by Tamara Leigh
Here was an opportunity to undo what his careless words had done. But he let it pass, telling himself that since all would be lost if he couldn’t return to the woman he loved, there was nothing to protect. “Yes, Catherine Algernon.”
“Proof I’m dreaming.” Before Collier could assure him otherwise, James said, “Our lady of legend bears a marked resemblance to that American you were dating. What was her name?”
“Look at me, James.”
“What was her name, Collier?”
“Aryn,” he snapped.
James lifted his lids. Though his eyes were still shot through with red, clarity shone there.
“You aren’t dreaming,” Collier said. “I’m here, though I shouldn’t be.”
“Really?”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Collier said, “I’ve been with Catherine Algernon these past months, and I need to get back to her. She’s in danger.”
James chuckled. “If this isn’t a dream, your obsession has gotten so far out of hand you’re going to need extensive counseling.”
Anger once more working its way toward his surface, Collier said, “I’m sane.”
His brother raised his eyebrows. “Not a dream. Not insanity. All that’s left is head games, though aren’t those beneath you?”
Feeling his cramped fingers protest the fists he made, Collier determinedly opened them. “I’m not playing games.”
James rolled his eyes. “I may be on the hangover side of a bottle, but I have enough sense to know you can’t have been with a woman who’s five-hundred-years dead.”
Pain shooting behind his eyes, Collier gripped his temples.
“All right,” James drawled, “how do you plan on getting back to Catherine?”
Certain he was being humored while James worked out how to admit his brother to a mental hospital without alerting the tabloids, Collier said, “Somehow, the portrait sent me five hundred years into the past. There has to be a way to do it again.”
James pushed up out of his slump and peered past Collier. “That’s your portal through time?”
“Aye.” As soon as he said it, his sluggish mind picked up the pace, positing the portrait had not been present when Walther landed the blow that returned Collier to the twenty-first century. Had he been wrong in believing it had played a role in sending him to Catherine?
He returned his brother to focus. “When I awakened, you said you did it. What did you do?”
“Brought you out of the coma.”
“How?”
He averted his eyes. “Good old-fashioned guilt. Not only because I didn’t immediately drive into London when your housekeeper called, but because of Strivling and all the bad between us I made worse with my baiting and—yes—dirty tricks. So before you passed away, I wanted you to hear what I had to say.”
He looked back at Collier. “The nurse came yesterday morning as she’s done every day this week. After examining you, she said you would probably pass before nightfall. She started to administer medication to ensure it was painless, but I persuaded her not to, thinking if there was any way to reach you, it would be with you as aware as possible. I sat beside you for hours asking for forgiveness, and then I heard what sounded like the death rattle. And I surprised myself.”
“How?”
He dragged a hand down his mouth. “Remember when you were three…maybe four, and I was pulling you in the little red wagon down the back lawn and it tipped over?”
Vague remembrance.
“You were crying, and I was so afraid you were badly hurt and Father would be angry that I started to cry.” He rolled his eyes. “Next thing I knew, tough little Collier was up and hugging me so fiercely I could hardly breath. You said, Love you, J., and I told you I loved you. So that’s what I said when I thought it was my last chance.”
In the midst of Collier’s anguish over losing Catherine, here was something heartening and healing.
But as if desperate to move the conversation elsewhere, James rushed on, “I prayed for a sign you heard, and just as I accepted God had no intention of providing one, you awoke. So, a sign? Coincidence?”
“A sign,” Collier said. And yet the healing of this piece of his soul widened the wound in another. Though it would ever bleed if Catherine was lost to him the same as Aryn, he set aside that ache and reached across the mattress.
James eyed Collier’s hand, then gripped it.
“I know you don’t believe I’ve been with Catherine Algernon. Regardless, I think you did call me back to this time, and I was allowed to return to make things right with you.” Though the muscles of his face were weak, he forced a smile. “I love you, J.”
Though his brother’s shoulders eased, sorrow curved his mouth. “And yet, I’m still going to be less one brother, aren’t I?”
Likely, even if only to the wasting away of his body in the twenty-first century. But if he could get back to the middle ages, for certain James would lose him. Also to death but, God willing, not without Collier having lived a good, long life.
He drew in air until it hurt too much to take another sip. “Catherine’s waiting for me. Hopefully, not in vain.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Irondale Castle, Northern England
May 1464
She had been made to wait two hours. Finally, with night upon Irondale, Catherine stepped into the hall.
Moving slowly due to her fall from the horse, grateful the limp she had dealt Walther caused him to shorten his own steps, she followed her captor forward.
Despite the gathering of castle folk that included Irondale’s men-at-arms and the rebels who stood watch over all, it was silent within.
Catherine located her mother near the dais, on one side of her Eustace, on the other their household knights. For now they were safe. So who wished to speak with her?
She looked to the high table. And halted.
The great man who stood before the dais stared back. Though she had been told he had died in the confrontation with Montagu’s men and it was Rudd Walther who delivered the death blow, he was very much alive.
“Surprised?” Walther said low, then sighed. “As was I. But be assured, he and I are not finished.”
Meaning that though Walther now sided with the Lancasters, he would not be satisfied until the other man was truly dead.
Catherine returned her gaze to the knight. And knew he was the one who had sent her the missive at Strivling. A missive finished not with a flourish but an S—for Severn.
“Come.” Walther pulled her forward. “You keep the King of England waiting.”
“The king?” she gasped, and her gaze found the one she had not heretofore noticed—dwarfed as he was by Severn.
Clothed in gray, down to broad-toed shoes that were fit more for a countryman than one of royalty, the man watched her from the lord’s high seat as Walther urged her forward.
This was King Henry? This sickly-looking man who would surely fare better abed? Though it was his queen, Margaret, whom Hildegard had spoken of with reverence, Catherine had envisioned the man to be far different from the one who now occupied her husband’s place.
Collier. Pain stole her breath. How was she to live without him? Not that she would suffer long if Walther had his way—
Cease! she told herself. You are Catherine Algernon Gilchrist. You will not die this day. You will escape and bear the child Collier and you made.
Without regard to her footing, Walther hauled her up onto the dais, where she stumbled and landed hard on her knees. Just barely, she held back a cry of pain.
“Sir Rudd,” King Henry said sharply, “’tis a lady you ill handle!”
Was the king of a kindly disposition as she had heard? Of course, Hildegard had called it weakness.
The mercenary inclined his head, but as he assisted Catherine to standing, his fingers pressed hard into the flesh of her upper arm.
She wrenched free.
His nostrils flared, but he did not dare strike her. “Lady Catherin
e, Your Majesty,” he said.
She smoothed her skirts, then bowed as any subject would do before their king. Forget it was Edward who now wore the crown. Forget Henry’s reign was at an end. Forget that in loving Collier she had forsaken the Lancasters. If she was to survive, she could not alienate the only one capable of saving her and her child.
“Arise, Lady Catherine,” Henry said.
She straightened.
In the brief moment he held her gaze, she saw the weariness of his soul.
“Sir Rudd, where is Lady Catherine’s husband?” Henry asked.
“He…disappeared, Your Majesty.”
“Disappeared?”
“I felled him and—”
“I ordered none were to be harmed.”
“He attacked me, Your Majesty. I had to defend myself.”
“You lie!” Catherine cried. “Though my lord raised no weapon against you, you struck him down.”
“This from a woman turned traitor. She is a whore, Your Majesty.”
“I will not tolerate such vulgarity, Sir Rudd!”
The mercenary swallowed. “My apologies, Your Majesty.”
Henry gave a grunt. “Now tell, how did Gilchrist escape?”
“I know not. One moment he lay on the ground, the next…” Walther raised his palms. “…gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“Vanished, as if he had never been.”
Narrowly, Henry regarded the mercenary. “And they say I am mad,” he muttered, then turned his attention to Catherine. “You know why I have come?”
Strivling’s coin and valuables. Though Severn had not known where she hid them, he had known of them. And that, if Strivling fell, they were to be given to the Lancasters. “I know not, Your Majesty.”
He leaned forward. “I have come for the wealth of Strivling. Where is it?”
What if she were to tell him? Would it make the difference Collier feared it might? Would it be enough to put Henry back on the throne when it was Edward whom Collier said was destined to hold it—should hold it?
“’Tis mine,” Henry said. “Lady Hildegard vowed that if Striving was lost to the Yorkists, its wealth would be delivered to me.”
Which was the promise Catherine had done her best to keep—and nearly died for it. Steeling herself for displeasure, she said, “This I know, Your Majesty, but I fear ’tis gone.”
Henry beckoned to the man who stood silently beside him. “Sir Richard.”
Where was the king’s anger?
“Who has stolen it from the king, my lady?” the knight addressed her.
She held his gaze. “Methinks Montagu.” After all, he would have taken it had he known of it—would have used the lives of the castle folk to force her to divulge its hiding place.
“You think he took it,” Sir Richard said. “You do not know?”
She moistened her lips. “The coffers were empty when I came for them.”
“Then he discovered where they were hidden.”
“He must have.”
The man looked past her. “Antony Algernon, come forward.”
She startled. No word had come from Strivling her brother had fled to the side of the Lancasters. Had he only just done so?
Eyes averted, her brother ascended the dais and halted beside her.
“Were you not present, Antony, when Edmund Morrow arrived at Irondale and demanded to know the whereabouts of three hundred pounds missing from Strivling’s books?” Sir Richard asked.
“I was.”
“Was there not in excess of eight hundred pounds in Strivling’s coffers, Lady Catherine?”
She swallowed. “I believe so.”
“And you think Montagu took the entire sum as well as the valuables?”
“I do.” Hardly had she said it when the muttering of the king returned him to notice.
Lips forming unintelligible words, gaze intent on the thumbs of his hands clasped before his face, he seemed not to be listening. Indeed, it was as if he were unaware he had an audience.
“Then what of the three hundred pounds unaccounted for?” Sir Richard asked as if oblivious to the king’s peculiar behavior.
Did he think she had given five hundred to the Yorkists and kept three hundred for herself? “’Tis eight hundred pounds missing from the books,” she said. “Edmund Morrow simply does not know it, likely because he is unlearned in numbers.”
“Be it so, you are saying Edmund Morrow’s overlord, Montagu, said naught of the wealth he took from Strivling?”
“Why would he? He is a greedy man—surely wished all for himself.”
“She speaks lies, Your Majesty!” Walther burst, causing Henry to blink himself back to the present as the mercenary stepped toward the high table. “She and her Yorkist lover have hidden the money. I am certain of it.”
Henry held up a silencing hand and drew Catherine into his tired gaze. “Are you loyal to me, Lady Catherine? Or do you now side with the Yorkists?”
How was she to answer? “I do not stand with Edward,” she said, hoping in Henry’s state of mind he would not notice her evasiveness.
“What of Gilchrist?” he crushed her hopes. “Do you stand with him?”
“He…is my husband, Your Majesty.”
Annoyance lit Henry’s eyes. “I ask again, Lady Catherine, do you stand with your Yorkist husband?”
No choice. “I do, as is my duty to him.”
The king still did not rise to anger. “Then for the sinful pleasures of the flesh you forsake me.”
Tears pricking her eyes, she said, “Nay, Your Majesty. Though you may condemn me for it, I love…” Her voice caught. “I love Collier Gilchrist.” How it hurt to speak aloud words she might never again speak to him! “’Tis for love of my husband I stand his side.”
Henry narrowed his lids. “And yet he is not here to stand your side. This man you love—this Yorkist—has left you to your fate.”
“Could he return, he would.”
He shook his head. “You have been deceived and, thus, deceive me. I will have my eight hundred pounds, be it in your hands, Gilchrist’s, or Montagu’s.”
What did he threaten? The castle folks’ lives as Montagu had done? If so, what was she to do? Though she might save Irondale’s people by divulging the whereabouts of Strivling’s wealth, what of the lives that would be lost when Henry used the money to mount an attack against Edward and his supporters? She would be trading lives for lives.
“Sir Rudd,” Henry said, “Take Lady Catherine from the hall so she might think on her loyalties this night.”
Did he know what he did in sending her with the mercenary—what he was capable of?
Walther bowed. “Your Majesty.” Once more, his hand fell upon Catherine.
As she was drawn past her mother, she met Lavinia’s anxious gaze, then Eustace’s.
“Sir Severn,” Henry called. “You will also accompany Lady Catherine.”
Relief nearly dropped her to her knees. Regardless of Severn’s feelings for her now that she numbered among the Yorkists, the great man would allow none to harm her.
Feeling Walther’s rancor in his step, she turned her thoughts to escape.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“I hate to tell you this, Collier, but you’re still here.”
How long? An hour? More? Collier looked from the portrait to the window through which dusk shone. Hours.
As he battled emotions stretched so taut that when they snapped it would bode ill for any standing near, he was assailed by an almost forgotten aroma.
James stood in the doorway, a thick folder squeezed between arm and ribs, a cigar jutting from his shirt pocket, a cup in each hand. Though his stance was broad and he still looked a mess, he appeared sober. “Coffee?”
Propped upright by pillows James had earlier wedged behind him, Collier considered the heat wafting from the cups.
“It’s my fourth.” James crossed the room and offered one.
Collier shook his hea
d. “Thank you, but I don’t believe I could stomach it.”
That was putting it mildly. The nurse’s prediction he would be dead by now wasn’t too far off. His body continued to shut down—a twinge and shudder here, a stab of pain there, and flashes of distant memories that interrupted his prayers and frantic search for what it would take to return to Catherine.
James set the cups and folder on the table, then drew a bottle from his pants pocket. “You look like you could use a couple of these.”
Though his head throbbed, Collier hesitated. A mild pain reliever, not a painkiller, he told himself and uncurled his fingers.
James dispensed the aspirin, retrieved a water bottle from the table, and handed it to his brother. “Though this time travel is hard to swallow, now that I’m thinking more clearly, there is something that’s bothered me.”
“What?”
“Catherine Algernon didn’t die in the winch room.”
Suddenly numb to how good the water felt chasing the aspirins down his throat, Collier lowered the bottle. If the changes he had made to the past had manifested themselves in the present, how was it James recalled that other past? “You’re right. She didn’t die there.”
“Perhaps I wasn’t paying close enough attention, or I misunderstood, but wasn’t that the legend of her? That she died defending Strivling Castle against the Yorkists?”
“It was, but I changed that. After I learned of Aryn’s death, I—”
“I found the letter from her mother.”
Collier remembered crumpling it but couldn’t recall what he had done with it beyond that.
“It was also in evidence but was released to me, along with the portrait and…” James crossed to the writing table beneath the window and opened a drawer. Shortly, he set the wrinkled letter beside Collier and a black-enameled box.
Collier picked up the latter and, with more effort than a lightly hinged box ought to require, flipped it open. As the facets of Aryn’s ring caught and reflected light as it had refused to do when he had learned of her death, he felt the tightness inside him further loosen.
