by Gwyn Cready
He had just settled against a gnarled trunk when an arm as strong as iron bent around his throat and the cold steel of a knife pierced his shirt.
Joss cried silently, curled into a ball on a bed still alive with the perfume of their joining. How fleeting her joy had been. She’d thrown herself into Hugh’s arms, trusting those wry green-gray eyes and that warm, hungry mouth. She’d saved herself this long, and for what? A man whose lies were as numerous as his charms. All that was left for her was to slink back to Pittsburgh, a place she should never have left, and pick up the pieces of her company, if indeed there would be any left without Rogan’s help.
There was a knock at the hallway door. She ignored it, but it came again, more urgently.
“Captain Hawksmoor?” said a young footman. “There is a visitor here who insists—”
“Dammit, Hugh!” a louder voice called. “Open the door if you’re in there!”
There was no mistaking Nathaniel’s voice and he sounded desperate. Joss slipped a blanket over her shoulders and opened the door. Nathaniel’s face was awash in excitement.
“I beg your pardon, m’um,” the footman said, horrified at having roused a woman from the bed of one of his master’s guests. “The man here claimed an acquaintance—”
“That’s fine,” Joss said. “I know him.” She gestured Nathaniel in, closing the door on the young footman with an apologetic click. Nathaniel’s eyes flickered over the blanket and the chemise beneath but his face betrayed nothing—nothing, that is, except the thrill of apparent news. His hands were stuffed furtively in his pockets.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Is Hugh about?” He kept his eyes from the tousled bedsheets.
“No. He went that way, if you’d like to look for him.” She pointed to the French doors.
Her tone lessened the look of happiness on his face, but not enough to keep him from pulling his hands free and dumping two handfuls of gold coins on the bedside table.
“Gold,” he whispered. “And there’s more where that came from.”
The coins gleamed in the candlelight like a heavenly visitation. There were coins of every type, small and large, highly engraved and plain, new and tinged with the dirt of ages past.
“Where? How?” she asked, mesmerized.
“There’s a share for you, too,” he said happily. “’Twas your map, after all—or should I say, your maps.”
She looked at him strangely. “My maps?”
“Done by your mother. You put them together and the marks made words, do you remember? ‘An arrow for the fire, a warrin’ man’s tower / Safe may you find it, a reluctant bride’s dower’?”
She nodded, still not understanding.
“The map showed a pele tower,” he said.
“The cartouche, yes. They were each the same.”
“But it wasn’t a pele tower. ’Twas a warrener’s lodge,” he said triumphantly. “W-A-R-R-E-N-E-R. Do you see? ‘A warrin’ man’s tower.’”
“A warrener’s lodge?”
“’Tis a place where a gentleman’s warrener lives, the man who protects the rabbits on his estate. I recognized the lodge. ’Tis square, not round. I lived in Cambridgeshire as a lad, and when I saw that tower in the map”—he pulled the papers from his pocket and unfolded them—“something tickled my memory.”
“But the gold . . .?”
“‘A reluctant bride’s dower’!” He clapped his hands. “It’s too lovely! Your mother’s verse led me there. I wasn’t sure, of course. The notion came to me in the carriage. That’s when I remembered I’d played near such a tower in my boyhood. It wasn’t until I found the dilapidated old thing again that I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“The bricks over the hearth. They are placed in an arrow pattern.”
She looked at him, and he grinned.
“‘An arrow for the fire,’” she repeated excitedly, her mother’s riddle finally untangling.
“Aye, milady! And ‘Safe may you find it.’ There were safes! Dozens of them! Between the inner walls and outer ones! Filled with gold! More than we could carry! It will take a wagon and four strong horses!”
Then it hit her—the beauty of her mother’s story! This was the gold from the man who came to the mapmaker to make a map to remind him where he’d hidden his treasure; the man who never collected the maps because he didn’t need them to win the hand of the woman he loved; the man who told her mother the gold was hers!
“Of course, we’ll have to do the moving by night. I don’t know the man who owns the land now, but I doubt—”
“The gold doesn’t belong to him.”
“Pardon?” It was Nathaniel’s turn to be surprised.
“It belongs to me—well, all of us. Fiona can buy her grandfather out of prison, help her people.” Joss felt a wave of relief she wouldn’t have expected. She couldn’t restore Fiona’s lands to her family or bring back Hugh’s brother, but perhaps, in some small way, the gold would help atone for what her father had done.
Then she saw the flash of worry on Nathaniel’s face.
“Where’s Fiona?” he asked.
“With you, isn’t she?”
He shook his head, and she could see his worry grow. “Well, perhaps she’s with—” Then he stopped himself.
“Hugh?”
“Aye.”
“She might be. I haven’t seen her.”
“She disappeared in Cambridge. I told her not to come to the estate here.”
“One can hardly count on Fiona to obey those sorts of commands, though, I’m sure.” She smiled, hoping to relieve his concern.
“You have spoken the God’s honest truth there, lass.”
“What made you follow us?’
“Pardon?”
“You said the notion concerning the warrener’s lodge came to you in the carriage. Why were you coming to Cambridgeshire?”
An air of guardedness came over him, and she knew the answer. Rogan.
“Seemed wiser to keep you close,” he said obscurely, and turned his face.
“Shouldn’t you find Hugh?” She pointed again to the doors.
Nathaniel’ eyes swept over the chemise again and he shook his head. “I think,” he said carefully, “I will not interrupt. You may tell him the news yourself, lass. I will be in the inn down the road if I’m wanted.” He put a hand on the hallway door.
“Will you take your gold?” she said.
“It’s been lucky for me,” he said. “I should like to think it might be the same for you.”
The door closed, and she touched the pile of coins absently. She supposed she ought to try to sneak back to her room. There she would wait for Hugh so that they might begin the excruciating process of traveling to Portsmouth, posting themselves on a ship that could take them to Mr. Roark, who could in turn take her to the islet so that she might enter the cave for the very last time. It would be a long, long way to go in silence.
The French doors creaked. She turned.
“Hello, Joss.”
It was Rogan, standing there with the same charming smile he might have worn if he had run into her on the elevator. He was wearing a suit of clothes from 1706. How he might have gotten it, she couldn’t guess. She was so shocked, she didn’t know what to do or say. “Rogan.”
“A lot’s changed since we last saw each other, I guess.” He gave her a regretful smile. “I saw you kiss him outside Dollar Bank. I had to follow.”
Was this a man who would shoot another in cold blood? Her instincts were confused. Part of her saw the possibility, but another part of her saw the man who had stood outside her father’s hospital, waiting for her with flowers in his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry you saw that.”
“Do you love him?”
“I thought I did.”
“Because I don’t care what you did. I want you if you’ll have me.” He extended an uncertain hand.
Had her suspicions about him been real or
had they been a projection of her ego, giving herself a way out of the guilt she was feeling over her attraction to Hugh? Would she know if she touched him, the knight who had saved her and her company when she’d needed help? Surely the sense of the man would come through.
She turned toward him tentatively.
“Joss, please.”
When she put out her hand, she saw the blood splattered on his trousers and nearly jumped. Whom had he hurt? How had he found her?
“I-I want some time,” she said as she took his hand, heart pounding.
He pulled her close. “Of course. As much as you want.”
She felt ill, as if she were clasping a giant viper. It took all her willpower not to fling his arms away, but something told her that would be the worst move of all.
His cheek brushed her hair. She could feel his breath on her skin. “Did you see these?” She broke free and gestured to the coins.
“My God! No, I didn’t.” He took a step closer and brought his fingers to them.
“Wait here,” she said. “There’s something else I want to show you.”
She padded out the French doors, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, and as soon as she reached the far end of the courtyard, she began to run.
The gravel moved under her bare feet, hiding the sounds behind her. Was Rogan there? Was he following? She scoured the view ahead, desperate for a place to hide. She had to put distance between them, as much as she could. Her feet were cold, aching. She didn’t care.
“Joss!” Rogan cried.
The word went through her like a blade. Was he calling for her because he saw her or because he didn’t see her? She turned her head and saw his figure racing into the garden in the distance.
Now she had only time on her side, and little of that. Had she gotten a good enough start to lose him in the woods ahead?
The ground was filled with acorns and stones, and they stung her feet. She could hear him pelting behind her. She spotted an oak large enough to hide her and was swerving to the right to reach it when her foot caught on a root and she hit the ground, smacking her elbow on a rock. When she opened her eyes, she saw a pair of booted legs sticking out from behind a fallen tree, and she almost screamed. The legs were Hugh’s.
She scrabbled over the trunk. He was gagged and bound, but alive. His shirt was wet with blood, and she flung herself toward him, but he shook his head roughly, terror in his eyes.
Rogan’s footsteps neared, and she had only enough time to loosen the rope around Hugh’s ankles before she flattened herself against him in the darkness and threw the blanket over both of them.
Rogan ran past them, and Joss thought they were safe, but then he slowed, stopped, and turned around.
“So you found him.”
Joss got to her knees and reached for Hugh’s gag.
“Don’t touch that.”
“Go to hell.” She untied it and ran her hands over the wetness at his collar. “Where are you bleeding?”
“Shoulder,” he said. “It’s all right.”
“Look at me,” Rogan demanded.
She ignored him. She felt Hugh’s chest and abdomen. They were solid. Then she found more bleeding behind his ear. Rogan must have knocked him out.
“Look at me!”
“What?” She spun around angrily.
“I don’t have a weapon.” Rogan held out his hands. “I want to talk.”
“Bully for you.” Hugh was shivering, and she wondered how much blood he’d lost. She tucked the blanket around his legs, then reached for the rope binding his wrists.
Rogan shoved her back. “That I must insist you stop.”
“I’m fine, Joss,” Hugh said. “Don’t worry.”
“He’s bleeding and cold.” She caught the knot and continued.
Rogan bent to grab her, but he flew over her instead, crashing hard into the bushes. Hugh had booted him off his feet.
“He has a pistol!” Hugh cried. “Run!”
Joss spotted the gun sticking out of the back of Rogan’s trousers, and she lunged for him, hoping to grab it first. But he caught her and rolled on top of her, pinning her while he found the weapon. He cocked the hammer and pointed it at her, then climbed to his feet. “Now, get up. We’re going.”
“I’m not leaving Hugh.”
“Here’s the deal: I won’t hurt him, and I won’t hurt you. We’ll return to Pittsburgh. I know the way. I want you, Joss. That’s the deal.”
She looked at Hugh. “Go,” he said. “That’s the best offer we could get.”
“I’m not going to go.” She swiped a tear from her eye.
“Please,” Hugh said. “I don’t like our other choices.”
“Will you come back?”
“No, Joss,” Rogan interjected. “That’s part of the deal. Your friend will understand. No more travel to the future. No more travel to the past. And you both live.”
Hugh looked at her, eyes clouded in sorrow. “Do it.”
She trembled, the anger and sadness too much to bear. “I’m going to untie him.”
“Fine. Yes.” Rogan waved his gun. “You can untie his hands if you say you’ll leave.”
“I hate you.”
“I hope that changes.”
She untied the rope, and Hugh lifted a hand to her cheek. “Thank you, milady. I know I failed you, and I’m sorry.”
She laid her hand over his, and tears filled her eyes.
Rogan took her other hand and pulled her roughly to her feet. He said to Hugh, “I trust you’ll stay where you are until we leave the estate.”
The muscle in Hugh’s jaw flexed, but he nodded. “Take the blanket, Joss.”
She bent to collect it, and when she unfolded herself, Rogan’s face had changed.
“Your dress . . .” he said.
She turned to see what he had seen. Dried blood streaked the skirt of her chemise, right down the center of the back.
Rogan made a noise like a dying animal. “You slept with him? You made me wait, and you slept with him?”
“Jesus, Rogan—”
“Did he rape you? Did you rape her?” He swung the gun toward Hugh.
“No, he didn’t rape me.”
Rogan’s hand began to shake. “You take it all?” he said to Hugh. “You take the map—and don’t lie. I know she printed one for you. You take the company I’ve worked so hard to buy and make it so it never existed. You steal her away in the night like a thief, and then you take her virginity?”
“She doesn’t love me, Reynolds.”
He lifted the gun to aim it. Hugh’s shoulders stiffened.
“No, Rogan!” Joss cried. “Listen to me. The map didn’t work. I know that’s why you came, but the Lord Keeper wouldn’t accept it. The transfer won’t go through. Nothing’s changed. The company is still yours.”
“Oh, something’s changed.” Rogan wiped the sweat from his brow. “Something has definitely changed.”
He tightened his arm and closed his eyes.
“No!”
The shot exploded into the forest, filling it for an instant with light. And then a red spot appeared on Rogan’s chest, growing bigger as stunned incomprehension filled his face. “Joss?”
She turned. Fiona stood with a pistol in her hand, a look of crazed fury on her face. Her neck was bruised and her eyes were puffed and red.
“That,” Fiona said, “is for my grandfather. And this”—she spat on him—“is for me.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
PITTSBURGH, PRESENT DAY
One day, a knight came to visit the beautiful mapmaker’s daughter. He didn’t want to court her. He admired her maps. He asked her about the places she drew. He looked at copies of the maps she’d made and made her tell the stories of the men who had asked for them to be made. He wanted to take her to lands outside her shop. He told her she looked sad and asked what he could do to make her happy. And the girl knew that he was the man she would marry, because, among all her many suitors, he was the onl
y one who had offered to help her put things to rights.
—The Tale of the Beautiful Mapmaker
“Exactly what sort of man does it take to convince you to take a leave of absence from work?” Di straightened the sheaf of papers before her and slipped them into the drawer.
Joss flushed and turned to gaze out the office window. It was weird to be sitting on the other side of her desk. “C’mon. You’ve met him.”
“I’ve met him, and he’s charming and handsome and all, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Don’t forget, I caught a glimpse of your last boyfriend. This guy has to be as big as—”
“The Gulf Tower, actually,” LaWren said, opening the door and ushering Hugh in. “That’s what it’s called. It’s forty-four storeys tall and has a weather beacon on the top that turns red or blue depending on the forecast. Red’s better.”
“Red, you say?” Hugh made a quick bow to Joss and Di, then angled his head to try to observe this phenomenon.
“Only when the forecast is really good,” Di said, and Joss bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“And when something big’s gonna happen,” LaWren added, demonstrating with her hands, “it starts to pulse.”
Di said, “And that’s when you’d really better watch out.”
“I’m Hugh Hawksmoor,” he said, extending his hand to LaWren. “Have we met before?”
LaWren shook it. “Ah, no. Not exactly.” She looked at Joss and smiled. “Let’s just say I’m pretty familiar with you.”
“Excellent.” Hugh rubbed his hands. “How is the meeting going, miladies?”
“‘Miladies’?” Di lifted an impressed brow in Joss’s direction.
LaWren gazed at him in gleeful wonder. “Oh, say it again.”
“What? ‘Miladies’?”
“Do you know Colin Firth?”
Hugh shook his head.
“Hugh Grant? Sean Connery? Seal?”
“None. Are they friends of yours?”
“I wish.” LaWren sighed sadly, and closed the door behind her.
Joss said to Di, “So we’re having LaWren escort visitors in now?”
“LaWren,” Di said, “is going to be my new executive assistant.”
“Really?”
“She seems to know where the bodies are buried. It’s a good quality in an assistant. How are you this morning, Hugh?”
