Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy)

by Barbara Bretton

  Good or bad. Right or wrong. Smart or crazy.

  They belonged together. It seemed so clear to her now that she wondered how it was she'd fought so hard against the inevitable. They were two people with absolutely nothing in common except the fact that fate had destined them to be together.

  They were meant for each other.

  It made no sense but whoever said love was logical?

  How wrong she'd been when she said she wouldn't allow herself to be ruled by circumstances. She and Zane had shared an experience that few people, if any, had ever known. It was impossible to travel through time and not be changed in the process. And sharing that incredible event with the man with whom you'd once shared your life--how could she have thought that wouldn't make a difference?

  Of course that was only one of the mistakes she'd made along the way. Strange that Rebekah had been able to see so clearly the things that Emilie couldn't see at all. She had been so busy sympathizing with Andrew that she'd been blind to all that Zane must be feeling.

  You accepted your spouse for what he was, Rebekah had said, and then you learned to adjust. A few months ago Emilie would have argued the point. Now she wondered if there wasn't a touch of 18th century wisdom at work in the woman's simple words. She'd been so busy trying to change Zane into her image of the perfect man that she had overlooked all the things about him that were wonderful. His strength. His love of life. His fearlessness.

  The way he'd loved her....

  Laughter spilled from the open windows as Emilie approached the house. She heard the deep rumble of men's voices and the high-pitched trill of women being coy. Her stomach knotted as a painfully clear image of Zane in bed with another woman rose up before her.

  But, dear God, even that was preferable to the dark fear sending chills up her spine. Zane had to be safe. She refused to accept the idea that they had come so far only to let it slip through their fingers now.

  "Why are you taking so long, Andrew?" she whispered as she knelt behind a hydrangea bush. Certainly he wouldn't dally with one of the women while she waited out here with bated breath.

  A strangled laugh broke free and she covered her mouth with her hands to muffle the sound. She was losing it, that's what was happening. Her nerves were frayed to the breaking point. She'd been running on pure adrenaline. Too little sleep. Too little food. Too much excitement.

  The front door creaked open and she ducked down into the shadows. The porch steps groaned as a man wearing heavy boots hurried from the house. Cautiously she lifted her head to see who it was.

  "Andrew!" Her voice was an urgent whisper. "Over here."

  He spun around, his expression hard to read in the darkness. "Who goes there?"

  "Emilie."

  He strode toward the bushes. She didn't need to see his face to know he was less than pleased. "You were to wait near the tree."

  "I couldn't stand it. Zane--where is he?"

  He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her from her hiding place. They headed down the pathway at a fast clip. Although they were close in height, Emilie had difficulty keeping up with him.

  "Say something, damn it!" she snapped as they reached the shelter of the woods. "If you don't tell me where Zane is, I'll--"

  He spun her around to face him. "A score of prisoners were rounded up soon after midnight last night," he said, his voice tense.

  "Zane?" The word is little more than a whisper.

  McVie's expression was tender and infinitely sad. "He was one of them." The whore, Maggie, had turned Loyalist and, as luck would have it, Zane was the last member to join the spy ring and the first to be betrayed.

  She sagged against Andrew as her knees gave way. All the horrifying things she'd heard about the British prison ships in New York Harbor came back to her. "The Jersey?"

  He shook his head. "Tomorrow morning they will transport the prisoners from a temporary jail to one of the prison ships."

  "Then we have to do something tonight."

  "I will take you back to the Blakelee farm then consider the next step."

  "The hell you will!"

  He stared at her as if she'd grabbed the devil himself by the tail.

  "Stop looking at me like that, Andrew. We have no time to spare."

  He struggled to ignore her unladylike language. "This is a dangerous business, Mistress Emilie. I cannot allow you to risk your person in a venture with little hope of success."

  "I make my own decisions," she said, lifting her chin. "And I say we must do something now."

  He raised his hand. "Quiet," he said, his voice low. "Someone approaches."

  They crouched behind the wide trunk of a maple tree as two portly gentlemen, obviously in their cups, stumbled down the road.

  "I would sell my soul for an hour of that lass's time," said the taller of the two.

  "Aye," said the other. "There's little a man won't do for a willing wench...."

  She turned to Andrew when the two men disappeared down the lane. "How big is the jail?"

  "'Tis a small one," said Andrew, looking at her curiously. "A stone building with but one room."

  "And many soldiers guarding it?"

  "One soldier," said Andrew slowly. "There is a party tonight south of Morristown for the regiment."

  "We could do it," she said, gripping his forearm tightly. "You have your pistol with you and I know you are never without your knife."

  He said nothing.

  "Think of it, Andrew. If you don't care about Zane's safety, think about the other men...think of Josiah Blakelee and his family."

  "The chances of victory are slight."

  "But if we do not try," reasoned Emilie, "they have no chance at all."

  The prison ships were a death sentence as surely as a trip to the gallows.

  He touched her cheek with his forefinger, as if commending her visage to memory against the day when they would ultimately be parted. If they succeeded in rescuing Rutledge, he would lose the red-haired lass forever.

  But, looking at the expression in her eyes, the sound of her voice as she pleaded Rutledge's case, he knew in his heart that he had already lost.

  #

  "Over there," said Andrew, pointing toward a structure on the north side of the trail.

  Emilie's spirits soared. "It is small," she said. "We should have no trouble at all."

  Andrew shook his head in dismay. "You speak as if we have accomplished the task and, in truth, we have yet to begin."

  "It's called a positive attitude," she said. Or Dutch courage. "If you believe you can do it, you can."

  "Is that how men think in your time?"

  "Some men and women make a lot of money teaching others to think that way."

  "Then teach me those ways quickly, Mistress Emilie, for what we attempt might lead to disaster."

  She refused to believe failure was even a possibility. The man she loved was in mortal danger. Nothing else mattered.

  "The moon is full," said Andrew. "We will not have the benefit of darkness to conceal our actions."

  Emilie took a deep breath and loosened the top two laces of her bodice. "That will be no problem for me." Her heart was pounding so wildly that she was surprised only she was aware of it. "I will keep the guard occupied. The rest is up to you."

  "I fear that you are in the more dangerous position," he said. "I cannot guarantee how long I will allow you to be at risk."

  "That's my business, Andrew, not yours," she said. "If you're so worried, then give me a weapon."

  To his credit, he didn't hesitate. He handed over his pistol and told her how to use it.

  Emilie nodded, then tucked the weapon into the garter that held up her cotton hose.

  The plan was simple. Emilie would distract the guard long enough for Andrew to speak to the prisoners through the barred window they'd noticed on the side of the small building. When he gave her the signal, Emilie would step aside, and Andrew would leap forward and knock the guard unconscious. Once they had the key to th
e jail, they were home free.

  "'Tis time," said Andrew as a cloud drifted across the face of the moon.

  Emilie squared her shoulders and met Andrew's eyes. "You have been a good friend," she said. "I could not have asked for a better one."

  It wasn't enough and he could not pretend otherwise. "Godspeed," he said, kissing her hand in a gesture of luck and farewell.

  "Godspeed," she said, then whispered a prayer that the end would be a happy one for them all.

  #

  The guard, a ruddy-complexioned man in his fifties, was dozing when Emilie first approached. A musket lay across his lap. A jug of Jamaican rum rested on the ground near his booted feet and it was obvious by the way he was snoring that he had enjoyed every drop. Her hopes soared. Let him be drunk, she prayed. Then she could heft the musket and render him unconscious and not have to go through with her part of the plan.

  But that wasn't meant to be. On a loud snore the guard roused and turned his bloodshot eyes toward her. "Who goes there?" he asked.

  Emilie said nothing. She moved toward him, swishing her skirts like the star of a 1940s costume drama movie. He eyed her appreciatively.

  Lustily.

  She stepped closer. She'd never been much of a flirt. All of that simpering and eyelash batting had seemed an incredible waste of time and effort. Now she wished she'd paid more attention.

  "'Tis a fine night," she said, summoning up a saucy smile.

  He nodded and sat up straight on the wooden bench.

  She leaned forward, allowing him a view of her corseted breasts. "Poor man," she said, tapping him atop his head with her forefinger. "Left all alone while the others dance and make merry. 'Tis a shame to let a full moon go to waste."

  His hot gaze trailed across her bodice, lingering along her shadowy cleavage. It took all of her self-control to keep from shuddering.

  "You're a fine-looking wench," he said. "Has Maggie taken to sending her girls in search of work?"

  "Nay," she said with a toss of her head. "But our hearts go out to a man who isn't free to seek his own pleasures."

  He licked his lips then bared his teeth in a leering smile. "And do you have a name, mistress?"

  She gave him what she hoped was a sultry look. "Bonnie."

  "Aye," he said, "and it's a bonny girl you are."

  He removed the musket from his lap and leaned it against the bench. "Sit with me."

  She dimpled prettily. "There is no room for me on that bench."

  He patted his lap. "I have a spot for you."

  Casually she glanced about to see if Andrew were anywhere in sight. "You presume much, sir," she said coyly. Where are you, Andrew?

  The guard reached out and clasped his fingers around her wrist. "Give us a kiss," he said, pulling her down onto his lap.

  Her skin crawled as he toyed with the laces on her bodice. Think of Zane, she ordered herself. Anything is worth his life.... Even this.

  She leaned over and retrieved the jug. "How ungenerous you are, sir. Fine Jamaican rum and you do not offer me a drop."

  "There are better things to do than drink rum, lass." His fingers traced the swell of her breasts. "We can drink after."

  What she wouldn't give for a scalding tub of water and a bar of lye soap. "You're a randy one," she noted, striving for lusty enthusiasm. "I hope you won't be in too much of a rush."

  He threw back his head and laughed heartily. "You need not worry," he said, placing a hand on her thigh, "for there is plenty more to be had."

  A slight motion caught her eye and to her relief she saw Andrew crouched at the corner of the building. He met her eyes and flashed the signal.

  She made to stand up but the guard held her fast.

  "Patience," she said, trying to get free. "I promise it will be worth your wait."

  He leaned forward and she gasped as his hand slid under her skirts. His rough fingers snagged the fine cotton of her stockings. She could only imagine how they would feel against her skin. She struggled against him, praying he wouldn't find the pistol.

  He groaned with pleasure. "You're a fine piece," he said. "Jack knows how to pleasure the women--" He stopped. "What the hell--?"

  There was no time to think. If the guard took possession of Andrew's gun, it would all be over. Andrew was still several yards away. Emilie grabbed for the musket leaning against the bench and brought it down sharply on the back of the guard's neck.

  He yelped in pain. "You bloody bitch!" He reared back and struck a blow to her cheek. She fell to the ground at his feet. "I'll teach you to--"

  Andrew was on him like a mountain lion. Emilie, cheek throbbing with pain, lifted her skirts and retrieved the pistol. With trembling hands she aimed it at the guard as Andrew sent the man tumbling into unconsciousness.

  "Thank God you showed up when you did," she said to Andrew as he threw the unconscious man to the ground.

  "The keys," he snapped. "Hand them to me quickly."

  She did as he asked, stomach twisting at the sour smell of the guard's flesh.

  "Do not let him go," Andrew warned. "If he awakens, do what is necessary."

  The next few minutes were the longest of her life. Voices emanated from inside the jail but none of them were Zane's. Beads of sweat trickled down her back. He had to be there. But what if he's sick, a small voice worried, or injured.

  "Just let him be alive," she whispered. They could handle any other eventuality together.

  Two men stumbled from the jail, stiff-legged as if they hadn't walked in a long while.

  Neither one was Zane.

  Her mouth went dry with fear. Dear God, please let him be in there. If he is, I'll never ask you for another thing....

  A tall man with a head of red hair even brighter than hers staggered out.

  She bit her lip as tears stung her eyelids.

  And then she heard his voice, that low and thrilling voice that had first captivated her years ago and she felt as if someone had handed her future back to her, all golden and shining and wonderful.

  "Emilie."

  She turned around, unable to control the tears that fell freely down her cheeks. So tall, so strong--the one man she'd ever loved.

  The only one.

  Somehow she was in his arms. There was no other reality beyond the sight and sound and feel of him.

  "I thought I'd lost you," she murmured against his lips.

  "McVie told me what you did. If you ever try a stunt like that again, I'll--"

  His words were lost in the kiss they shared, and when he broke the kiss she felt bereft.

  "Emilie was right," he said as McVie approached. "There's a plot against Washington."

  McVie looked puzzled. "I have talked to the others. They mention no such intrigue."

  "They don't know about it," said Zane. "I found out about it at the whorehouse. They thought they'd knocked me out cold, but I heard every word they said." Sometime in the next ten days an attempt would be made on the General's life and it would be made at close range.

  "Who is behind it?" asked McVie, still skeptical.

  "Talmadge," said Zane. "Does that name mean anything to you?"

  McVie paled visibly. "Talmadge is one of the General's closest advisors."

  "We need to move fast," said Zane. "These guys mean business."

  McVie called two of the other prisoners over. "Where is the General?"

  "Long Island," said the man with the red hair.

  "And Talmadge?"

  "With the General," said the man.

  McVie began barking orders at the assembled men. "Spread out into the countryside," he said. "Alert the others to the imminent danger."

  "What about Washington?" asked Zane. "He has to be told."

  "I am most familiar with the territory of Long Island," said McVie. "'Tis a dangerous trip and I have the least to lose." The other men had sweethearts and families. Andrew had nothing but regrets.

  "I left the Blakelees' horse with a blacksmith at the edge of town," said Za
ne. Ten shillings and the man had been ready to adopt the roan. "Tell him Captain Rutledge granted his permission."

  Emilie listened to the exchange with a growing sense of bewilderment. The trip to Long Island was everything Zane loved: long, difficult, and extremely dangerous. Yet there he was, literally handing the reins over to another man.

  The guard began to stir and Andrew motioned for the other men to scatter.

  "Wait until first light then return to the Blakelee farm," said Andrew. "I will see you there again."

  "Take care, Andrew," said Emilie, "and come back safely."

  He nodded. There was a world of sadness in his eyes and it tore at her heart that once again life had seen fit to deny him the happiness he deserved.

  "Mark me well, Rutledge," he said, meeting Zane's eyes with fierce determination. "I would fight you if I believed there was a chance of victory."

  With that McVie vanished into the darkness, leaving Emilie and Zane alone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For the second time in as many days, Zane found himself a prisoner. This time, however, it was not the British Army who held him captive; it was Emilie.

  The woman he loved.

  All around them the members of the spy ring were vanishing into the night. Their movements barely registered on Zane. There was only Emilie. Once again he was struck by her beauty, but this time he saw her soul, as well.

  A bruise, purple and angry, was blossoming along her temple near her hairline, and a murderous rage filled him as her gaze strayed toward the guard slumped on the ground by the door.

  "Don't," she said, reading his mind. "It doesn't matter."

  Gently he cupped her chin and tilted her face until it was bathed in moonlight.

  "Why the hell did McVie let you pull a stunt like this?"

  "He couldn't stop me," she said, cradling his face in her hands. "I had to find you."

  She had risked her life to save his. The enormity of what she'd done hit him full force in the middle of the chest. There was so much to say, so many things to tell her, and no time to say any of it.

  The guard was coming to and they had to escape.