Roam: Time Walkers World Special Edition

by E. B. Brown

  “Where are her kin?”

  Benjamin took a gulp of the wine, meeting Agnarr’s gaze over the rim of the glass.

  “Dead in the massacre of ‘twenty-two. As I thought she was,” he said quietly. Give him his answers. Satisfy his curiosity, Benjamin thought. Gain his trust again if we ever are to escape.

  “You know what she is.”

  Benjamin nodded. “She is like us.”

  “No, not quite. She is much more than that,” Agnarr said. “The blood in her veins is unlike yours or mine. Her mother was a MacMhaolain…”

  Agnarr set his glass carefully on his desk.

  “…and she is my daughter. I canna thank ye enough for bringing her to me.”

  Benjamin forced a grin to his lips. There was little else for him to do.

  CHAPTER 30

  Maggie

  ALTHOUGH HER HEAD THROBBED with each breath she took, she banged the window latch with the heel of her hand until the diamond-shaped quarrel sprung open. Once she stuck her head through the narrow opening, she could see the bedroom was on the second floor. There was no eve to crawl onto, and the fall was a steep one. Her only option was the door she arrived by.

  As she sat down on the edge of the thick tufted bed to consider her options, the door opened and Benjamin stepped inside. With his dark hair curled wildly around his neck and his face littered with bruises, she had little faith he was any better off than she.

  Maggie opened her mouth to question him when she thought better of it. His eyes held an unspoken warning, his stance tense as he held his hand out to her.

  “Agnarr would like ye to join him downstairs, my lady,” he said.

  “I don’t think I am up to that,” she whispered, utterly confused. She noted the shadow by the door. So Benjamin had company outside, someone he did not trust.

  “Here.” He took a cloth from his waistcoat, and she eyed him warily as he wiped her face. “Are ye all right?” he said softly.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Better now,” he murmured.

  It felt strange to let him touch her in such an intimate manner. Yes, they had once been married, a time that was little more than a sad memory to her. Nevertheless, there was something more to his actions, some reason for his behavior, and she suspected it had to do with her father.

  Her father. Never had she called a man father. Even knowing he lived, the word was foreign to her. She had no father. There was only the man who sired her, who used her mother like cattle as a means to his own end.

  She placed her hand in the crook of Benjamin’s elbow and accompanied him downstairs. Despite the circumstance, she took in the extravagance around them. Leaded-glazed windows with wrought iron casements graced the walls, giving the plantation home a generous supply of natural light. Light-buff clay tiles surrounded the large fireplace, decorated with delicate blue motifs of varying design. The furniture was exotic for the colony, with a long carved mahogany table placed in the center of the room.

  Agnarr sat at the head of the table, standing up when he noted her arrival. As he made a gracious effort to assist her with her chair, she shuddered. She could still feel the sting of his blow to her jaw.

  They were right, she thought. Winn, Erich, and Gwen. They knew what her father was all along.

  “I took the liberty of securing yer Bloodstone, my dear,” Agnarr said. He leaned forward in his seat, her pendant dangling from his upheld hand. She shrugged. Didn’t he know he could not use it? A Bloodstone could be used only by the one it bonded to. It was matched to the brand on her palm, and like it or not, it belonged to her alone.

  “Keep it. It will do you no good,” she replied. She took a swig of the red wine in her goblet, hoping it would calm her racing heart. Seeming to ignore her comment, she watched as he bent his head and used a quill to draw on a piece of thin parchment. Quite engrossed with his endeavor, he flicked a hand impatiently at the serving girl when she tried to refill his glass. Finally, he tucked a wayward piece of blond hair behind his ear and smiled triumphantly.

  “This rune,” he announced, handing her the parchment, “will take ye to my time. The time ye should have been born to.”

  She wanted to tear it to shreds.

  “I won’t help you. This is my time. This is where I’m meant to be,” she said. Although her heart still pounded in her ears, her voice was steady.

  “Ye will help me, I promise ye,” he replied. “Jora, my dearest. Please, sit. It seems we have much to discuss.”

  Agnarr and Benjamin stood when a striking woman joined them. Her russet hair fell about her shoulders, her figure so petite that her silk gown brushed the floor when she swayed. Benjamin took care to help her sit, touching her shoulder gently before he resumed his seat.

  “Jora, this is Maggie. My daughter,” Agnarr said, his voice childishly musical. “And most unfortunately, she is also Benjamin’s wife. His first wife.”

  The smile faded from Jora’s face. She pushed her chair back and stood so quickly that her wine spilled across the table, her mouth agape as she rushed to the stairs. Benjamin cast a heated glare at Agnarr and then followed Jora. The sounds of their argument echoed from above even after Maggie heard a door slam.

  “I’m not his wife!” Maggie hissed. “And who is she? Why did you try to hurt her so?”

  “Benjamin says ye are his wife, so his marriage to Jora is not valid. One man cannot have two wives, my dear. Surely that has not changed in the time ye come from?”

  She refused to be baited by games. She wanted to know what her father meant to do with her – and with Benjamin.

  “What do you want with me?” she asked. She lowered her voice, trying to steady herself. Her ribs tightened, her breath shallow as she looked at him.

  The man in front of her was her father by blood. What should she call the father who meant to kill her? Daddy seemed horribly inadequate.

  “As if ye do not know,” he replied. His meal remained untouched on the table before him, just as hers was cold on her plate. His eyes, lifeless under his narrowed brows, chilled her as he stared. Did he see her mother, when he looked at her? Or was she merely a means to an end?

  “Perhaps I’d like to hear it from you,” she said. “You are my father. Surely the things I was told of you are not true.”

  His lip twisted upward, a grin replacing his scowl. She bit down on her lower lip as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His face was softer, calmer; his voice steady and low.

  “Did they tell ye how I loved yer mother?” he asked. “Or how they stole her away from me, because a lowly Sturlsson was not good enough for a MacMhaolian?”

  He lowered his head, staring blankly at the table as he traced a finger across his napkin.

  “I searched for ye both. Fer years, every waking moment I spent I searched for ye.”

  She swallowed hard when he rose from his chair and approached her. Standing behind her, he placed his hand on her shoulder, the tips of his fingers sending a shiver down her spine. The hollow of her heart tightened like a fist and her pulse raced beneath his touch. Had she been wrong all along? Had she been cheated of the love of her father?

  “You did?” she whispered.

  His fingers shifted, sliding up to cup her cheek. His breath was warm against her cheek, the illusion of fatherly love shattered.

  “Yes,” he said. “Because you will return me to my time, and then you will restore life to my father. MacMhaolians are not the only ones who keep their vows.”

  She tried to get up and he shoved her back down, her hope of seeing some goodness in him destroyed as he laughed.

  “If you let me go now, I will tell my husband not to kill you,” she said evenly.

  Agnarr uttered a coarse snort, and too late she realized he thought she referred to Benjamin. His amusement however was short lived.

  He reached for her, his reflex rapid, taking her hand in his. She cried out when he slammed it down on the table, palm up, twisting her arm so that a
ny movement sent pain shooting up her shoulder. As she struggled he unsheathed the knife at his waist, a jewel-laden blade with a rune imprinted on the hilt.

  She could not stop the angry tears that fell as he carved the rune into her palm, nor her cries. The wound was deep, the carving precise, and when he took all the time he needed to make it perfect he looked down upon it and grinned.

  “No,” she whispered. He sliced his own hand and placed her Bloodstone in his palm, then clasped it over her bleeding wound.

  Darkness descended. It fell heavy upon her, blinding her eyes and searing her skin. She slid off her chair onto the floor, the force pulling her down until she thought she might meld to the earth below.

  No, she screamed. Her voice never surfaced, her thoughts the only protest she could hear. Please don’t make me go.

  CHAPTER 31

  Benjamin

  A CLAY PITCHER sailed past his head as he entered the room, shattering against the wall to his side. Benjamin ducked at the series of objects that followed – a chamber pot, a music box, and the brooch he had given her as a wedding gift – but he decided her tirade must end when she came at him with a fire poker.

  “Jora!” he hollered. “Ye can gouge my eyes out later if ye wish, but please, now, let me explain!”

  “Ye churlish, lying, hedge-pig!” she screamed. He plucked the iron poker from her hands and threw it across the room where it clattered on the brick hearth. When she moved to strike him he caught her fists, shoving her against the door where he could hold her steady.

  “I dinna lie to ye!” he bellowed.

  “Ye did! Ye said she was dead, that ye dinna love her, that she was not meant to be yer wife!”

  Her breaths came staggered and he could see the flush across her skin from her anger. Even in the throes of fury, he could see the edge of softness in her eyes, that piece of her that trusted him despite the years of deceit between them.

  “I said she was gone. I dinna say dead,” he said, his voice low. “As the life left my father’s body, I stood with my brother and we made an oath. I swore I would protect her kind.”

  Jora stared up at him, her struggles lessened for the moment.

  “My father died because of my mistake. I betrayed my brother for my own selfish needs. This time, I shall not fail. If ever I held some honor in my heart, it is now I must claim it.”

  She stayed in place when he dropped his hands. The pulse throbbed below her throat, in that sweet place he often placed his lips. Her searching gaze demanded an answer he never intended to give, and as he turned his back to her, he struggled to form the words.

  “Love is a weakness I meant not to dwell on again,” he said quietly. “Yet my heart is bound to the woman before me, a woman who trusts naught which issues from my lips. Even so, I love my wife.”

  He sighed, letting his breath out slowly in the silence that followed. Perhaps his words meant nothing when so much mistrust lay between them. He closed his eyes, trying to steady the pound of his heart within his chest. As the quiet wore on and he thought all was lost, he felt her step up behind him.

  Jora entwined her fingers in his. Her breath ran across his skin as she rested her lips on his shoulder.

  “This woman trusts ye with her life,” she whispered. “Tell me what we must do to stop this madness. Tell me how I will help ye.”

  He had never known what it meant to have her trust. The weight of it surrounded him, warmed him, as if it was an ember that raced through his veins. He welcomed it into his heart as he pulled her into his arms.

  “We will end this. I promise ye,” he whispered.

  *****

  When he left Jora’s side the house was dark, the lamps along the hallways dimmed as the stillness of evening fell upon them. Murmurs from the servants in their quarters assured him it was a night like all others, yet as he made his way through the narrow halls in search of Maggie, he was acutely aware it was not.

  So familiar with Wakehill that he anticipated the squeak of the study door, Benjamin turned the knob carefully as he peered inside. He had searched the house and found no sign of Maggie, nor Agnarr. It was the only place he had failed to look.

  Agnarr sat sprawled in his chair in the darkened room, holding a piece of parchment. His hair fell unencumbered about his drawn face, his jaw set tight above his loosened shirt. Blazing jade eyes flickered with the glow of the dying fire, focused on the woman who lay on the floor at his feet.

  “We were in a place I did not know,” Agnarr said, more to himself than to Benjamin. “I think it was that future time she was born to. I dinna care for it at all.”

  Benjamin winced when Agnarr reached over and kicked Maggie’s foot with his booted toe. She did not stir.

  “Ye canna control the Blooded Ones. Yer not meant to change the past. Do ye not see that, man?” Benjamin replied.

  “Oh, yes. Yes I can,” Agnarr answered. “I need another rune. Next time, we will go where I command. And this–” he snapped, throwing a tiny figurine onto the floor, “this thing – it will not return us here!”

  Benjamin picked it up, kneeling down beside Maggie. It was her raven, the match to his eagle.

  “Those bloody McMhaolians have their trinkets, their ways to control the magic. They forget my family once knew the same,” Agnarr muttered.

  As Benjamin lifted his brother’s wife into his arms, Agnarr cleared his throat.

  “See that Jora helps yer wife find a suitable dress. We shall have guests on the morrow and ye both will be at my side.”

  Maggie stirred, reaching blindly for him. A bloody trail streaked his shirt where her hand clutched his chest. Benjamin swallowed hard as he glimpsed her gouged palm.

  He would find a way to escape – for all of them.

  CHAPTER 32

  Winn

  “A RED-HAIRED WOMAN was seen with Benjamin Dixon at the port. They traveled to Wakehill. That is all I have word of, I fear.”

  When John finally arrived at Basse’s Choice with the news, Winn was not at all consoled. It had been three days since he escaped Jamestown and last saw his wife. He left her in the care of his brother, his only option at the time. As he turned away from John, Winn’s hands clenched into fists.

  Was she safe? Did she understand? Surely, she knew they could not escape Jamestown together, that he would come for her. No matter what stood between them, he would find her.

  Standing in John Basse’s home with the trappings of English luxury surrounding him, the very air in the room felt still. His leather-clad feet slid across polished wood floors as he paced away, the glow of an oil lamp guiding his way.

  He could abide it for her – but not without her.

  “Then I will go there,” Winn said. “And I will let no man stand in my way.”

  John sighed, shaking his head.

  “Ye canna go there with such malice in yer heart. A good Christian –”

  Winn turned abruptly and stalked toward John, who backed up against the wall.

  “I once was Paspahegh. I once was Norse. Will I be a Christian? I cannot say,” Winn growled. “Yet no matter what God I speak to, I know this to be true: I will kill any man who harms my wife. I tell this to you so you have no doubt. That is the man I am. That is the truth I know.”

  The Englishman’s neck contracted as he gulped.

  “Then I imagine I must accompany ye,” John stammered.

  Winn scowled. He looked into John’s eyes for a long moment before he gave the Englishman a curt nod.

  “A good plan, Englishman,” Winn replied.

  *****

  It was years since Winn attended any sort of English gathering. When he was a young man, he lived with the Dixon family for a time, and with Benjamin, he learned how to behave in gentle company. The women valued their silk dresses and fancy petticoats. The men enjoyed the luxury of pipe tobacco and imported spirits. As Winn looked at the plantation house before him, he was reminded of yet another possession the English valued – their homes on the land they
believed they owned.

  The house was bright beneath the light of a crescent moon. Music and laughter hummed from inside the house, and Winn could see several couples touring the garden. He recalled how they destroyed the land and then planted beautiful flowers to look at in their leisure time.

  Chetan nudged Winn with his elbow.

  “She must be in the garden,” Chetan said. Winn’s eyes narrowed.

  “I know this.”

  “You stare as if they may bite you. Go. I am at your side.”

  Winn grunted an oath at his brother. He tapped the knife on his belt, and then ran his fingers over his father’s bryntroll harnessed to his back. Erich muttered something foul in Norse about Englishmen and swiving goats, and Winn shot him a glare.

  “Carry on,” Erich muttered.

  “Weapons, gentlemen,” John Basse called out. Standing at Winn’s side, the Christian had a newly confident air about him. Wearing his good church clothes and a fine wool cloak, John lifted his chin and straightened his back as he spoke at the men. Perhaps the man would not be a liability after all.

  They sheathed their weapons as they approached. Chetan and Keke said little, while the Norse filled the silence with playful banter. It was the first time Tyr joined them in battle and the Norse youth reveled in the camaraderie. Iain, the young half-English, half-Chesapeake man seemed thoughtful, his eyes searching the others as if he needed guidance. Winn felt Cormaic’s absence, just as he was certain Erich did. Never had they engaged an enemy without the massive berserker.

  Winn’s fur mantle streamed behind him in the brisk night air, the sword at his side banging lightly on his leather-clad thigh. Under his grey vest his chest was bare, the winding tattoo upon his abdomen visible to all.

  He was proud of who he was. All of it. Every moment, every death, every memory of happiness – it all belonged to him. He would wear it with honor as he led his men one last time.

  There was an arch decorated with flowers stretching over the garden entrance. When Winn stepped through it with his men flanking his sides, he heard panicked whispers from the English guests as he passed. Men moved their wives from his path; others retreated into small groups to stare.