by Nichole Van
She wanted to be angry and hurt. They were much safer emotions.
She pushed away from him, swiping at her tears. Staggered to standing.
“Kit . . .” His voice washed over her, plaintive and quiet. Pleading. He grasped her hand.
She shook it free.
She didn’t want pleading. Or pathetic excuses.
She wanted her brother back.
Stumbling up the stairs, tears welling again when she saw the trunk and greatcoat, she walked to the kitchen sink. Turned on the hot water and scrubbed her filthy hands. And then her face too for good measure. Letting her tears mix with the water.
Finally, she gave up and just stood at the sink, tears falling into the running water.
Sobbing and sobbing. As if a lake of tears could return Daniel to her.
“Hey.” Marc’s hand reached across her, turning off the water.
A linen towel dabbed at her face. Strong hands turned her around. Two fingers lifted her chin.
Still hiccupping, she looked into his green, green, green eyes. Soft and concerned.
Streaked with soot and blood.
That got her attention. She took a step back. His clothing was singed, jacket partially torn, neckcloth missing. Eyes bloodshot.
He looked like she felt.
Gutted. Burned.
“I am so sorry, Kit.” His voice rasped. Eyes drilled into hers, beseeching. “It seemed like the best solution.”
Unable to stand the intensity of his gaze, she glanced down.
And through her swimming vision, noted his wrist. His cravat tied around it.
“You’re . . . hiccup . . . hurt.” She reached for his hand, gently lifting it.
He winced.
“I don’t think it’s broken. Just a bad sprain.”
He wiped her wet cheeks again with his free hand.
She snuffled.
“You should . . . hiccup . . . ice it.”
“Who cares about my damn wrist, Kit?” He grasped her chin again, forcing her back to look at him. “It’s not important right now.”
“I care,” she sniffed. And then jerked her chin out of his hand. “But, then, that’s what . . . hiccup . . . I do. I care about things. About people.”
Still angry-sniffling, she stomped over to the fridge, pulled open the lower freezer and dug out a bag of frozen peas.
“At least stop . . . hiccup . . . the swelling.” She handed him the bag as she walked past. Ignoring his tug on her sleeve.
Grabbing her brother’s greatcoat off the chair, she wrapped it around her and stalked over to sit on the overstuffed couch facing the enormous fireplace.
Hiccupping and snuffling.
Burrowing into the scratchy wool coat, breathing in deeply, trying to find some lingering scent of Daniel.
Hoping to hold part of Daniel to her.
Nothing.
The coat smelled like wool and chemicals. New. As if Daniel had never worn it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Marc joining her, the couch dipping under his weight. He held the peas to his injured wrist.
Silence.
Marc broke it first. Voice hoarse.
“Again, it seemed like the best solution, Kit—”
“You said you were Switzerland. More like the former USSR, just taking over everything you see—” She hiccupped again, her voice breaking. “He was one man. One stupid, weak, little man. You’re Marc Wilde, for heaven’s sake. I watched you take down four armed men in seconds on the road to Whitmoor—”
“Yes, four men who didn’t really want to hurt me or you. Four men who were afraid to fire for fear of hitting each other or their horses—”
Kit pulled Daniel’s coat tighter around her. Like a cocoon. As if she buried herself far enough into it, she could keep Marc’s pleas out.
“Kit, Jedediah tried to kill his own mother—”
“What?” She whirled to face him.
“You were busy with Marianne, so I don’t think you got much of the story. I interrupted Jedediah trying to kill Ruby. Daniel must have somehow slipped up and let Jedediah know that you and I were involved in this whole mess. So, he then tried to kill me,” —Marc held up his wrist as proof— “screaming the whole time that he needed the real plans. I beat him off and managed to rescue Ruby before her son could finish her off.”
He paused, shaking his head. And then fixing her with his impossibly green eyes.
“That is the man who held you prisoner, Kit. Add in the fact I have an injured wrist, had hefted a woman out of a burning building, inhaled a lifetime of smoke, ran to Duir Cottage once I realized what had happened despite being barely able to breathe . . . Kit, I am so sorry, but Jedediah was armed. And intent on killing us both. I couldn’t outrun him—not as I was and having to carry you—and there was a good chance you or I would be injured in a fight. How could I ever risk your life?”
She clenched her jaw, hating that a lot of what he said made sense.
“But you didn’t even try. It was like you had made the decision to go through the portal before you even entered the house.”
Silence again. Marc looked away. His lack of a response confirming her statement.
“Why? Why take the decision away from me?” she whispered.
He brought his eyes back to hers. “I didn’t want—”
“No man is an island.” She threw his own words back at him. “Everything you do makes waves in an ocean. You may not mean to swamp someone else’s boat, but it doesn’t excuse your responsibility—”
“Kit—”
“I want to go back. I want to decide for myself—” Unbidden, her eyes welled up again.
Marc sighed, shifting the peas on his wrist. “I know that. I do—”
“Daniel is all I have left. Everyone leaves—”
“I don’t. I’m here.”
His voice fell between them, the barest breath of sound.
Hoarse and jagged. Yet somehow strong and true.
A jarring punch in her soul.
Stop making sense! She wanted to scream at him. I just want to be angry right now. Stop with all this . . . reasonableness.
“I support you and your decisions, Kit.” He gazed at her calmly. Sympathy evident in every line of him. “I do. Daniel wants to remain in 1814. So if you go back, you should go with a plan to stay there with him. Permanently.”
More reasonableness. Stupid man.
“Easy to say with the portal shut and refusing to allow me through.”
“Kit, we’ve been through this. Your brother is forging a life for himself in the past—”
“Yes, you mentioned that. Right after you watched him walk away!” Anger surged through Kit again. “You just let him leave—”
“He’s a grown man making his own decisions. I respect other’s choices—”
“No! Don’t you dare bring it back to that. You refused to force him to stay.”
“As I’ve said, I wasn’t going to beat him up—”
“Right. Or, say, throw him over your shoulder and drag him off—”
“Don’t do this, Kit!”
Marc surged to his feet, a frustrated hand in his hair. His uninjured hand. He began pacing in front of the fireplace.
“Just explain to me why.” She gestured toward him. “Why wasn’t I accorded the same respect? Why let my brother go but then turn around and make the choice for me?”
“Why? Why?!” Marc stopped. Flung his hand outward.
Fixed her with a look so intense it pinned her to the couch.
Breathless. Unable to move.
“Why, Kit?! Because I don’t love your brother. When it’s someone I love, it’s a totally different thing.”
His words hung between them. Raw. Bleeding.
When it’s someone I love . . .
Kit held perfectly still.
“Well,” she whispered. Cleared her throat. “I do love him. Or I did. But I will never get the chance to say that to him, will I? Because that choice
was taken from me.”
And then, suddenly, it seemed there was nothing left to say.
“I’m leaving.” She stood, clutching Daniel’s coat around her like a talisman.
Marc closed his eyes, shoulders sagging. Deflating in front of her.
“Please don’t go.”
She shrugged. “We won’t ever see eye-to-eye on this issue.”
“At least let me give you a lift—”
She shook her head. “No need. I can find my own way.”
Sliding her arms into the coat, she moved down the hallway to the front door.
“Kit, please. Try to understand. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”
She paused. Half-twisted her head toward him.
“I think you just did, Mr. Wilde.”
And then slid the bolt on the door, opening it.
Turned back to him, giving him one last, lingering look.
“Later, alligator.”
And then she left. The door a satisfying slam behind her.
Marc collapsed against the wall in the hallway. Sinking to the floor with his head in his hands.
The door shutting behind Kit mimicked the shattering of his own soul.
He could practically see the shards of his heart strewn across the wooden floor.
The one and only time he had ever told a woman he loved her.
He groaned, tugging at his hair. Relishing the pain in his sprained wrist.
How could he have made such a spectacular mess of this?
Her face when she realized they had come through the portal . . .
Ashen, washed of life. As if her very reason for existing had been snuffed out.
He literally felt physically sick over it.
It hurt.
It hurt that he had hurt her.
It hurt that all her love and affection was not for him.
Which really just made him the worst sort of cad.
He released his head and tipped it back against the wall. Thumping rhythmically. Once. Twice.
He should have tried harder to keep them in the past. He should have shown more respect for her choices.
But for what? To watch her decide to stay in the past without him?
His throat ached from the smoke. At least that’s what he told himself.
And his eyes watering . . . that was just smoke too.
Right?
With a groan, he tipped his head into his hands. Gouging his eyeballs with his palms.
Letting the devastation settle through him. The agonizing loss of her.
He sat in the hallway until the shadows stretched and the light faded from sunset gold to twilight blue.
He was still sitting there in the near dark when Emme and James walked through the back door, flipping on the lights. Marc blinked into the sudden brightness.
That’s right. Just back from their off-the-grid trip to Mongolia. Fantastic. They probably had no idea anything had happened.
James tossed his coat onto the kitchen island and walked around the table. Noting the beaver top hat and trunk in the hall. The open door down to the portal. Raked his gaze up and down Marc in his battered Regency-period clothing.
Raised both his blond eyebrows in surprise.
“You look like hell,” he said by way of greeting. “In a nineteenth century sort of way.”
Marc managed a gruff laugh. More noise than humor.
“Feel like it too,” he croaked, pushing to his feet.
Suddenly, every ache and pain in his body made itself known. His throbbing wrist, his scorched throat, stinging eyes.
Emme brushed past her husband.
“Marc!” She caught him around the waist, hugging him tightly. And then pulled back, surveying his sorry state.
Singed and smoky.
“What happened?” she asked, shaking her dark curly head. “Wait. The portal?”
He nodded.
Emme rolled her hand. Go on.
Where to start?
He shook his head wearily. “Let’s see. I solved our blackmail case. Interesting twist on that.”
“That’s a relief,” James said, scrubbing a hand through his blond hair.
“Yes. I also beat up Linwood. That felt good.”
“Shut it!” Emme pushed his chest. And then gave a gleeful laugh.
“A little bloodthirsty, aren’t we, Mrs. Knight?” James gave his wife a teasing wink.
“He so deserved whatever he got!”
Marc managed a faint not-quite grin.
Turns out seeing his sister and brother-in-law so happily in love did not improve his mood.
“I also managed to fall in love with La Pochette.”
No sense hiding that small bombshell. Emme would ferret it out of him soon enough anyway.
“What?!” Emme took a step back, giving him a comically puzzled look. “As in FauxPause?”
Marc nodded.
“How is that even possible?”
“It is a long story.”
Emme sniffed the air. “Wait. Were you in a fire too?”
“Why, yes, thank you for asking. Haldon Manor burned down—”
“Pardon?!” James’ eyes went wide.
“No!” Emme exclaimed at the same time.
“It was spectacular. Oh, and you’re an uncle, by the way.” Marc gestured toward James. “Arthur and Marianne had a darling little girl. Named her Isabel.”
James’ eyes went even wider.
Emme tucked an arm around Marc, intent on leading him back into the kitchen.
“C’mon, big brother. I want to hear the entire story from the beginning.”
Chapter 25
Whitmoor House
Gloucestershire
March 10, 2014
Kit woke to drumming rain on her window.
Which was just fine, as it seemed to match her pounding headache.
She wanted to attribute it to time travel jet lag (if such a thing existed), but she knew that was wrong.
It was a love headache.
A headache brought on by too much crying over a man (or brother, rather) who didn’t seem to care.
And not enough crying over a man who did.
Marc had told her that he loved her. Well, more or less.
And, yet, she had still walked out on him.
Gah! What kind of a person was she? To just walk out on a man like that?
Correction: To walk out on Marc Wilde like that.
She lay in bed, feeling as if a weight the size and breadth of all of Britain had taken up residence on her chest.
The previous night, she had returned home, called her two managing editors and apologized for her absence. Made up a (partially true) story about having to dig Daniel out of one of his scrapes. Smoothed things over.
And then took an absurdly long shower.
The website was doing well, despite her unplanned ‘vacation.’
Yes, the Croc-nami post had gone mega-viral. Apparently several media outlets had been eager to interview her.
Lovely. So many people wanting to be with her, wanting to have her around.
Everyone but her family. The only people who should want to be with her, no matter what.
She staggered out of bed. Pulled a cotton wrap over her tight t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Loosely gathered her hair into a messy bun.
And wandered down the stone stairs of Whitmoor House.
The family wing, of course.
Ironic that. Given she had none now.
She was deep into her pity-party. Intent on wallowing there for a good long time. She had already gone through a full package of hobnobs and was deep into a package of shortbread biscuits.
Kit could hear the low rumble of voices coming from the medieval hall. Visitors gaping at the enormous wooden beams and faded banners. The tour guides recounting the history of the building.
How much longer would it be hers? Eventually, Daniel would have to be declared dead. And then, without a living male heir, the entire building w
ould revert to the National Trust.
Gone, gone, gone. All gone.
She wandered into her father’s study. His desk stood in the same place in the middle of the room. Heavy, solid. Grounded. Light filtered in, faded and gray, casting the room in blue shadows.
Walking up to the desk, she touched her father’s books, his notes. At some point she would need to sort through this room. But she just hadn’t been able to face it yet. To box up her father’s life. Now to have to box up Daniel’s too. . .
It just felt like such a betrayal. A negation of them as people. To what they had meant to her.
She stared out the window for a moment. The rain drip, drip, dripping down the panes. A mimicry of her soul.
She turned away, unable to think about it any more.
But as she did, a flash of white near the fireplace caught her eye.
With a frown, she walked over. There, nestled on the marble mantle, sat a thick envelope. Her name written across the front in sloppy handwriting.
Daniel.
The letter he said he had left for her. How could she have forgotten?
With shaking fingers, she took the envelope down. Walked back to the desk and sat in her father’s chair. Opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of old papers.
Wrapped around them was a single sheet of crisp modern stationery. A note. Handwritten, of course, given Daniel’s love of a tangible world.
Kit read her brother’s sloping hand:
Dearest Kit,
You are probably going to be very, very angry with me when you receive this letter.
But, please, do me the favor of being angry at me, Daniel. Not our circumstances or our parents or, worst of all, yourself. This letter is not about you. It is about me and who I intrinsically am and my decisions. Most importantly, the person I feel I am destined to be.
Let me begin by saying you are the very best of sisters. Because of you, I know I have been thoroughly and unconditionally loved in my life. I know I have caused you pain and considerable frustration over the years. And for that, I am deeply sorry. You deserved better than my indifference. I wish I had a good excuse for my behavior, but I don’t. Not really. But I’ll try to explain.
All my life, I have felt like an outcast, a misfit. Like a square peg in a round hole, to use a cliché. This sense of unease within myself has driven nearly all my bad behavior over the years as I’ve searched for the place where I belong.
