. But he had more important things to think about, and the sooner he got this fiasco over with, the better.
“Take your hands from my sister, you—”
“Stephen, he is my husband!”
Ty gave her a squeeze and helped her into a chair. “I fight my own battles, Callen,” he said, giving her a wink to take the edge from his words.
He turned to Stephen, raked his unwavering gaze down the length of the irate man.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, then turned on his heel and walked away, out of the study and through the entry hall. He didn’t stop until he reached the front lawn. The cow pasture of the future.
Please, God, let him be able to get back there.
Stephen stormed in his wake, the black man carrying the wooden cases right behind him with Callen hot on their heels.
“What do you think you are doing?” Stephen growled as he grabbed Ty’s arm and spun him around.
Ty quirked a brow and almost laughed. “You wanted a fight. I’m here to fight.” He lifted his gaze and scanned the deserted lawn. “Where is everyone?” he asked with a calm that astonished him. “Don’t these things draw a crowd? Doctor? Witnesses? Spectators?” His words were just a taunt. He knew Stephen hadn’t had time to contact anyone.
Stephen looked as if he could skewer him on the spot.
“Do you imagine I would have witnesses to carry tales about how my sister took you to her bed? Whoever you are, you are not her husband. No one knows that better than I.”
Something haunted Ty about those words. Something not quite right.
“Sounds like a confession to me,” Ty taunted again.
Stephen gasped. Veins bulged in his temples. “Choose your weapon,” he hissed, then motioned to the black man. “Bring them, Jacob.”
Jacob came forward and opened the wooden cases, one with twin dueling pistols on navy blue silk, one with two gleaming, ornate sabers nestled in a bed of red velvet.
Ty stifled the urge to plow his fingers through his hair. Instead, he picked up one of the pistols and hefted it in his palm. Heavier than he’d expected, he pointed it toward a tree, looked down the site as if he knew what he was doing, then placed it back in the box and picked up a sword. Sunlight flashed on the shiny steel blade. He sliced the air with it, examined the sharp edge, then laid it back on the bed of velvet.
“Stephen, don’t do this,” Callen moaned, pulling at her brother’s arm.
Stephen looked down at her, studied her for a moment, then his features hardened and he set her away
as his gaze lifted to Ty.
“Choose your wea—”
“Feet,” Ty said.
Stephen snarled with a look that could put Ty in his grave right then and there. “Are you insane, you low life—”
“Feet,” Ty repeated. “You know, those things on the ends of your legs that keep you from falling over.” Damn, he couldn’t help goading this man.
Stephen looked at Callen and then Jacob, as if they might be in on the joke, before turning his glare back to Ty.
“What kind of fool do you take me for?”
Ty returned his glare and quirked an eyebrow.
“I’d tell you, but we don’t have all day. You said to choose a weapon,” he reminded, ignoring the puce color exploding on Stephen’s face. “I choose feet. It’s called kickboxing.”
“Kick...”
“Boxing,” Ty finished for him. “Somewhat like boxing, but using feet instead of fists.” And a sport he’d excelled in at college. “Care for a demonstration?”
“This is preposterous!” Stephen sputtered. “Duels are not fought with feet.”
Ty forced a deep, overly dramatic breath. “You said to choose a weapon. I choose to kickbox. Am I not the challenged party here?” He looked at Callen, then back to her brother. “Of course, if you choose not to abide by the protocol...” He left the comment dangling, tilted his head and waited to see who blinked first.
Stephen did.
“Very well,” Callen’s brother all but barked. “What are the rules to this asinine farce?”
Ty shifted his weight, still staring Stephen down.
“You know what, Windsor, let’s make this simple. No rules. You fight any way you want. The last man standing is the victor.”
Ty kicked off his boots and socks, rolled up his sleeves, then started some stretches he hadn’t done since his senior year in college.
Hell, he’d forgotten he had half those muscles.
Stephen watched with a wary, skeptical look while Ty resurrected obscure muscles and tendons that wanted to remain obscure. Tomorrow, win or lose, he would be paying for this little dance with Callen’s brother.
He sat on the grass, stretched his thighs, his hamstrings, his groin muscles. When he got a nice, loose burn working, he hopped up and bounced a little on the balls of his feet.
“Are you quite ready?” Stephen asked, his voice a study in boredom.
Ty slid his gaze toward him and held back a grin.
“Yeah.” He bounced a little more. “Ready when you are.”
“Stop this!” Callen ordered, angry and glorious in the morning light. “You are behaving no better than children!”
Ty allowed the tiniest grin to curve his lips. “Boys will be boys,” he said as he continued to stare at Stephen.
His grin apparently infuriated his opponent. Stephen yanked off both jacket and cravat, tossing them to the ground.
“Boots, too,” Ty prompted, enjoying his little bout of psyching out the foe.
Stephen snarled, the boots went flying, followed by his socks, then he stood there, fists raised and poised like the poster boy for the Marquis of Queensbury. Of course, the Queensbury rules were only then being written. That much Ty knew. How inventive of Stephen to be ahead of his time.
Ty took a fighting stance, weight on the balls of his feet, arms ready to block.
Stephen advanced and threw a stiff right which Ty dodged and parried with a left side knee kick.
“Last chance to call it off, Windsor.”
Stephen ignored him, coming in with a left jab. Ty blocked the punch with the hard edge of his foot.
Disconcertion flickered in Stephen’s eyes.
“We can talk this over,” Ty offered one last time.
“You have compromised my sister and sullied the Windsor name. There is nothing to discuss.” He threw another punch. Ty dodged it easily and shifted his weight.
“Suit yourself,” he said, then took a step, spun, and kicked the crap out of Stephen’s jaw. Callen moaned when her brother went flying and hit the ground flat on his back.
“Don’t do this,” she begged.
Stephen sat up, gave his head a hard shake, then scrambled to his feet and resumed that pugilistic pose. Before he could throw another punch, Ty swept his feet out from under him.
The fight continued. Stephen managed to land a few blows, but Ty sent him dropping to the ground more than he was on his feet. After a particularly hard strike that landed Stephen on his back yet again, blood now gushing from his nose, Ty kept him down with a well-planted foot on his neck.
“This fight is over,” he stated in a voice that brooked no argument. “I’ve fought your duel. I’ve drawn first blood. I have no intention of taking your life, or even beating you senseless, over your stubborn misunderstanding.” Ty removed his foot and offered a hand to help him up.
Stephen lay there, panting, runnels of dark red blood trickling from his nose and mouth. He knocked Ty’s hand away and staggered to his feet, dragging the back of his arm across his face, smearing his sleeve with blood and dirt.
“You are not welcome at Windsor,” he said, his voice low, threatening.
“Why must you do this, Stephen?” Callen cried, elbowing her way between Ty and her brother. “He is my husband, and Windsor is as much my home as yours!”
Stephen merely growled at his sister and limped away with as much dignity as possible.
Ty took her by the hand then, snatched up his shoes and socks, and then set off for someplace secluded. He would tell her the truth; set this thing right so that she could get on with the life he’d interrupted.
And he would do it now.
CHAPTER FOUR
Callen stared at Tylar, her breath shallow, nearly non-existent, as he told her of his life. Of stepping, from the future, through the secret entry into Windsor’s cellar - an entry she’d all but forgotten.
He told her of how he’d heard her voice calling to him across the ages. How he’d “introduced” her to some unwanted visitors. How he had a brother to care for all the way in Memphis. How he wasn’t the Tylar McCall she’d married.
How he wasn’t really her husband.
She sat very still on the bench in the gardens while he paced, talking, shoving fingers through hair she ached to tangle touch. Every now and then he would look her in the eye as he spoke, rub the back of his neck, pace some more.
She heard every amazing word he said through a dull roar in her ears. When he finally knelt beside her, took her hand in his, then quietly, apologetically said, “I’m not the man you married,” she willed her heart not to break.
But she had to admit it.
She could see the difference now, in his eyes, in the way he carried himself. This truly was not the Tylar McCall she had married.
Swallowing hard, blinking away the burning in her eyes, she cupped his cheek in her palm and nodded.
“I see that now,” she whispered, and he gave a heart-wrenching sigh of relief. “No one could go through the horrors of war and emerge the same person.”
His head snapped up but she stopped his words, held her fingers against the soft, masculine lips she’d never gotten to learn intimately.
“I know you believe what you say,” she assured him. “I’ll not try to convince you otherwise. But know this.” She took a deep breath, forced away the quaver in her voice, then looked into those beloved, warm bronze eyes and held his gaze. “I love you. I have loved you all along, from that first moment you pulled up in the wagon at your father’s side. Even before then, because I was destined to love the man you would grow to be.” She stopped him again when he would have spoken, while she could still say what needed saying. “I loved you the day you arrived here, on our wedding day, through the days I mourned your death, and I will love you through the centuries until my heart calls out your name again and again and again. I’ll be your rock if you want to stay and fight the horrors that haunt you.” She took one fortifying breath to stiffen her spine, then stared at
the hand still holding hers. “But I will let you go if you wish to leave. And I’ll pray you find the happiness you so deserve.”
She looked up then, into the eyes of the man she loved. He stared at her with a look of disbelief, wonder, and then the look turned to agony as he closed his eyes and shook his head.
Judas Priest, Ty had never seen that depth of love in anyone’s eyes. Had never known, or even dreamed, that kind of love could exist. She had reached inside him, held his very heart in her hands, and for a moment, an endless, dizzying moment, he had believed that it was him that she loved.
Never in his life had he ever wanted a relationship. With his parents’ disastrous marriage, his father’s desertion, his mother’s death, and then Dan to take care of, he’d avoided further commitment like a cat avoids water. But in one short speech, one gentle touch, this woman changed the way Ty’s heart beat. He wanted what she felt for this Tylar, wanted it for himself, and wanted to give it back to her with every breath he took.
But he had a brother who needed him. A brother he loved.
The sound of horses on the drive broke their locked gazes. Callen looked up and muttered something that sounded like a curse.
“I will kill Stephen,” she swore as they both rose. “I should have let you finish the job and beat him senseless.” She yanked together the edges of her dressing gown and turned to look at Ty. “This conversation is not over,” she declared, then spun and marched across the side garden toward the back door, an angry angel with her dark hair blowing and soft, white gown billowing.
He watched with masculine appreciation until she disappeared into the house, then turned his attention to the half dozen men on horseback trotting up the drive. It seemed he had drawn the visitors’ attention as well, for the men all stared at Ty as if they’d seen a ghost. Most of them rode on toward the back of the house, then cut through the woods beyond the stables, all of them tossing back glances. But one reined his horse to a stop at the front steps, then slowly dismounted.
