Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy)

by Barbara Bretton

  "The woods abound in game," McVie said. "Hunger should not be a problem."

  Emilie determined that a shift to vegetarianism was in order.

  "I'll need a pistol," Zane said to McVie, "unless you expect me to strangle something."

  McVie retained his pistol but handed over his knife.

  "You're leaving us?" Emilie asked as Zane carefully slid the knife into the waistband of his trousers.

  "I'll return before dawn," McVie said.

  "You won't let us down, will you?" Emilie implored.

  McVie shook his head. "Nay, mistress. I will not."

  #

  The look on Emilie's face hit Zane like a slap. She followed McVie with her eyes until he disappeared then turned back to Zane with obvious reluctance. She'd obviously come to rely upon the rough-hewn patriot for a sense of security and that realization stung more than he cared to admit. He found himself wanting to reassure her that she was in good hands.

  "If you're worried about starving out here, don't be. The broken arm will slow me down, but it won't stop me." He'd done his share of roughing it up in Alaska and down in Peru. Central New Jersey shouldn't pose too much of a problem, no matter what the year.

  "Don't kill anything on my account," Emilie said, gesturing toward the berry bushes and wildflowers growing everywhere. "These woods have a better selection of produce than my local Foodtown."

  He was just as glad she felt that way. Killing for sport had never done it for him. He knew he could kill if his life depended on it, but right now berries sounded fine to him too.

  Still, as he watched Emilie inspecting the berries and picking ripe specimens he found himself wishing she was a little less self-sufficient. When he'd said he didn't belong, he'd only scratched the surface. Neither one of them belonged in that time and place, but he had the feeling he was the only one who realized it.

  #

  "Okay," said Zane as he stuck another branch on the stack. "All we need now is some matches."

  "Very funny," said Emilie. "I hope you have a Bic Flick in your back pocket."

  "You don't have any matches on you?"

  "I don't smoke," she reminded him. "Don't you know how to start a fire without matches?"

  "I was never the Boy Scout type," he drawled, "but I'd pay good money to see you rub two sticks together."

  "Do you have any better ideas?"

  "Different," he said, "but not better."

  "It's a darned good thing you have me around," she said, metaphorically rolling up her sleeves and setting to work. "You'd be lost here without me."

  She'd tossed him a perfect straight line but the requisite wisecrack wouldn't come. She was right. Although it killed him to admit it even to himself, she was his guide in the strange new world in which they found themselves and he wondered how he would have managed without her.

  They ate berries and picked at the dandelion grass. Zane found a small stream a few hundred yards away and they drank their fill of the cold, clear water then returned to the camp fire that wasn't.

  "I don't know about you," said Zane, "but I'd kill for a Big Mac."

  "I thought the berries were delicious," said Emilie with a prim set to her mouth.

  "Pizza," he continued. "Pepperoni with onions."

  "The dandelion grass had a certain tang to it." She struggled to suppress a smile.

  "Szechuan shrimp, hot and sour soup, all 31 flavors for dessert."

  "You win," said Emilie, stifling a groan. "I'd give anything for a bowl of chili and a Diet Coke."

  "What the hell do they eat around here?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "How did--how do they cook?"

  "In the hearth, mostly." Beef roasts, game, lots of eggs and butter. She grinned. "The cardiac blue plate special."

  "Great," he said, reaching for another handful of berries. "That gives me something to look forward to."

  "It's not so bad, Zane," she said. "Not really."

  "Tell me how it could be worse."

  "We could be dead."

  "In a way we are," he said, his voice uncharacteristically flat. "And so is everything we knew."

  "Maybe not," she said softly. Once again she sensed that deep chord of loneliness that she'd always suspected was part of his soul. "Maybe we're exactly where we're meant to be."

  "That's a crock."

  "I don't think so," she said, warming to the notion. "Haven't you wondered--even for a minute--if we aren't exactly where we're meant to be?"

  "I know where I'm meant to be," he said grimly, "and it sure as hell isn't here."

  #

  When night came, it fell with a swiftness and finality that surprised them both. The temperature dropped, as well, and Emilie found herself drawing closer to the fire for warmth. They'd been inordinately proud of themselves when they'd coaxed fire from dry tinder by using a rock to strike a spark off the blade of McVie's knife.

  If only she had a metal pot, she could have boiled water for herb tea. Indoor plumbing and a cup of tea, and she'd be a very happy woman. She was contemplating the inequities of life when Zane rose to his feet.

  "Get inside," he commanded in a tone of voice she'd never heard before.

  "Why?" She held her hands over the fire. "If you need privacy, go find yourself a spot behind the trees."

  He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to her feet. "Now!"

  She stumbled toward the cave. What on earth had gotten into him? She crouched inside the mouth, listening. An owl hooted softly in the night breeze and from somewhere close by she heard the sound of leaves crunching.

  Footsteps?

  Maybe it was Andrew, she thought, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest. Or maybe it was a bear. They had bears in New Jersey in 1992. She could only imagine how many had lumbered through the woods before turnpikes and sub-divisions.

  All Zane had was a knife and a broken arm. He wouldn't stand a chance. She searched around the dark interior for something--anything--to help him. She grabbed a rock the size of a large cantelope and made her way carefully from the cave.

  The fire was nothing but a pile of embers. Without the flames casting their light, she felt as if she were walking through a black hole in space. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears as she tried to decide which way Zane had headed.

  It was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Not even the owl was hooting.

  She was so tense she could scarcely draw breath into her lungs. Where are you, Zane? She'd been in the cave only a minute or two. He couldn't have gone far in such a short period of time. Unless--

  She screamed as a hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  "I told you to stay put." Zane growled in her ear.

  "I thought you might need help."

  He tapped the rock with the hilt of the knife. "You were going to hit a bear in the head with that thing?"

  "That was the idea."

  "Next time do what I tell you."

  "The hell I will," she said, bristling. "I suppose going mano a mano with a grizzly makes more sense--especially with your broken arm?"

  He dragged her back to the cave. "If I need help, I'll ask for it."

  "For heaven's sake," she grumbled, dropping the rock to the floor of the cave, "I didn't mean to impugn your masculinity."

  "You didn't." She heard the scuffle of dirt as he sat down. "But you did act like a jerk."

  She glared into the darkness. "If I could find you, I'd kick you for that remark."

  "You always were an original, Em. Another woman would be crying into her embroidered hanky, but you're out there looking for bear."

  She found herself a spot to sit in his general vicinity. "Is that a compliment?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "It's a compliment," he said.

  "Thank you." A pause. "So what did make the noise?"

  He mumbled something.

  "What was that?" she repeated.

  "A skunk," he said. "It was a close call but I was fas
ter than he was."

  "There is a God," she said wryly.

  Again the rumbling laughter that had stirred her blood just two nights ago. "You know, you never did answer my question," he said. "Would you have gone to Tahiti with me?"

  She smiled into the darkness. "You'll never know."

  "Come on," he said. "I won't hold you to it when we get back home."

  "This is home, Zane," she said softly.

  "Not for me."

  "It doesn't seem as if you have a choice."

  "There's always a choice, Emilie. Don't think otherwise."

  His last remark brought her up short. The circumstances might change but the essence of the man remained the same. As soon as he got his bearings, she was sure he'd be off in search of the 18th century equivalent of Tahiti.

  He shifted position and slid over closer to where she sat.

  "Cold in here," he observed.

  "Mmph." Late July and she was shivering.

  "What happens if McVie doesn't come back for us?"

  "He'll come back," she said. "He gave us his word."

  Zane refrained from pointing out that many men gave their word but damn few managed to keep it. She was almost thirty years old. If she didn't know that by now, it was time she learned.

  "McVie said something interesting this morning," he went on. "He thinks we should pose as husband and wife."

  A wave of heat rose up from the soles of her feet. "He may be right," she said after a long moment. "Women always traveled with a companion." And a man traveling alone would be viewed with suspicion, especially with the war raging. "Does he--did you tell him?"

  "That we were married? Sure."

  "Oh God." She buried her face in her hands. "What on earth must Andrew be thinking? Divorce is practically unheard of."

  "Who cares what he thinks? It's none of his business."

  She knew McVie's opinion of her shouldn't matter but it did. "I suppose you had to tell him."

  "Glad you agree," Zane drawled, a definite edge to his voice.

  "I wonder what he'll think we should do if we stay at an inn."

  "If we're supposed to be married," Zane pointed out, "he'll expect us to share a room."

  She narrowed her eyes and looked in his direction. "Did you put him up to this?"

  "You've got to be kidding." He sounded sincere. She wished she could see if the expression on his face matched the sound of his voice.

  "We need some ground rules," she said, doing her best to ignore the memory of the night they'd shared. "We'll share a room but we won't share a bed."

  He said nothing.

  "Zane? Did you hear me?"

  "I heard you."

  "You didn't say anything."

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "That you understand what I'm talking about."

  "I don't understand."

  "We're not meant to be together," she explained. "If we were back home, we would have gone our separate ways. I refuse to be manipulated by circumstances."

  "Don't worry," he snapped, visions of seduction vanishing before his eyes. "Your virtue's safe with me."

  "Good," said Emilie.

  "Great," said Zane.

  She lay down and pillowed her head with her arms.

  He leaned against the wall of the cave and closed his eyes.

  It was a long time before either one slept.

  Chapter Seven

  "Godspeed, Andrew," said the buxom dark-haired wench as she handed him the package. "Don't you be makin' yourself a stranger to us now."

  Andrew thanked the kindly woman with a kiss. "Mark me well, Prudence. You will be rewarded for your generosity."

  Prudence made clucking noises with her teeth. "Keep your good self safe and well and that be all the generosity a body could wish for." She opened the front door. "Out with you. I'm a workin' lass, m'boy, and you cannot afford my favors."

  "Treat those Redcoats kindly, Pru, for happy men are ofttimes careless."

  Prudence kissed him on the mouth. "Maybe next time?"

  He kissed her back. "With all certainty."

  Thus far it had been a most profitable night. Prudence had performed a miracle and conjured up clothing for both Mistress Emilie and Rutledge. She had also filled a pillowslip with all manner of things that Prudence said a woman would love.

  He had been too preoccupied to enjoy Pru's charms. He'd found himself thinking about the strange and wonderful inventions his new companions had told him about. Over a supper of mutton and ale, he'd asked Prudence if she believed man could ever fly through the sky like a bird. Prudence had laughed so hard she developed the hiccups.

  He stepped to his right as a man on horseback galloped by, the animal's hooves kicking up a cloud of dust.

  Rutledge claimed that in his time men traveled by harnessing small explosions. He had drawn a picture in the dirt of a rectangular metal container on four wheels and Andrew had stared at it, trying to imagine thousands of those contraptions racing about at speeds he couldn't even begin to comprehend.

  The scenes Rutledge and Mistress Emilie had painted for him were of such a fantastical nature that it was a wonder he did not commit them to the lunatic asylum on Manhattan Island.

  Mayhap you are the one in need of the asylum, he thought as he neared the tavern. He had no reason to believe Rutledge and Emilie. As yet he had not uncovered even a whisper of a plot against His Excellency, General Washington. In truth he believed the General was in residence on Long Island with his troops, some one hundred miles from central New Jersey.

  One thing distressed him, however. Rather than being pleased to know his life would merit even a sentence of mention in the books of the future, he found himself vaguely uneasy. Mistress Emilie said that he had vanished from the history books after the rescue of General Washington? Did he sink back into obscurity or had something more untoward happened to him?

  The unforeseen always brought with it a healthy dose of apprehension. Living in the shadows, as he did, he tended to view every surprise as a possible calamity, which was why his acceptance of the two strangers amazed him

  The Black Dragon was crowded when he pushed through the door. Smoke from pipes and cigars filled the room and the pungent smell of burning tobacco mingled with the smells of whiskey and ale and unwashed flesh. Tavern girls in tantalizing costumes dispensed tankards of ale and promising smiles. He glanced about the room for the man he'd been instructed to find, made eye contact, then claimed a table some ten feet away.

  "Evenin', sir," said a spritely lass with big blue eyes and a plump bosom. "What would you be needin'?"

  "A tankard of ale and some cheese," he said, his attention on the man he was to meet. "And a loaf of dark bread."

  With a flip of her skirts the lass vanished toward the back room. Andrew rose from his chair to enter into a game of darts being played at the far side of them room. He passed close to his contact's table and the rotund man never missed a bite. He hefted his bread and cheese, took an enormous mouthful then casually plucked the message from Andrew's hand in a movement so perfectly planned that it took Andrew a moment to realize the transfer had even occurred.

  #

  Two hours later Andrew approached the edge of the forest. He had gone out of his way to seek mention of a plot against the life of General Washington but had heard nary a whisper. The thought occurred to him that his two mysterious traveling companions might have concocted the story from whole cloth, but again he found himself wanting to believe they spoke only the truth.

  The forest enveloped him in its embrace as he left the town behind. His mind leaped with the images Mistress Emilie and Rutledge had conjured of men who walked on the moon, of fire-breathing contraptions that raced across the wilderness on roads that people paid money to use. He'd spent a goodly amount of time staring at the green currency with the General's countenance set upon it and he'd known a hunger for knowledge that defied place and time.

  Ever since losing Elspeth and their child, he had
courted danger at every turn, all in the name of patriotic fervor, caring little for the outcome of the battles. In truth, it was well and good that his work with the spy ring was beneficial to the patriots, but he went where others dared not because he had nothing of value left to lose.

  He had no trouble finding the spot where he had left them. The embers from their fire had long since been extinguished but the pile of ashes gave it away. He wondered if Emilie had merely snapped her fingers and called forth a flame from the accumulated branches and twigs. Little would surprise him. They had come from a time of great wonderment and he understood full well how it was that Rutledge fought against the boundaries of the world Andrew was part of.

  He slipped inside the cave as the first light of dawn limned the tops of the trees. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the absolute darkness inside. The sight that revealed itself to him caused him a sharp stab of pain. Emilie lay curled against Rutledge, her head resting on his chest. The skirt she had wrought from the lighthouse coverlet was draped over their sleeping forms. Rutledge sat with his back against the wall of the cave, his broken arm resting across his stomach.

  There was no denying the way they fit together. They had the look of contentment about them, as if--

  He had no wish to pursue the thought.

  Apparently Rutledge slept lightly. His eyes opened and he met Andrew's gaze across the dim light of the cave. "How goes it?" Rutledge asked, his voice husky with sleep.

  Andrew tossed down a sack. "I cannot vouch for the fit of the garments, but I believe Mistress Emilie will be well pleased." He found his gaze drawn again and again to the rise and fall of her breasts against the other man's chest. Since Elspeth, he had not wanted for the companionship of a woman, and he wondered why it was this strapping lass had such an uncommon effect upon him, body and soul. "We leave for Princeton after daybreak."

  #

  Zane watched as McVie left the cave. There had been no mistaking the tension between them and he was certain he knew the cause.

  Zane had sensed the other man's fascination with Emilie from the start. What man wouldn't react to a beautiful redhead with a body to match? What bothered Zane was her reaction to McVie.