Blood Bond

by Alicia Ryan

  “Me? I thought you were going down.”

  He nodded toward the light coming through the crack between his heavy satin curtains. “It appears to be an uncharacteristically sunny day. If I ventured downstairs, you or Harris would have to close all the curtains in my path.”

  “Which would be odd, at the very least. I guess I see your point.”

  He nodded. “I have them leave all the rooms on this floor dark. That gives me access to my library and my second study. But they open up the downstairs during the day as they would in any normal household.”

  Roxanna scooted closer and kissed him. “And if I don’t want to go?”

  “Now that’s tempting,” he replied, bending his head to kiss her back—more deeply this time. “But I won’t keep you a prisoner here, as much as I’d like to. I know you want to practice.”

  He nodded toward the window again. “And you might like to see the sun while it’s out.”

  She rolled over to lay flat. “I’ll admit it—that’s almost as irresistible as you. I can’t remember the last time I saw such shitty weather.” She paused. “In fact, I’ve never seen such shitty weather.”

  His brows furrowed down at her. “It doesn’t rain where you’re from?”

  “Hardly ever. And it’s not cold, at least not for long.”

  “Then it’s a good thing Andrew brought you here rather than the other way round.”

  “True,” she said, smiling. “Vegas could be hazardous to your health.”

  She swung herself out of bed, conscious of Darren’s eyes on her as she dressed and used his hairbrush to pull her hair back and tie it into a loose knot.

  “So who is this young man, then?” she asked.

  “Your earnest piano player. I told you I’ve asked him to look out for you.”

  “So he’s here just to escort me back to the club? Seems a little excessive.”

  “I’m willing to be excessive. So is he. Especially until I’ve dealt with Cranston. Besides, you won’t be going straight back to the club. I’ve arranged for you to have a proper lunch at the Criterion.”

  “I think you’re overestimating his willingness to be seen with me in public.”

  “No, I’m counting on his guilt and gratitude to overcome it, at least for the time being. Besides, you’ll be in a private room.”

  “A private dining room?”

  He nodded. “Men and women do not dine out in mixed groups. Some of the larger restaurants have added ladies’ dining rooms recently, but the Criterion has half of its second floor set aside for small, private parties.”

  “Are you serious? Women can’t even eat out?”

  “Not in the company of men, no.”

  “So you’ve paid someone to look the other way in my case?”

  “Not exactly. It’s not unheard of for the smaller rooms to be rented out for mixed groups. You and Phillip will simply be a small, private party.”

  “So you’re pawning me off on another man?”

  Darren’s eyes narrowed, telling her he didn’t appreciate the joke. But they cleared when he said, “If that’s what it takes to ensure your safety, then yes.”

  “I wasn’t expecting a serious answer, you know.”

  She hiked her skirt up a bit and crawled back onto the bed for a parting kiss, where, again, his capacity for gentleness surprised her. “But thank you,” she said.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Do you know how far this place is?” Roxanna asked.

  Phillip, in smooth, off-white breaches and a camel colored top coat, was sitting as far across the seat from her as the space in the carriage would allow.

  “Not far,” he said. “It’s over in Piccadilly.” He looked at her while he answered, but just as quickly turned to stare back out the window.

  “Have I done something wrong?” she asked. “You seem...nervous.”

  He put his hands on the edge of the bench seat and pushed himself back into the cushions. “I’m...this is just very...unusual.”

  “Escorting me around?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because...” She waited for him to finish the sentence.

  “Because I’m not used to escorting women.”

  She laughed. “You are such a crap liar.”

  That brought his head around. “I’m not lying.”

  “Yes, you are. Your whole body tenses up. Not that it’s not usually tense, of course. Besides, you must at least be used to escorting your mother or sister places.”

  He looked back out the window.

  “So?” she asked.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Riding in a carriage?”

  He looked at her like she’d asked him if aliens had just landed. “No, of course not. We should not be dining out together. It isn’t done. Not among polite company.”

  Roxanna rolled her eyes, put her hand on the seat and leaned toward him. “You could do with some less polite company.”

  He looked her up and down. “I think I have quite enough of it, thank you.”

  “Oh, that’s gentlemanly of you. If you think I’m such a trollop, why’d you even bother saving me from Cranston? You should have just let him get on with it.”

  His mouth dropped open, and his eyes were almost as wide. “Never. I would never...”

  Roxanna sighed. “And I’m extremely grateful. But either you think I’m a whore or you don’t.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  He turned to the window again.

  “Why do you sound disappointed?”

  “Because I should!”

  “Oh.”

  When he didn’t explain further, she went on. “And you should because...?”

  “Because of what you do. Because of the infernal things you sing about. Because you’re another man’s...lover.”

  “Do you think Darren’s a whore?”

  “What?” Genuine puzzlement pushed its way in front of moral angst.

  “I’m not doing anything Darren’s not doing. Men are just excused from judgments on their morals, apparently.”

  “Well, no. Both men and women are forbidden relations outside of marriage.”

  She smiled at him. “Relations? You really do keep reminding me I’m in the 19th century.”

  He dipped his head slightly toward hers. “What other century would you be in?”

  She looked out the window and scoffed. “Take your pick, though I guess the past would be worse. But look around. Every woman is covered from head to toe. There isn’t a lock of hair to be seen under those god-awful hats. I’m not even allowed upstairs at the club because the so-called gentleman might be offended at my presence. I’m not even sure why—is it because I’m supposed to be stupid, immoral, or too much temptation?”

  Phillip shook his head. “I don’t know. The club’s just a place men come to get away from women.”

  “From women who aren’t allowed to wear what they want, study what they want, do what they want, talk to whom they want, marry whom they want—or even eat at a restaurant?” She threw up her hands. “I don’t see why it isn’t the other way round. There should be women’s clubs to get away from the men.”

  Phillip snickered. “My mother has her quilting circle.”

  Roxanna gaped at him. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “You don’t strike me as much of a quilter,” he said.

  She stared at him. “Did you just make a joke?”

  He smiled, but covered it with a cough and then pointed outside his window to a white, four-story building. “We’re here.”

  Roxanna held his hand to step down from the carriage and, feeling like a character in some age-old fairytale, she looked over to call him ‘Prince Charming’. Only she found it was a little too close to the truth. The sun had chosen that moment to reveal itself again, and Phillip’s hair shone like gold under its fickle rays. His eyes were bright as he looked down at her, and she couldn’t stop herself thinking Mother Nature was having a little go at her—keeping her
dark lover prisoner in his house and turning her piano player into a veritable Adonis.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, why?”

  “Because you’ve been standing there not moving. I assumed you were having second thoughts.”

  “Not exactly.” She waved a hand toward the large glass and mahogany doors. “Lead on, my prince.”

  He looked at her, and she could have sworn he stood a little straighter.

  “Your hair looks lovely, by the way,” he said, taking his eyes from hers for a moment. “Though you should be wearing one of those god-awful hats.”

  “You know, a smile looks good on you, Phillip Branham. You should try it more often.”

  He turned and offered her his arm. “Perhaps I will.” Pulling the door open, he leaned down and lowered his voice. “But not until we’re safely past the concierge.”

  Roxanna bit back a laugh as the man in question cast a wary eye over them from behind a gleaming wooden podium.

  Behind him, yards and yards of bright blue velvet hung down from a two-story ceiling along each of what must have been at least fifty pillars that encircled the main dining room. The ones in front of them were pulled to, but not all the way, so you could see into the dining room, with its gold leaf ceiling and white tablecloths, but couldn’t stand there and survey all the guests. Along the back wall of the dining room was a marble balustrade about three feet high just like the one they currently stood facing.

  After a few hushed words with Phillip, the concierge—dressed in white tie and tails—ushered them up a carpet-covered staircase. They never entered the dining room, and upstairs they passed across a balcony, over which she could see the lobby they’d just left, and then turned down a hallway with lovely blue carpet, but nothing else to recommend it except a string of closed doors.

  Upon passing the first, she saw it had a number above it—the number “1” in heavy wrought iron nailed into the wood trim. Of course, ‘trim’ here seemed to have a different meaning than in her time—or at least in her income bracket. It graced the bottom of the walls, about eighteen inches high and oozed elegance from every sanded curve and chiseled niche. The same pattern rose and encircled each door. She found herself hoping whatever was inside could live up to the elegant assertiveness of its entryway.

  At number seven, the man stopped and turned the cut glass door knob. Phillip steered her inside before him, and she took in a marble fireplace topped by a large mirror, a light blue sofa with an inlaid end table doing light duty holding an unlit lantern, and a small dining table with places set for two.

  Phillip guided her in as the concierge skirted around them and pulled out a chair for her. She nodded, eyes downcast, and muttered what she hoped was a demure-sounding word of thanks.

  Phillip took the seat opposite her and accepted the one menu the man had brought.

  “A man will be around with tea in a moment, sir,” he said, “and he will see to all else you might require.”

  Phillip nodded and expressed his thanks as well.

  Roxanna unbuttoned the two stays at the neck of her cloak and let it fall over the back of the chair. Then she looked at Phillip. “Really?” she asked. “I don’t get a menu?”

  Phillip flipped it around and handed it to her. “By all means, madam, have mine.”

  She shot him a glare as she took the board from him. It was an old-fashioned clipboard with a hand-printed menu attached.

  She couldn’t help making a face. “I think I’ll stick with what I recognize. Vegetable soup and the roast turkey, please.”

  She returned the menu.

  “No quail? It’s quite good.”

  “I’ll have a bite of yours.”

  He raised his brows.

  “Oh lord,” she said. “Too informal? Have I offended you? Again?”

  “I believe it was the female servants who fed the emperor grapes,” he said, “not the other way around.”

  “Emperor?” It took her a minute. “Oh—like Rome. I get it.”

  A manservant in a spotless white uniform rolled in a cart with a silver tea service and listened attentively as Phillip ordered them a three-course lunch of soup, entrée and orange custard for dessert.

  When he departed, shutting the door behind him, she realized Phillip was staring at her.

  “What is it?” she asked, looking down to see if she’d spilled something on herself. She didn’t see how. She hadn’t even poured the tea yet.

  “I just find myself wondering about you,” he replied.

  “Oh.” At that, she reached for the teapot and served them both, then dropped two sugar lumps into hers, stirred, and took a careful first sip.

  “You don’t take milk?” he asked, adding some to his own cup.

  “I think that’s strictly an English thing. Not American.”

  He nodded. “And you really come from the west coast?”

  “Yes. You don’t believe me?”

  He shrugged. “I just want to know you better. It’s hard to believe the west coast of the colonial continent is a safe place for young women.”

  “It’s not that bad,” she said, deciding to be vague.

  “And you don’t remember how you came to be traveling to England at all?”

  “No.” Another sip of tea.

  “Tell me about your family then. You must remember them.”

  Her cup clinked against her saucer, and she hesitated but decided the truth was called for. “My father left us on our own when I was small. I barely remember him. My mother worked to support the two of us. She succeeded at some level. I was probably a teenager before I realized we were poor.”

  Phillip winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Well, you didn’t. Not really. My mother kept a roof over our heads. She’s a hard worker, but that’s about all she has to recommend her. She was never especially...well, motherly. I think the actress gene and the mothering gene must be mutually exclusive.”

  “She was an actress?” His voice came out in a higher register, and Roxanna realized she was probably dealing out way too much information, but she found she didn’t care.

  “She wanted to be an actress. She was never more than a waitress, except for one commercial for a local hardware store.”

  “They allow women to serve in restaurants in America?”

  She sighed. “It wasn’t a nice place. And, yes, they do.”

  He seemed to consider that but then frowned. “I thought you lived with your aunt.”

  “That wasn’t precisely true.”

  “How imprecise was it?”

  She took a deep breath, let it out, and leaned back in her chair. “Let’s play a game of pretend.”

  “What are we pretending?”

  “Let’s pretend I have an explanation for every strange thing you’ve ever thought or noticed about me.”

  He was frowning, but unmistakably curious. “Why do we have to pretend at that? Don’t you have one?”

  “Not one you’d ever believe. So let’s pretend, and I’ll make everything clear.”

  One side of his mouth ticked up. “I like games.”

  His expression, combined with that phrase, struck her as decidedly naughty, though she was certain he’d intended no such interpretation.

  Shaking her head to set her thoughts in a different direction, she began to tell him the entire truth of where she was from and the life she had lived there.

  He asked questions, and she answered. He speculated, and she corrected. He tried to catch her in contradictions, but she explained them away. And by the time dessert arrived, there was only one question left.

  “So how did you come to be here, in London, in this century?” he asked, popping a spoonful of custard into his lovely mouth.

  She hesitated.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You can’t have come up with such a tale and not concocted an explanation of our valiant heroine’s mysterious transport through time
.”

  “I do have one; I just can’t tell you what it is.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “The reason involves another person, and that person’s story is not mine to tell.”

  He turned his spoon over and rested it on the edge of the delicate china dessert bowl. “At what point in this little game did we stop pretending, Roxanna?”

  She took a bite of her own custard. “Hm,” she said after a moment. “That’s good.”

  He shook his head and smiled at her. “You should write stories. I’d like to hear your versions of other possible futures.”

  “Oh, your future is clear enough. You’re a nice boy. You’ll marry a nice girl and have a respectable house full of respectable children who only ever do respectable things.”

  He halted his spoon halfway to his mouth. “I think I like your future better.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nodded. “I’d like to live so free.” He looked at the door and then at the window over the sofa. “I sometimes feel like I can’t breathe.”

  “And you don’t even have to wear a corset.”

  He cast her a pointed glare. “Neither do you. You’re certainly not hiding one under those dresses you wear at Padworth’s.”

  “Spend much time contemplating my underclothes, do you?”

  His fist clenched around the spoon he had just set down, and his face began to flush. “I apologize.”

  “Is this one of those times you feel like you can’t breathe? ‘Cause you look it.”

  His flush deepened. “It is...similar somewhat.”

  “I really make you uncomfortable, don’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is that exactly?”

  “I’m not used to time-travelers,” he said, straight-faced. “I suspect I’ll become accustomed eventually.”

  ‘Oh. Well, good. It’ll be a relief not to have to watch what I say around you anymore.”

  His gaze might have bored a hole in her. “I suppose that’s what my time-traveler would say.”

  “It’s exactly what she would say.”

  Phillip took a look at his pocket watch. “We should get back if we want any time to practice before the crowd gears up.”

  “Had enough pretend for today?”

  He nodded, replaced his watch, and took some cash from a billfold in his inside coat pocket.