Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)
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Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Upcoming Books
Author's Note
Reading Group Questions
About the Author
Copyright
To Andrew,
for seeing me through so many firsts:
photography, writing, . . . motherhood.
Don't forget to be awesome.
To Dave,
for giving me Andrew.
For the record: you never forget to be awesome.
Prologue
Excerpt from the journal of Garvis Samuelson
London
April 14, 1828
This was the one—I was sure of it. The wound that would finally kill him.
I watched the knife sink deep into my employer’s shoulder. I fired at the assailants, but they melted into the London mist. My master collapsed in the dark alleyway, blood rapidly darkening his greatcoat.
I was part of his crew, as he sometimes called us—the group of men who protected and served him. For our part, we simply called him W.
W had survived so much, but as I turned him over, I feared the nasty wound would turn inevitably gangrenous. All the money in England would not be enough to save a man from such an injury. Not even the infamous W, who owned a good percentage of that money.
“Garvis,” W said to me between clenched teeth, “in my coat pocket . . . there is the information Wellington seeks. Ensure he receives it.”
I nodded my agreement. More men than just W had bled for the information those documents contained. The fate of the British Empire hung in the balance.
How I got W back to his townhouse, I cannot remember. Once there, I handed off the blood-stained letter with strict instructions to place it directly into the Duke of Wellington’s hands.
Two footmen carefully lifted W into a clean bed. Lean and tall, W still had the vigor of a man ten years younger, despite the gray creeping in at the edges of his dark hair.
“You know the drill.” W fixed me with his pale eyes as a valet cut away his gory clothing. “That special poultice I discovered while in Brazil. Flush the wound with my best brandy before stitching it closed, and do not let anyone—on pain of death—come near me with a leech or bloodletting lancet.”
These instructions were not new. W had this same odd ritual around all his wounds. The valet and I flushed and stitched the wound, applying the poultice of herbs and honey. All the while, W mumbling strange sentences, like ‘Hope tetanus vaccine is solid’ and ‘What I wouldn’t give for an antibiotic.’
But this, also, was nothing particularly unusual. W occasionally said inexplicable things like ‘whatever, man,’ and he had a strong affinity for the word awesome. By this point, I had given up making sense of it.
As we were wrapping the wound in clean muslin, W grabbed my hand tightly. “If I end up delirious, do not believe a word I say.”
W did well that first night, sleeping fitfully. But despite all our precautions, a fever set in the next morning. W descended into delusional ramblings.
Naturally, I had been through this before with my employer, but usually W’s mutterings were quiet and indistinct. This time started like all the others with W murmuring phrases like ‘mustn’t go back’ and ‘she’s well.’
However after a day, W became more agitated. I woke from dozing in a chair to find him thrashing about. Jumping to my feet, I instantly tried to still him before he reopened his wound. W continued to toss his head back and forth.
“Please, sir, you must calm yourself,” I pleaded.
W hissed and opened his eyes, scanned the room and then focused on me. His eyes narrowed in confusion.
“Who are you? Where am I?” he whispered.
“You are in your townhouse, sir. In London. I am Garvis—”
“This isn’t my house.” W opened his eyes wider, darting a glance around the room again. Staring at the bed hangings, the candles burning, the fire flickering in the hearth.
“No!” W heaved his body, nearly breaking my hold. His eyes rolled back into his head. “No, this isn’t right. It can’t be.”
I needed to calm him. “Everything will be all right, sir. You just need to compose your—”
But W continued to thrash his head back and forth, muttering.
“No! No, I was there. In the cellar of the house . . . falling . . . so long ago . . . cottage . . . Duir Cottage.”
“Sir, calm down.”
W fixed me with a terrified look. “What is the year?” he asked, licking his lips.
I paused. How gone was he into his delirium? “1828, sir—”
“No! Oh heavens, no!” W groaned. “No, that’s not right. It makes no sense.” He grabbed my arm with his good hand, holding fast. “Tell me you lie. Tell me the year is 2014—”
Horror flashed through my soul at those words.
“Sir, you are fevered—” But my words fell on deaf ears. W had closed his eyes, murmuring again.
“It was there—there in the cellar. The portal.” He started thrashing about again. “My name. What is my name?”
“Please, sir, calm down. You mustn’t be so wild—”
“Wild!” W suddenly laughed—a crazed, maniacal sound. “It’s all wild, wild, wild! Marcus Wilde!”
Chapter 1
Fraser Island
Queensland, Australia
February 7, 2014
Marc Wilde should have been having a good day.
A fantastic day, even.
But, of course, something would have to come along and mess it up.
Whatever. Just his luck.
On the surface, his day seemed so perfect. A flat out ten out of ten in nearly every category.
Location = 10/10.
He was on a photoshoot for Vogue Thailand with Australia’s Next Top Model, who posed nearby in a gossamer gold silk gown. The ocean lapped soothingly against the rusted hull of a nearly century-old shipwreck nestled romantically in the sugar-white sand.
What wasn’t there to love about the whole scene? Standing on a shipwreck in the midst of exotic scenery? A beautiful woman at his side? It was every man’s fantasy.
Career = 10/10.
His latest film, Croc-nami, was a huge commercial success (well, at least in Southeast Asia), and Marc—martial artist turned stuntman turned leading man—could practically taste his growing fame.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a promotional poster for Croc-nami taped to an awning behind the art director’s head. The image depicted Marc—his face grimy with blood, dirt and scruff—holding aloft a chainsaw with an enormous tsunami rearing behind him, gigantic crocodiles lunging out of the frothing water.
Words blazoned across the bottom:
The crocs are coming and they are hungry for YOU!
It was the moment in the film where Marc turned to the camera and uttered that infamous catch phrase. Deadpan and threatening:
“Later, alligator.”
Granted, Croc-nami wouldn’t be winning an Academy Award, but he viewed the movie as a stepping stone. The film would give him visibility, opening up other roles and cross-promotions. Case in point—this uh-mazing photoshoot.
Weather = 10/10.
The sun beat down with the bone-melting warmth of summer in Australia, a welcome change from February in New York or London. Marc kept tilting his face toward it, soaking in the vitamin D.
So yeah. Everything picture perfect. Literally.
Basically a ten out of ten day all around.
Except for the teeny, tiny matter of the note he had received earlier that morning.
It had landed on his perfect day like a six-foot-eight guy in front of Marc’s fifty-yard-line Bronco’s football seat.
Ruining the entire experience.
The letter was terse and anonymous.
I know what is hidden in the cellar of Duir Cottage in Herefordshire.
A time portal would be of extreme interest to the rest of the world.
I have definitive proof of its existence.
My silence comes with a price.
Place thirteen yellow roses in the front window of Duir Cottage
to acknowledge you have received this missive.
Instructions will follow.
The chilly words had chased his spine.
It just figured. Awesome day fumbled away by an old-school blackmail threat.
Classic.
Lack of Lame Extortion Notes = 0/10
The worst part? This was no idle threat.
Duir Cottage did indeed have a time portal in the cellar—a simple slab of stone which stood guard over a wormhole of sorts to the same date and location two hundred years in the past, linking 2014 and 1814 tightly together.
How had someone found out about the portal?
Marc’s younger sister, Emme, had been the first to stumble upon the portal nearly two years ago. This had resulted in a trip to 1812 where she had met her husband, James Knight, a nineteenth century aristocrat raised at Haldon Manor, the nearby estate which owned Duir Cottage in the past.
But before the spring of 2012, the portal hadn’t been traversable. And since that time, the portal had been a carefully guarded secret known to fewer than ten people, all of them family and friends. So none of them would have ever breathed a word about it.
The list of those who knew about the portal was short:
Marc, obviously.
Emme and her husband, James, the present-day owners of Duir Cottage.
Emme’s best friend and self-proclaimed mystic, Jasmine.
James’ sister, Georgiana, and her husband, Sebastian, currently living in 1814.
Arthur Knight, James’ younger brother and the owner of Duir Cottage and nearby Haldon Manor in 1814.
That was it.
No one else knew.
Except someone apparently did.
But how? And who? How much money would ‘silence’ cost?
And why link the portal with him, Marc Wilde?
He wasn’t the current owner of Duir Cottage and had no known obvious connection with the building beyond staying there occasionally.
He doubted Emme or James had received a similar note, as the note had been forwarded from Duir Cottage. The letter had been placed in the postbox, not mailed, and the elderly handyman who periodically checked in on the cottage had sent the letter along via Marc’s publicist.
If anyone else had received a note as well, Marc would have heard about it long before now.
Why him?
It made no sense. None.
But as he was in Australia and too far away to do anything about it at the moment, Marc tried to mentally set the letter aside. He had this ten-out-of-ten, perfectly amazing day to focus on first.
It wasn’t like the letter was earth-shattering or even life-threatening. It could wait a few hours before being dealt with.
But the knowledge of it buzzed in the back of his head. An annoying insect he kept batting away.
Focus. He could focus.
Just enjoy the weather, the scenery . . . complete the photoshoot.
Then, he would call Emme and James and talk about what to do.
But the blackmail bad luck spread like contagion through his should-have-been-totally-awesome day.
The sun, though brilliant, had turned the humid air thick. Walking began to feel like swimming, plastering his clothes to his body. Worse, blond dread-locked wig insulated his head, sending the heat into suffocating territory. Marc wanted nothing more than to dive into the ocean.
But that lovely relief was definitely out of the question. Glancing down at the clear blue water, Marc searched for evidence of the box jellyfish infestation swarming the shore. Tiny, transparent and therefore nearly invisible, the jellies turned swimming into a lethal game of maritime Russian roulette. It didn’t help that the Australian photography crew had spent half the morning loudly swapping box jelly horror stories. The waves lapped a taunting litany.
To make matters worse, someone had read the tide table wrong and the tide was coming in, swirling around the rusted hull of the ship. If Marc had been allowed to keep his boots on, the water with its nearly invisible menace would not have concerned him.
However, after a heated discussion with the photographer, the stylist had forced his boots off, leaving Marc barefoot in cuffed, torn jeans and a military-style vest. The stylist had seemed callously ambivalent about his overall health and the death threat lurking in the water.
With the water lapping in, Marc had to continually climb higher up the rusted shipwreck, praying he didn’t cut his bare feet on the metal hull. If a box jelly didn’t kill him first, tetanus would probably finish the job.
The icing on the cake, as it were, came again from the photography crew. Every time Marc almost teetered into the water, they would all shout a teasing, “Later, alligator,” in their broad Australian accents.
Where had it all gone so wrong?
Blackmail. Ah, yes. That was it.
Marc glanced over at the AusNTM model. Primped, painted and artlessly vapid in her clinging gold dress. She epitomized the kind of rail thin, stylized version of womanhood that Hollywood preferred. A pretty girl who hid insecurity behind a too brittle laugh, barbed comments and thick layer of make-up.
Marc had spent most of his adulthood surrounded by women like her.
They really weren’t his type.
But . . . here Marc heaved an enormous sigh . . . Sara was here too.
Sara—vivacious with dancing blue eyes and a quick smile.
Sara—the stylist who had offed his boots and was definitely pulling for a box jelly to do him in.
Sara—Marc’s ex-girlfriend.
He had been palpably shocked to see her when he arrived that morning, nearly fidgeting as she jammed the dreadlock wig on his head. None too gently.
Love Life = 2/10. If he were going to keep track of that today too.
Which it appeared he was.
Sara was more-or-less his type. Intelligent, loyal, witty. Tall and pretty without a trace of vanity, despite working as a stylist.
Their break up the year before in Bali was still a vivid memory.
“So this is it,” Sara had said, tapping a high-heeled foot. “Just like that—we’re done.” She adjusted her large sunglasses and swallowed. That hard swallow which fought to keep tears at bay.
Marc shifted uncomfortably. He hated scenes, hated strong emotions and, even worse, talking about them. Why did things always end this way? Ugly, messy. Hurt.
“Sara, look, I’m so sorry. Really, I am.” He truly was. “I never intended to lead you on. You want more. I get it. But I just . . . can’t . . . be more for you right now.”
“Can’t or won’t, Marc?”
Ugh. He also hated that question.
More foot tapping.
“Both, I suppose,” he said, knowing it was the wrong answer. “I’m just not a touchy-feely kinda guy.”
A lo
ng pause. More tight swallowing.
“Well, I hope she destroys you.”
“What? What are you talking about? Sara, there isn’t anyone else and—”
“Oh, I know there’s no one else. Not yet. But, someday . . . someday there will be. Someone who makes you want to open up to her.” She paused, glanced to the side and then brought her gaze back to him. “And I hope she bloody destroys you.”
So . . . yeah. That was Sara.
Marc considered all of this as he scrambled up the shipwreck, balancing above the model on the jagged edge of the hull, hefting a massive chainsaw above his head. Wig plastered to his sweat-covered face and shoulders, a heavy ammo belt slung over the vest.
The problem was this: Marc had liked Sara. He truly had.
But he just didn’t do intense, consuming emotions. It wasn’t his thing.
He wasn’t a let’s-hang-out-and-talk-about-our-feelings kinda guy.
More of a when-is-kickoff and pass-me-the-bacon kinda guy.
Not that he was a jerk. He loved his mother. He loved his sister. He took care of them both, respected them, laughed with them, enjoyed spending time with them. He had always felt close to Emme and his mom, particularly as his British father had up and left when Marc was only eight. They were his life and he would gladly die for them.
But when it came to women he wasn’t genetically related to, Marc struggled. It wasn’t the women he dated, really. He recognized that. The problem, it seemed, was within himself.
Though he had, at least, been smart enough to avoid saying the dreaded It’s-not-you-it’s-me line to former girlfriends.
Even though the phrase sorta hit the proverbial nail on the head.
He often wondered if maybe the crushing pain of his father’s abandonment had broken something inside him. Something that couldn’t be fixed. Dooming Marc to live with a heart incapable of ‘til-death-do-us-part love.
Sara and the string of girlfriends before her had all been perfectly lovely people. Women for whom he felt affection and camaraderie and attraction.
But capital-L Love? The kind of love that poets sobbed over and singers crooned about and men fought wars for . . .