Once Upon a Time Travel

by Sariah Wilson

  His voice was as beautiful as his face. Deep, masculine, perfectly posh and British. But I wasn’t going upstairs. “No way. I’m going home.”

  The man in the library came out to join the newly forming lynch mob. “Perhaps we could adjourn to the parlor to ascertain her identity?” He gestured toward the couch inside the room.

  Seeing that escape was impossible, my feet put themselves on automatic, and I shuffled into the library ahead of the two men. I couldn’t help it. I started to shake. I wondered if I was in shock. I wrapped my arms around my body, hugging myself. “Not happening,” I muttered. “This is not happening.”

  I sunk down on a small sofa, slouching against the back. “This can’t be real,” I whispered. The two men seated themselves across from me, both sitting at the edge of their chairs with perfect posture.

  There had to be a rational explanation. “Is this a TV show?” I asked. “Are there hidden cameras? Am I being Punk’d?”

  The men exchanged confused glances. Mr. Father of My Future Children said, “I am not certain what you are asking.” An uncomfortable silence filled the room until he continued, “You are Miss Emily Blythe, correct?”

  “Emma,” I said in a distracted tone as I studied a marble statue on the mantel that I’d never laid eyes on before. “My name is Emma.”

  “I beg your pardon; I was certain that your father said that your name was . . . Regardless, we have been waiting for you, and I am glad that you have finally come.” He didn’t sound glad. He sounded very unglad.

  Could this be the Twilight Zone? Or had Bex made good on her threat to intoxicate me? I didn’t feel drunk. Maybe food poisoning?

  Or was I high? Had someone slipped me something? If I was drugged, I now understood why my sophomore roommate never left our dorm room. Everything was so vivid, so real. So fantastical.

  I couldn’t be dead. Surely my head wouldn’t be throbbing like this if I were dead. I had to be dreaming. It was the only logical explanation for my present situation. But I’d never had a dream like this. Maybe I had been hit by a bus on my way home and was lying in a hospital bed somewhere in a coma and hooked up to an IV. Maybe to distract my body from pain, my mind had created this fantasy to let me escape. That could explain why my head hurt so much.

  Somehow I’d tumbled down the rabbit hole. How could I wake myself up?

  “Ah, here is the tea,” the other man said. The guy dressed like a servant put a silver tea set down on the table in front of me.

  “Oh good,” I said. “Just perfect. A tea party. Is the Mad Hatter going to show up?”

  The men gave each other perplexed looks, ignoring my question. “Would you care for some tea, Miss Blythe?” the Hottest Man in the Universe asked in a patronizing sort of way.

  Miss Blythe, was it? Well, since I was in Wonderland, I might as well play along. It didn’t matter because this could not be real. No man could be this incredibly handsome. They were only figments of my imagination. A dream. An escapist fantasy.

  I could do whatever I wanted.

  Relief flooded through me at finally coming up with the only rational explanation for my situation, relaxing my limbs. “No thanks. I don’t really drink tea.”

  “Don’t drink . . .” the other man sputtered until Mr. McAwesome gave him a silencing look. Oh, he was the boss. I liked it. The other man nodded in return.

  Then the portrait man gave me another fake, small smile. “May I ask what happened to your dress?”

  “My dress?” I repeated in a panicked tone, worried that this had turned into the naked dream. A quick glance down told me that I was still clothed. It was more wrinkled than it had been. “I guess I sort of slept in it.”

  “How is it you came to be here?” He spoke to me like I was a small child.

  Did he mean last night? “Um, I was running late, so I splurged and took a cab.”

  He shifted slightly in his seat. “Where are your things? Your trunks? Your maid?”

  Trunks? Maid? “My what?”

  “Perhaps she had an accident and was injured . . . or was assaulted,” the other man said in a stage whisper to the first.

  “Were you assaulted? Have you been harmed?”

  “What? No!” I was positive I would have remembered if something like that had happened. Wouldn’t I?

  Both men seemed relieved to hear it. “Do you know who you are?” the Most Beautiful Man Alive asked.

  I got the sense that he wouldn’t be amused if I answered, “Your future wife, obviously.” So instead I said, “Yes, I know who I am. I’m not really sure who you are or where I am.”

  Or when, whispered a voice. I was not going to consider that as a possibility because it couldn’t happen.

  “You are in Hartley Hall. And I am the Earl of Hartley,” he replied.

  I laughed, and then I couldn’t help but laugh harder at the expression of shock on the “earl’s” face.

  “Wait, you’re serious?” I said when the giggling subsided. “Sorry to tell you, but I know the Earl of Hartley. I work for the Earl of Hartley. And you, sir, are no Earl of Hartley.”

  The wannabe earl looked at me like I was stupid. He had to be the worst imaginary man ever. Maybe I should remind him this was my fantasy. Shouldn’t he be feeding me grapes and waxing poetic about my eyes?

  “I assure you, Miss Blythe, I am the Earl of Hartley.” He sounded forceful, commanding. If I didn’t find the whole thing so absurd I might have been intimidated.

  “Oh, okay. You’re the Earl of Hartley.” I stifled a snort. I guess he didn’t know that I’d actually met Charlie Portwood. I looked at the second man. “Are you the Earl of Hartley, too?”

  “Since we have dispensed with so many formalities today already, I might as well introduce myself.” The second man stood, giving me a slight bow. “Sir Matthew Riverton at your service, Miss Blythe. It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He sat back down.

  “Hey, Matt. What’s up?”

  In unison both men lifted their eyes to the ceiling, then lowered their gazes back to me. “Do you see something up there, Miss Blythe?” the “earl” asked in a cautious tone.

  “What? No. ‘What’s up’ is an expression for saying ‘How are you?’ or ‘How’s it going?’” This could end up being a tedious experience if I had to explain everything to the dream men. Next time I’d have to tell my subconscious to conjure up men who understood American slang. Like having to explain everything to Bex in my real life wasn’t enough of a hassle already.

  The older man in the dark-blue suit, the one the earl had called Stephens, stole into the room so quietly that I nearly yelped when he spoke. “The physician has arrived, my lord.”

  “Physician? A doctor? No, no, no,” I said as I scooted as far back as I could into the sofa. “I don’t do doctors. Or hospitals.”

  “I would never take you to a hospital.” The earl looked and sounded insulted. “Dr. Taylor is an excellent physician. The wound on your forehead needs to be tended to.”

  “Wound?” I echoed, immediately on my feet. The earl and Sir Matthew Riverton stood up as soon as I did. I rushed over to study myself in the mirror above the fireplace. The earl had been right. I had a huge gash on my forehead. A small red bubble had formed at the cut. I knew what would happen if I touched it, but I poked the bubble anyway. A slight trickle of blood escaped, slithering a path down the side of my face.

  “Oh no, this means I’m going to . . .” I said right as my eyes rolled back into my head and everything went black.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When I came to, I heard the low murmur of male voices. I slightly opened one eye and saw Matt and the fake earl standing by the fireplace. Weird. Shouldn’t I have woken up back in reality? I didn’t know how this all worked. I’d never passed out in a dream before.

  I wanted to sit up, but I felt light-headed and woozy. Like I might faint again. So I scrunched my eyelids shut. Maybe I had to concentrate on where I wanted to be. I pictured Bex’s face and cha
nted “Home” under my breath a few times. I even pinched my arm, which was not pleasant. Not to mention that it didn’t work.

  So instead I eavesdropped on the men’s conversation, figuring I had the right considering it was my dream.

  Or my nightmare. One I hadn’t figured out how to wake up from.

  “Did her father indicate to you she was so extraordinarily tall? She resembles an Amazon. Or a giantess.” That was Matt. He didn’t have the same smooth, deep voice as the guy pretending to be the earl.

  “He did not. But it is beside the point. She’s not a fish I can throw back for being the wrong size. I will have to make do.”

  Rude. I had zero control over my height.

  “Your brother might be displeased.”

  “James is nearly my height, and I am a good deal taller than Miss Blythe. I can’t imagine it will be an issue.” The earl gave a short cough before continuing. “My only concern is whether James will find her attractive.”

  “She is very striking,” Matt replied. “Once she is attired and outfitted properly, I think she may have the ability to appear quite comely. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  At that my heart nearly stopped. I should have wanted to not care about it, but any woman who said she didn’t care whether or not other people thought she was attractive was completely lying. And it was earth-shatteringly important what my faux earl thought about me.

  “She has possibility. She is, however, too thin.”

  I couldn’t help it. A lazy, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Too thin. This was more like it. Hopefully the hair-brushing, bonbon-feasting, and general worshipping-of-myself portion of the dream would be starting soon.

  “It is too bad she isn’t a plant,” Matt mused.

  “Yes, then I would have no issue getting him to wed her.” Was I imagining it, or had there been a playful tone in the earl’s voice?

  And who was this James person? And why on earth would they want him to wed me? Curiouser and curiouser.

  “Perhaps she hasn’t had enough to eat. Do you think a lack of food could explain her odd behavior earlier?” Matt asked. I sighed. Fun fantasy over. Instead of listing my alluring attributes, they were back to wondering about my sanity.

  I decided to “wake up.” I opened both of my eyes and let out a small yelp at an elderly gentleman who was bending over me with his face close to mine. He had frizzy white hair and eyebrows like furry albino caterpillars. He gave me a pleasant, comforting smile that made me relax my grip on the blanket that someone had put over me. I was lying on the sofa. I wondered who had put me there. It did funny things to my heart as I considered the possibility that the earl had picked me up and carried me to the couch. It indicated a strength and a . . . I don’t know . . . masculinity that was strangely appealing.

  “She does not have odd behavior, has excellent hearing, and doesn’t appreciate being talked about like she’s not in the room,” I said. Both men had the decency to appear embarrassed at being caught.

  “Quite right, young lady,” the older man said. “I am happy to see you are awake. I am Dr. Taylor, and I performed a brief examination on you. Your wound is not very deep. I think you are going to be just fine.”

  I reached up, touching the gash. The bleeding had stopped, but they hadn’t put anything on it. “Don’t I get a Band-Aid or something?”

  The doctor gave me a puzzled look before turning to the other two men. “My lord, I believe your ward will make a full recovery. I recommend that she get some rest. I suggest you give her four drops of this tincture once she is upstairs.” The doctor handed the earl a bottle. He then bowed to the earl, and that stealthy ninja Stephens was back, leading Dr. Taylor from the room.

  Would I get some fun attention now?

  “Perhaps we should ascertain whether she is in full possession of her faculties,” Matt suggested. He bent down, nearly eye level with me. “Do you still know your name?”

  “Yes,” I replied. I wasn’t an idiot.

  He nodded, like he was pleased with my answer. “And who is the reigning monarch?”

  “Queen Elizabeth,” I said, and watched as the corners of his mouth quirked up.

  He stood and turned to the earl. “She’s only missed the mark by a couple of centuries.”

  What was that supposed to mean? But before I could ask, the earl stepped in front of the sofa, glaring down at me. He was kind of intimidating. Crazy hot, but intimidating. “Per the doctor’s instructions, I will escort you upstairs. Are you able to walk?”

  His bad mood was contagious. “Since I was a toddler,” I snapped back. Didn’t this guy ever smile?

  Earlier I hadn’t wanted to go back upstairs, but now I wondered whether that was the answer. Maybe I had to go back to the beginning in order to wake up. I threw the blanket off and swung my legs to the floor. Both men totally averted their eyes from my feet. I looked down, wiggling my toes. What was their problem? My feet weren’t Cinderella-size or anything, but they weren’t hideous. I’d even painted Pink Passion on my toenails a couple of days ago.

  “What the dev—what happened to your shoes?” my pretend earl asked, his gaze fixed on a point above my head.

  “I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “I took them off upstairs and then poof—they were gone.”

  A strange expression crossed the earl’s face. Fear? Surprise? His features quickly resettled into a look of disdain. It made me wonder whether I had imagined it. “And your other belongings?”

  What other stuff was I supposed to have? “Currently, I’m wearing everything I own.” Which included my regular clothes under this dress.

  “I shall make arrangements to have your clothing and shoes replaced before I go.”

  Go? Where was he going?

  “Speaking of which, I will wait for you in the carriage, Hartley,” Matt said to the earl. It seemed strange that he called the earl by his title. Matt turned to me and bowed slightly. “I look forward to renewing our acquaintance in the near future, Miss Blythe.”

  I waved to him. “See you later.” He gave me a perplexed look, like English was my second language. Stephens again materialized in the doorway, making my heart leap in surprise. How did he do that? He literally made no sound. He was holding out a hat and coat to Matt. Matt took them and was gone. I didn’t care if he left, but I wanted my earl, or Hartley, as Matt had called him, to stay.

  “You’re leaving?” I asked. Things would probably get very boring around here if he took off.

  He gave me an exasperated look. “Not that it is any of your concern, but Riverton has recently come into an inheritance that he did not expect to receive. I am reviewing his newly acquired estate with him and instructing him on the management of it. I will be back in three days. Now, if you please, I will assist you to your room.”

  Hartley held out his hand to me, and without hesitation, I put my hand in his. My mouth went dry when our skin made contact. My throat felt unbearably tight, and I had to drag a deep breath in. He stared down at me with an almost frightening intensity, his eyes blazing with blue fire.

  I attributed my reaction to my recent fainting spell. I stood up too quickly, which made me feel light-headed again. I swayed forward, and he put his hands on my upper arms, steadying me. Electricity sparked and crackled everywhere that he was touching me. My pulse was frantic and uneven. This time when I swayed toward him, it wasn’t because I wanted to faint. It was because we were so close that I was dying to see what it would be like to kiss him.

  And there was a moment, however small, when he seemed into it. Then he looked away and released me. One heartbeat passed, then another. Finally, he took my right hand and laid it on the crook of his left elbow. I loved when guys did that in old movies. So romantic. I had to resist the urge to stroke his dark-blue velvet sleeve. “This way,” he said in a gruff voice.

  I actually struggled to keep up with his long strides. “What happened to your pins?” he asked.

  I was supposed to have pens? For w
hat? “Pens?” He was going to think I was really stupid given that every time he asked me something I just kept repeating his words back to him.

  “Your pins. For your hair.”

  Did he mean like bobby pins? I’d never even owned any, let alone worn them. “I don’t wear pins.”

  “Don’t wear . . .” His voice trailed off, and he sounded flabbergasted.

  Before he could say anything else, we arrived at the Rose Room, which was now apparently the Green Room. There were two women waiting inside for us. One was a frosty blonde with her hair pulled back so severely and tightly I wondered if her face hurt. The other I liked on sight: a redhead (like Bex) who gave me a mischievous smile that made me feel like I’d found someone to trust.

  “Miss Blythe, this is Mrs. Farnsworth,” Hartley said, nodding toward the Ice Queen. It took everything in me not to let out a sigh of disgust. Well of course she was Mrs. Kitty Farnsworth, mistress of the coma-inducing letters. I supposed real life had to intrude somehow. Like those dreams where you’re washing dishes or doing homework. “She is my housekeeper. And this is . . .”

  “I’m Rosemary, my lord,” the redhead said as she curtsied.

  “She will serve as your lady’s maid until your own arrives. Will your maid and chaperone be here soon?”

  “What? Oh, sure. All my entourage are coming.” I wanted to humor him. Especially since he hadn’t forcibly pried my fingers off his arm yet. I had, pathetically enough, developed a very real crush on this very imaginary man. Just standing close to him like this gave me a shivery pleasure in my hollowed-out stomach that I could compare only to riding a roller coaster.

  I was regressing, turning back into a lovestruck teenager. Like the first time hadn’t been bad enough.

  Rosemary pulled the blanket on the bed to one side. Oh, right. The doctor wanted me to rest. I was obviously supposed to get under the covers. But I wanted to stay where I was, enjoying the warmth that emanated from him.

  Hartley had other ideas, and he politely but firmly extricated himself from me and moved a step away. I felt . . . I didn’t know what I felt. A little lost. Still confused. Tired. Maybe it would be good to lie down.