In Death - 24.50 - Dead of Night

by J. D. Robb

  He swooped her into his arms and kissed her like a pirate claiming a prize. When he let her go, they were breathless. “You are a liar or a natural-born kisser.”

  Amy pressed her hand to her chest and opened her mouth, hoping she had enough breath to talk. “Simon, listen, I found the coin!”

  He handed her the small glass of brandy he had just poured and, as he quickly filled another, proposed a toast. “Here’s to Amy Stevens!” he sang out. “What a woman.”

  I wish that were true. She put the glass on the table. “Simon, we have to find a way to leave. We’ve already had too big an influence on your family’s history.” She gave him a brief account of what had happened upstairs.

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t you see—?”

  “You’re the one who doesn’t see, dear heart. Time travel is not some chance event. We’re supposed to be here as surely as the dowager countess, the artist, everyone who is originally a part of this time and place. We’re as real as they are. What is happening now is exactly as it should be.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Arbuckle told us. He said that there are certain things that are meant to be. Man decides how and when they will happen. We are meant to be. The proof of that is you and me. Do you have any doubt that we were destined to be together?”

  “No, but I do think there might have been an easier way to do it. And if that’s true, then Martha will get what she truly deserves.”

  “We’ve done our job and now we go back so the earl can claim the coin.” He sat down and patted the seat next to him. “Sit here and visualize where you want to be.”

  His lack of concern about Martha was like a knife. How could he not be worried about someone who had been wronged! Would it be possible to love someone, build a relationship with him, if his values were so different? Were they moving too fast?

  “Both of us have to do this, Amy.” He spoke gently as if he thought her hurt look was pain at the thought of leaving.

  “You think it will be that easy?” she asked as she sat close to him, but not touching.

  “I think so. I am fairly certain that this settee is the one that is in my study, recovered and rebuilt once or twice.”

  She looked at the slightly worn cushions. “Okay, though I do feel bad if some ancestor of your friend Allbryce Stevens comes to visit. My name is mud in 1805.”

  “He can disown you, say you were a connection the family does not recognize because of your poor work performance or your loose morals or whatever.”

  Is that the way it worked in his social circle? Were servants like the Stepps the only people in whom one found loyalty?

  “Then there is poor Mrs. Braintree, who came to call on me in Yorkshire.”

  “I feel confident that Miss Kemp will completely restore her into the family’s good graces.”

  Amy looked around the room, trying to take in all the details. She had not even been here long enough to write down any of her impressions. Not even twenty-four hours. She should have written down the names of all the paintings. Oh, the painting! How could they have forgotten? “Simon! We won’t find out what happened to the Guardi!”

  Nine

  “I thought of that,” he said, nodding. “Obviously it wasn’t the right wish.” He squeezed her hand. “My other wish, the one I hope the coin will grant, is much more important.” He let her go without further explanation. “It’s time to go home. We have a life to live there.”

  The study in London in her time was easy to visualize. She let the room fill her thoughts, the stack of books, the one on the East India Company, the portrait of the third earl, the sleek computer. The huge windows. The smell of old books and history, the constant buzz of London life just outside the window. Would the docent be waiting? It would be so good to be home again.

  Nothing happened.

  She opened her eyes, terrified that Simon had gone and she had been left behind. No, he was sitting beside her, his hands on his knees, as real as the cushions on which they were sitting.

  “What did we do wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It felt wrong. I was so tired when we traveled before I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

  “Right. Same here.”

  “What did we forget?” She wasn’t afraid. Not with Simon beside her. “Do we need the coin?”

  “No, the docent was quite clear about that. The docent’s wish was to find how the coin reached the Regency. We’ve done that. It makes no sense for us to bring it back to the present.”

  They sat next to each other, now holding hands. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if they had to stay here. Yes, it would. She could not stand living in the same house as these small-minded, status-conscious people.

  “Could it be…” Simon’s words came out slowly, as though he was still piecing the thought together. “…Could it be that just as we switched places with people so as not to distort the relationship of mass and space and time, things must also switch places?”

  “I guess it could be,” she said, after thinking about it for a second.

  “What? Stargate Atlantis never covered that?”

  “No,” she said, more touched than embarrassed that he remembered that silly explanation. “But your theory makes sense. Our clothes didn’t come with us.”

  “The coin did.”

  “All right,” Amy said, “so what matters is that the coin is here and we have to take something back with us so we do not cause space and time to come crashing down.”

  “Now there’s a nonscientific explanation that totally works for me.”

  “So all we have to do is pick something to take back with us. No one would miss a comb or a brush.”

  “Right, and we could donate it to the Regency museum.”

  “Or, Simon, you could sell it and use the money to keep Westmoreland in good repair. You know, the eating pence and pounds thing?” She looked at the painting and the idea hit her so hard that she jumped up from the settee and gasped. “The painting, Simon! We are the ones who took the painting.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, don’t you see? We exchanged the coin for the painting. Your family can sell it if you want and have all the money you will ever need to keep Westmoreland in repair and in the family.”

  “It’s too much like stealing.”

  He was tempted, she could tell, even as he shook his head.

  “It is not. Besides, we have to take it. It was meant to be. Don’t you understand? It’s exactly as you said before. We are as much a part of this time and place as the earl and his aunt and Lady Anne and all the rest.”

  Simon nodded and then shook his head. “How will I explain that I found a Guardi painting?”

  “You’ve been researching all year, for heaven’s sake. Tell them that the earl brought it to town and put it in a safe place and then forgot about it. It’s possible, isn’t it? It wasn’t worth millions of pounds then.”

  “Still, it’s a stretch.”

  “We can make it work. It’s been owned by your family for more than two hundred years. Lost and now found. Its provenance is not in question. Its validity can be sworn to. They can test forever and all they will be able to prove is that it’s a Guardi painting.”

  “You might be right. If we leave it here there is a good chance that the useless fifth earl will sell it. He sold everything else that wasn’t entailed.” He reached up and took the painting off the wall.

  “It will look perfect in your study,” she said, “in that space to the right of the door.” She could see it quite clearly in her mind’s eye. “You’ll see it every time you leave the room.”

  She heard his “Yes, I can see it there, too,” but was so overcome with fatigue that she sank onto the nearest chair and fell asleep before she could reply.

  There was no mistaking the sounds of London at night. A distant siren, the sound of a trash pickup woke him and the scent of hot tea roused him as surely as a cock
crow in the country. It was not daylight yet, even if the city was awake. He could feel Amy beside him. Her eyes were closed, her body restless with a time traveler’s dreams. Bits of his dreams persisted, an aching sense of loss, a euphoric victory, despair so deep that death would be easier, the relief of love trumping all. There were no details, only the sensations. Was this his life? Could he be that blessed?

  Light from his desk lamp gave the room shape and shadow. He watched as Amy opened her eyes, a long tear moving down her cheek. He kissed it. “We’re home, Amy,” he whispered and felt the anxiety drop from her. She turned her head and kissed him, still sleepy-eyed. It was more sweetness than desire, more warmth than fire, more love than passion. The perfect welcome home.

  The kiss energized them both and they sat up as one. Simon saw the Guardi on the floor, lying face up, looking exactly as it had in the library at Westmoreland.

  “Are we alone? Where’s Mr. Arbuckle?” Amy asked.

  Simon stood up and went to turn up the desk lamp, though he was sure they were the only ones in the room.

  “The portrait, Simon. Look.”

  “What? It looks the same to me.” He walked closer to it and tried to see any changes. The coin glimmered—golden—the model train sat nearby, the earl still looked intent. “What do you see that I’m missing?”

  “No, no, you’re right. Nothing has changed.”

  He heard the relief in her voice and understood, even as she explained.

  “I was so afraid that we had messed with history,” she confessed.

  He had to admit he was relieved as well. Not that he hadn’t believed it when he told her they were meant to be in 1805 as surely as Lady Anne and Fancett were. To his way of thinking, a bit of uncertainty was man’s greatest strength, not a weakness.

  “Did you make tea for me? How sweet.” Amy stood up, stretched, and oh, did the glimpse of her skin distract him. She made her way to the tea table.

  “Sorry, not my doing. The smell of it was so familiar that it didn’t occur to me to think of it as odd.”

  Amy raised the pot to the painting. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “More likely, ‘Thank you, Miss Kemp,’” Simon corrected. “I might have only been the earl for twenty hours or so but I can tell you brewing tea would never occur to him.”

  She poured for both of them and only hesitated a moment before taking a sip. “Tastes normal.”

  “Right, but if there is a magic elixir in it, don’t you think that the sorcerer would be clever enough to have it be tasteless?”

  “I saw that episode of Angel, too, though I find it hard to believe it’s a show you’d be into.”

  “No, it’s not, but a friend of mind had a part. The kind of role where you die before the third commercial.”

  She sipped the tea. “This is so weird, Simon. We’ve been to 1805 and back and now we’re talking about a television show. Do we just go back to our normal lives?”

  “I bet there are records at Westmoreland that have never been studied. I imagine the Stepps have some as well.”

  He went over and picked up the diary of the nineteenth-century Mr. Stepp. “You do realize that the entry about the ‘accident’ and the dismissal of the servant was a reference to his daughter, Martha, and the fire.” He held out the notebook.

  “Wow. Of course,” Amy said, taking it from him and holding it against her heart as if it were worth her life to protect. “Where do you think the docent went, Simon? I wish there was a way we could find out.”

  She went to hand the old notebook back to him when a piece of paper fell from it. Amy picked it up and handed it to Simon with a pained expression on her face. “Did a page fall out?”

  “No, this is a letter. One I’ve never seen before.” He scanned it and then smiled. “Amy, listen to this:”

  Dear Mr. West and Miss Stevens,

  Thank you for your efforts on my behalf. I have been trying to return the magic coin ever since I was given charge of it and failed to see it safely to India. Now I see that returning it to the nineteenth century was not a task meant for me.

  I was at the helm when the coins were lost. It is why I was here until now. How could I allow a burst of temper from Mother Nature and my incompetence ruin lives that might have been changed for the better by this special coin?

  I knew all the wishes this magic coin had granted, but never knew how the coin was returned to the past. Now I do. Thank you for believing. Now my wish has been granted as well.

  With eternal gratitude,

  Wentworth C. Arbuckle

  They were both silent a long time.

  “Do you think he time traveled?” Amy asked.

  “Or was he a ghost?”

  “That could be. He always did have that fey quality. Like he would disappear until he was needed.” Silence settled between them again. Simon was sure that Amy’s thoughts were on the docent. His most definitely were not.

  “Oh, Simon, I know you don’t care that much, but I want to know what happened to Martha. And what did the earl and Miss Kemp do while they were here?”

  “What makes you think I don’t care?” he asked, as surprised as he was offended.

  “You were so casual about the mess we left behind.”

  “To be honest, at the time I was more worried about us returning to the right place and time.” Simon pointed to the painting. “I expect that the earl figured out that investing in trains was a sound financial move. And that miniature. I’ll bet money that it’s Miss Kemp. As for Martha Stepp, I do care. But it wasn’t our job to make her wish come true. Now that we are safe, we can spend the rest of our lives finding out the answers.” He put down his cup and took her hand. “Darling girl, listen to me.” He took her other hand in his. “We is the important word in that sentence. I hope you don’t want to go back to your old life any more than I do. Who can I talk to about ghosts and time travel? No one else will believe it.” That sounded way too practical. Don’t bugger this, Simon, old boy. “Amy, I love you. I want you to be part of my life. I want to marry you.”

  She didn’t give it more than two seconds’ thought. “No, Simon, I’m so sorry. It wouldn’t work. Our lives are too different. Our stay in the Regency proved that to me. You’re Simon West of Westmoreland and I’m Amy Stevens from Topeka, Kansas. You go to Ascot and I go to Disney World.”

  “I’ve never been to Ascot.”

  “Then Wimbledon or—”

  That was so nonsensical he cut her off. “Amy, I teach kids in one of the worst parts of London, in a school founded to give them a chance. The bartenders at Earl’s Place earn more than I do. The only time I’ve ever seen either prince is on the telly. Our lives are more alike than you think.”

  She took a step back from him. Skepticism did not become her.

  “Right,” he conceded. “Don’t marry me tomorrow. Hang around a bit, meet my mum. See what my life is like.”

  The tears in her eyes gave him hope. “I have to leave next week. There’s a wedding I can’t miss. I’m the maid of honor.”

  “Then invite me to the wedding. I’ve always wanted to see the fruited plain. Does Kansas have any amber waves of grain? My school leave ends in three months. What do you say?”

  She laughed. “I think you’re insane. You thought I was a complete liar when we met and now you want me to marry you. It’s too soon. We haven’t known each other two days.”

  “Amy darling, we’ve been together for two hundred years.” And if that did not convince her, his kiss did.

  Timeless

  RUTH RYAN LANGAN

  To all those old souls who search for truth and love.

  And for Tom, my heart and soul.

  One

  “What you are seeing now is the most recent addition to MacLennan Fortress, completed in 1832, though renovations continue even today.” The tour guide led the cluster of tourists across highly polished wood floors that gave not a hint of the thousands of visitors that had walked this space since the castle had been
opened to the public as a five-star hotel and restaurant. In the upper gallery they strode past portraits of the early lairds of the fierce MacLennan clan.

  Laurel Douglas trailed the others, taking time to study the proud, handsome faces of the men, warriors all. Despite the gradual change of clothing, from simple plaid to ornate kilt, and the hundreds of years that separated them, from the earliest laird in the fifteenth century to contemporary times, all bore a striking resemblance to one another. Whether fierce, proud, or simply amused, there was a haughty bearing and a defiant glint in the eyes that said each was aware of his position, and completely, utterly comfortable with himself.

  Laurel still couldn’t believe she was here in the Scottish Highlands. It had been a dream for so long, since her grandmother had lulled her to sleep with tales of noble warriors and beautiful maidens. Though her grandmother had left her native Scotland as a child, her love of the land of her birth had never faded. She’d filled her only granddaughter’s head with visions of fog-shrouded lochs where monsters swam deep beneath the murky waters, and castle ruins guarded ancient secrets.

  Just days ago, after a year in the planning, it had looked as though Laurel’s dream trip would be canceled. After working her way up the corporate ladder in New York City’s commercial real estate, a field dominated by men, she’d been persuaded to take her first real vacation in years. She had planned to go with her best friend, Chloe Kerr, who had handled all their reservations, from the airline tickets to the rental car to the hotel.

  Then came Chloe’s frantic midnight call to relate a family emergency.

  “Laurel, it’s my mother. She’s been rushed to the hospital. They say it’s her heart. They’re talking about a bypass, if the stent won’t work. I’m really sorry, but I have to be here.”

  “Of course you do.” Laurel paused, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she always did when she was thinking. “I’ll call and see if the airline will allow us to reschedule.”