Chapter 17
Edward sat back, releasing Helen, his hands burning. Had he really hit her and knocked her unconscious? He stood up slowly, breathing heavily, looking down at the woman on the floor in disbelief. She’d been so strong. And she’d burned him. No matter how impossible it seemed, she’d done it. He went to the wash basin, poured cold water from a jug into the porcelain bowl and soaked his hands. A few moments ticked by, his blackmailer still unconscious on the floor. He dried his hands on a clean towel, then went back to her belongings, taking out a scarf and a petticoat and setting them next to her still form. The scarf was a dark-blue silk, heavy and luxurious as it slid through his hands. He shifted her gently—undoubtedly more gently than she deserved—and then tied her hands behind her back.
Could she burn through these too? Was she impervious to fire? It’s impossible. No one could do what she did. And yet she’d done it, so what did that mean? Who was she? He ripped the petticoat into strips, looking at her every time the fabric made a tearing sound, knowing she’d wake up soon. At least, he hoped she would. Edward hadn’t known how hard to hit her. But he’d seen her face, saw the change that came over her when she realized that he intended to go to Colchester. She’d looked…resolved.
Would she have killed him?
Could she have done it? Here he was having a devil of a time bringing himself to hit her, and yet she might have killed him without a second thought. Looking at her now, so peaceful in sleep, her feminine features relaxed, her dark hair spread out behind her like a cloud, he couldn’t imagine that someone so dainty could be so…evil.
Although that word seemed a little excessive.
Perhaps criminal was more accurate.
He tied her feet together and hauled her up off the floor, depositing her into a chair. Her head lolled to the side, her cheek already turning red and beginning to swell.
Edward sat down on the bed, putting his head in his hands as thoughts ricocheted through him. He’d hit her. Shame and anger coursed through him, disgust at himself and her for bringing him to this level. She had left him with no alternative, and even knowing that, he still felt responsible. As if he could have done something else—anything else—besides punch her in the face.
It’s what my father would have done. Long before now. His father would have throttled her the moment she walked into his library demanding money. Everyone had experienced his father’s fury. Casting back to his earliest memories—always a very bad idea—what he remembered was his father shouting—loud enough and angry enough to make the whole world tremble—and his mother weeping.
And after his father died, he’d wanted to tell his mother that she was safe, that he was nothing like his monstrous sire. That fear and pain were things they’d buried with him when they put him in the coldest, darkest ground.
No one would live in fear of Edward’s drunken violence as they had his father’s.
But he’d never said it aloud. How did one say something so ridiculous?
He had tried to set an example instead, telling his mother through his actions that he wasn’t like his father. Now he’d hit a woman.
And what did that make him? He stood, suddenly feeling exhausted, pain like acid filling his chest, and he went back to her things, looking in every drawer, under her pillow, under the bed, anywhere he could think of where she might stash that diary. He didn’t find it.
Her head rolled to the side, and her brow creased as she awoke. He stood up, moving to the ottoman before the chair, so close to her that his knees pressed against her skirt.
She didn’t open her eyes. He watched her, searching for the smallest sign that she was conscious, then stared at her simply because he could. A guilty pleasure.
Her chest rose and fell as if she were simply sleeping, her breasts pushing against the corset. Edward scrubbed his jaw with his hand, the prickling of his beard irksome. He needed to shave. He needed a bath. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and he felt tired to the bone.
The sooner she was out of his life the better.
She made a noise and licked the corner of her mouth, dabbing at a spot of blood where his signet ring had broken her soft skin. Edward realized his hands were shaking. When had that started? He’d made her bleed. He wanted to kiss that spot better, wipe away the hurt with his lips and tongue, get down on his knees and apologize with his hands and body.
I hurt her. A rational part of his brain knew he was being ridiculous. Maybe even knew that he had no other choice, perhaps even that there was never going to be any other choice. She was the antithesis of him and how he lived his life. She was temptation, vice and violence; it was as if she were every sin, and he was weak. She lured, and he followed. Wasn’t that how he’d gotten into this mess?
The stress and anxiety of being around her, of vacillating between wanting to choke her and wanting to…no, he didn’t want anything else from her. He wanted her out of his life. To forget he’d ever seen her. Continue with his deadly boring life and his fiancée who never smiled; his mother who was so cold she made the Arctic look tropical. That was what he wanted. Well, it was what he should want.
Sometimes she stared at him so intensely, her gaze so warm that he had to look away, break that connection between them. She looked at him as if she wanted to devour him; as if she wondered what it would be like if he devoured her in return.
And wasn’t it fitting that she was named Helen. In Odysseus, Homer said that Helen circled the Trojan Horse three times, tormenting the men inside by sounding like their lost loves: all that they had left behind. The most beautiful woman; a woman worthy of starting a war. He felt his lips quirk down at the idea. She was beautiful; she was a torture, for him, the way she looked at him, how she made him feel—hot blooded, almost primal. Oh yes, he didn’t know whether he wanted to choke her or…or grab her, throw her skirts up and bury himself inside of her; claim her in some barbaric display of savagery.
I hit her. The bonus, of course, was that any desire she’d had for him would undoubtedly be gone now. In that moment, he hated himself. Not her. It was easy to blame her and say she provoked him, but this was him. She was Helen of Troy torturing him and exposing his weaknesses.
“That’s quite the right hook. Maybe I should get some boxing lessons.”
He started at the sound of her voice, lost to his own thoughts as he’d paced the room. She sounded serious. As though, where she came from, she could go into a gentleman’s club and have boxing lessons. Perhaps she’d blackmail the trainer to get those lessons.
“I’ve tied you securely,” he said, his voice too rough. “I’ll leave you here, meet with that overgrown German barbarian and then I’ll come back, with the plans, and you and I will do the exchange.”
Helen jerked against her bonds, which made her breasts tremble. He ripped his gaze away from her. What about castration? It wasn’t a pleasant option, but at least he wouldn’t ogle her any longer.
“Overgrown German?” she asked.
“Colchester,” he said.
She leaned forward, suddenly squinting in thought. “Colchester…blond, muscular guy from last night? He’s German?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know?”
“Why the hell would I?”
He shrugged. “Good point. Sometimes I’m amazed you know that the sky is blue. You do know the sky is blue, don’t you? I’d hate to ruin it for you, but that is one of those basic things people are expected to know. Having manners or abiding the law are a few other obvious things most people know.”
She glared at him. This wasn’t helpful.
“It was quite a scandal, but through a series of unfortunate deaths, the title passed to a relative in Germany. He’s only been in England for a few months.”
“What about Ms. Wells? The woman with the dress and the symbols? Is she German too?” Helen asked, pulling against the bonds as if she had somewhere to go and was late. A train out of town perhaps.
He walked over to her, checked the bonds to
make sure they were tight before stepping back. “Yes, she’s German too.”
Helen almost screamed in shock. Just like that, the pieces clicked together. Colchester, the fucker, was from the future too. No, he couldn’t be. The implications were disastrous. It meant the Germans were capable of time travel and not only that, they knew what her mission was. Did they know who she was? What she looked like? Or were they just expecting someone to come back in time who would attempt to destroy the plans?
Men and women could go back. They were ahead of the US.
“You are out of options,” she heard him say. Wait. He was going to go to Colchester to get the plans? Colchester would kill him! Colchester would assume the Duke was working for her side, or maybe even that he was from the future.
Helen stared into his eyes, willing him to see just how sincere and earnest she was. Yeah, that’s going to work. “You cannot go to Colchester. He’s a dangerous man.”
“More dangerous than you?” he replied silkily.
She gave a bitter laugh, hollow and desolate. Baron Colchester was a Nazi from the future. “The evil that he has undoubtedly committed…oh yes, he is much more dangerous than me.”
“Your treacherousness is all that I am familiar with, so I shall have to take your words with a certain amount of skepticism.” He crossed his arms and planted his feet as though he were on a ship, bracing himself.
“No, you don’t understand. Did you tell him you want to buy the plans? He will—”
Edward interrupted her, voice hard. “You are still attempting to direct the conversation. You’re tied to a chair. You direct nothing.”
She shifted on her chair as though trying to get comfortable, but his eyes narrowed suspiciously as if he knew she was testing how secure the ropes were. They were irritatingly secure. She licked her lips and looked around the room. Would the Baron kill him? Did he have orders to leave people alive and change the timeline as little as possible, like she did? “Please, please listen to me…” You have to untie me. Colchester is dangerous. I’m telling you the truth. He would not believe a word she said.
She felt a fluttering at the back of her throat, as if she might cry or puke or scream and her body just hadn’t made up its mind on what was going to come out. What were her choices? Let him go to Colchester and be killed, which would change the timeline and tank her mission.
Or...or she could tell him the truth, as much as she was able, and hope that her honesty would convince him to untie her. What if he didn’t believe her?
Well, if he didn’t believe her, he’d go to the Baron, ask to buy the plans, and probably get himself killed. The Baron wouldn’t hesitate. But first he would torture Edward until he told him where Helen was. She’d be tied up, helpless, sitting here like a gift when Colchester showed up. She could almost feel, like a ghostly finger touching the center of her forehead, how he’d kill her. The very spot he’d rest the gun before blowing her brains out.
She took a halting breath in. Was her only option to tell him? Really? Fuck. “Where I come from…the Baron and men like him, have been responsible for…terrible things. Honestly, I didn’t expect to see him here, and the fact that he is here is…bad.” She grimaced at the understatement. “In fact, I thought it was impossible for him to be here.”
“And where is that?”
“What?”
“Where is it you come from?” he said slowly, enunciating every word as if she were a simpleton.
“The United States. California.” He gave her an expression that somehow said ‛stop bullshitting me’ without uttering a word. “That part is true…the rest is a little…fantastical. Part of the reason I’m so hesitant to tell you anything is because you won’t believe it.”
He reached over to her, grabbing her chin in his strong, lean fingers and forcing her to look at him. “And that is my decision as well.”
She jerked her head to the side, and he let go of her. “This isn’t about me and what I want to tell you or want to keep from you.” Her voice trembled, and she pulled as hard as she could against the bonds. “I’ll be as honest with you as I can, but you should understand, knowing this information puts you in more danger.” She strained forward, voice breaking at the end as she tried to convince him that she spoke the truth. “And if he found out that you knew who he was, or why he was here, he’d kill you in your sleep.”
“You are so sure?” he asked quietly, disbelief and doubt etched into his aristocratic features.
“Trust me, he comes from a long line of torturers.”
He smiled coldly. “That was the wrong thing to say. I do not trust you.” His gaze dropped for a moment, his cheeks hollowing.
Just tell him.
The timeline was altered. The Germans had the plans, and she had to stop them now. Today. The hard part would be getting him to believe her. And that meant getting him to believe she came from the future. “Okay. Here you go. Next year, your sister will marry Charles Goodkind, a man she’s known all her life, but who is currently engaged to another. She’s already engaged, but the engagement will end in three months, and after a scandalously short amount of time, your sister will be wed. You dabble in architecture and are much taken with Watt, who invented the steam engine, as well as Singer, who made changes to the sewing machine.” Helen thought about continuing, mentioning his interest in epidemiology, and how he went on to fund John Snow, the man who proved cholera was spread through water rather than air. But that might give him a hint to the future. She wouldn’t do that unless she had to. His spine was rigid, and he was watching her as if she were a snake, one he was expecting to strike.
“How do you know this?” he asked, voice lethally quiet as he interrupted her.
“The same way I know about your birth; not because someone told me, but because I read it in a book. Your relative discovered the diary in the wall in 1925. And once it was determined that I would come here, you were chosen to blackmail because we knew about your secret.”
He recoiled, his dark brows slashing down as he thought through her words. “1925…You’re telling me you come from the future?” His tone had no inflection.
“You tell me what I need to do to prove it, and I’ll see if I can convince you,” Helen said, feeling overexcited. Like this was a game of Russian roulette, and she’d already survived too many rounds.
He went to the window, looking down at the street below, his elbow resting against the window frame. It made his body look lean, emphasized the fact that he had a magnificent ass, and was so irrelevant to what was happening now that if she could have slapped herself, she would have. “Everyone knows the Goodkinds are family friends.” Great, he’s going to rationalize everything I’ve said.
He turned back to her, his face cast in shadow. “What year do you come from?”
She gave a sad smile. “2089.”
He gave a disbelieving laugh and turned to the window again, as though he could think better if he didn’t see her. “And I assume you have no proof?”
Helen chewed her lip, trying to come up with something. “No. That’d be too easy,” she said, trying to make a joke of it. “The only thing that could come through was me.”
Wait a minute. She knew something about herself that would convince him. Hopefully. Otherwise, she was going to feel pretty darned embarrassed. “How about a scar?”
He turned back towards her, the sun on his face making his dark, clean hair shine. “Why would a scar make me believe you?”
“Because it was fatal during this time—your time. Now.” She hated how flustered she sounded. “The only way someone could have survived is if they came from a time when medicine was far more advanced.”
He didn’t say anything for a few moments, then changed the subject. “And the Baron is also from the future?”
She nodded.
“And he has the same goal as you, to get the plans for this weapon that Black says cannot be invented?”
“It can be invented—just not right
now. I don’t know if Colchester has another agenda for being here besides the plans. I’m here for the plans. I was told no one could come through. Just me.” Another horrendous realization hit her. “Wait. Did you say he’d been here for months?”
Each word was precise; the weight of his gaze so heavy it felt oppressive. “No one…but you. So you are alone?”
And just like that, she lost. She couldn’t bring herself to nod in confirmation, but she felt tears gathering at the back of her throat, and she dug her fingernails into her hands hard, willing them away. Willing herself to be stronger than this. She wished he would hit her. Do something really violent so that she could react with anger rather than this female bullshit.
“You are working alone,” he repeated.
“The technology is new.”
He inclined his head as if he hadn’t heard her clearly. “I don’t know that word.”
“Oh. Technology? Yeah, I bet. It means, um…crap I don’t know how to define it.” Helen tried to shrug. “How about a type of science for new things. No, that’s not right. I think it came about because of industrial creations. So it’s like the science of industrial stuff.”
His expression changed, as though he were deciding whether or not to jump off a ledge into deep water below. “That is the second time you have said the word industrial.”
“Your ability to keep track of what I say is disturbing.” In any other circumstance, she would have found his ability to remember their conversations amusing. Potentially hot. It was nice to be remembered.
“Yes, it used to drive my governess mad.” He nodded as if he’d reached some conclusion. “Show me your scar.”
“Well,” she blushed. “You’d have to untie me.”
Then he laughed, the jerk. A bitter laugh. “Of course I would.”
“Are you going to?”
“No. You’d undoubtedly attack me.” He ran his hand through his hair, “And from what you’re telling me, you may be a madwoman.”
She made a harrumphing noise and jerked on the bonds so hard her hands went numb.
“Where is the scar?” he asked, raking her body as though he might have missed it.
“Under my ribcage. It goes from my ribs across my abdomen to my hip bone on the other side.”
He frowned at her. “A mortal wound indeed. How did it occur?”
She had no sense of whether he believed her or not. “It was a shrapnel bomb in a school. Africa.”
She could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t understand what she meant. It was almost nice to have someone confused by her words for a change.
“It was a device that exploded. A futuristic bomb, but bits of metal and nails went with it. It hit me in the stomach and ripped me open.”
“And you survived,” he said, not really a question.
She hoped he was thinking about how believable her story sounded.
“I won’t untie you, but I want to see the scar.”
“Then you’re going to have to cut this dress off me,” she said, hoping she could embarrass him into letting her go. His eyes narrowed contemplatively. He came towards her, lifted the ottoman before her easily, setting it out of the way so that there was a clear space around her. As if he were actually going to cut her dress off her.
He pulled out a pocket knife, clicking it open, then dropped down to his knees in front of her.
Holy shit. Is he actually going to cut my dress off?
Her stomach performed a slow somersault forward, anxiety mixed with desire and a dash of fear roiling through her. She was tied to a chair. He wanted to see her scar, which was only visible sans corset. And he was going to cut her dress off her. It will be another fantasy for when you’re a cat-lady.
She took a breath but didn’t exhale, her heartbeat accelerating as she watched his hand hover near her left side. The large ruby stone in his signet ring winked at her. She’d never thought about men wearing jewelry, but if someone had told her that a man wearing a large antique ring was sexy, she wouldn’t have believed them.
She did now.
“Is it here?” he asked, his large hands still poised to touch her. Desire gave the fear a beat down, and she let out a breath as soon as his hand settled below her breast, jerked into action by oxygen deprivation. Their eyes met, his nostrils flared, and he looked at her lips. It was heated, knowing, a blatant sexual perusal. If she were free, she would have kissed him, leaned forward and grabbed him by his damned cravat and crushed her mouth to his. And that’s why bondage is a good thing. It’s protecting me from myself.
“It starts there.” Helen grimaced when her words came out a whisper. His touch was light, fingers splayed as though he might feel the scar through her silk dress. His nails were trimmed and buffed, his fingers belonging to an artist. The pads of his fingers slid across her torso gently, coming inwards towards her belly button and continuing onwards…and down.
He lifted his hand, only his index finger touching her as he reached her hip. Even through the layers of fabric she thought she could feel that faint touch.
She forced herself to stay still, the feeling of anticipation curiously similar to being in a bunker and waiting for a shell to drop. Every moment was tense with horrendous expectation. His hand drew away from her, and he looked down at the knife curiously, as though he wasn’t sure where it had come from. He blinked, his focus sharpening so he was looking at her analytically, his gaze roaming her torso and chest, the hem of her dress then back to the bodice, as he tried to figure out where to part the fabric of her dress.
“Are you sure you don’t want to release me? I won’t attack you or run. I promise.” Unless he let her go, and she jumped his bones. Was a sexy attack exempt from that promise?
He chuckled darkly as if they were discussing something far more intimately amusing. “We are beyond your promises.”
In that case… “You could cut it from the bodice downwards. Or start at my feet and slice the fabric up past my ankles,” her heart was pounding so loudly and nervously she could barely hear her own words, “up my calves, over my thighs, and then you can rip the fabric open—”
“Stop.” He shot her a glare, and she widened her eyes, going for innocence rather than prick tease.
“Hey, I told you to untie me and let me go. This is your fantasy here.”
Except for a flattening of his full lips and a tightening of his jaw, he didn’t react. She heard her petticoats rustle, felt a slight tug on the hem, and then heard the fabric part. He leaned closer, his head bowed almost over her lap, so she could see his thick hair and the nape of his neck. She could smell him: soap, cologne and him. What his skin would smell like in the morning if she woke up next to him. Damn she wanted him.
The fabric ripped abruptly, the sound loud and somehow deviant. Helen gasped, and he looked up at her, his lips a few inches below hers. Helen made herself hold still, desperately trying not to lean down and kiss him.
She didn’t see invitation on his face, no indication that he was as moved to passion as she was. Maybe she had imagined the whole thing. His expression was cold and unyielding.
Edward pulled hard, his strong biceps flexing under his dark coat. The material gave, splitting up to her thighs, cold air on her skin. Helen realized she was panting and tried to stop, tried to pretend that he wasn’t making her damp and frustrated as hell.
With a dark glance, he yanked again, the dress opening and exposing the corset she wore under her clothes. Her drawers were thin, and she knew he could see through them to the shadowed vee between her legs. Helen pressed her thighs together, desire pulsing through her core.
The laces of her corset were tied in front, and with the briefest hesitation, he pulled the tie, opening it.
“Lean forward,” he demanded, voice low and commanding.
She did, so close that her breasts were almost in his mouth. Her bindings were tight, only a small gap created between her back and the chair as she leaned forward. His fingers sli
pped around her waist and she felt him pulling deftly at the laces behind her, his fingers trapped against her back. He loosened the corset, the two halves becoming flexible enough so that he could undo the eyehooks in front.
“You seem to know what you’re doing,” she said, desperately needing to lighten the moment before she did something stupid like proposition him.
His brows rose, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Which skill are you referring to? My ability to cut a dress off a woman, or remove a corset?”
“Um, well, both. I guess. If you put it that way,” she finished lamely.
His pupils were large, his cheeks flushed as he looked directly at her. “I’m a gentleman, not a monk,” he said, and then he unsnapped the eyehooks all the way down her chest, the corset falling open. She sagged in pleasure as the garment came free, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes briefly.
“That thing is torture,” she said.
“Let me guess, no corsets in the future?”
“No. I’m more of a mini-skirt and jean girl.”
“The last half of that sentence was totally incomprehensible.”
There was still one layer of clothing separating her body from his gaze and touch. The thin linen shift she wore under the expensive corset, the garment made to keep the corset from her skin so it would stay clean and last longer.
“Hold still.” He rested his palm in the hollow of her waist, his fingers on her hip. She thought she felt the faintest press of his fingers, and a vivid image of him gripping her by the hips and yanking her forward, pulling her against his hard body slammed through her mind. Then his touch was gone as he pinched the fabric between his fingers and lifted it away from her skin. He paused then—the knife poised to slit the material and bare her body to him.
Knowledge hit her. He was hesitating. This was what he did. He didn’t commit rashly but weighed every option. How many times had he urged her to reconsider, not to act? And now he was thinking again, perhaps reaching the conclusion that cutting off her clothing and seeing her naked was an irrevocable step. His gaze searched hers, looking for something. Hell if she knew what.
“I don’t see fear,” he said. His dark eyes went down to her lips, down the column of her neck, lingering on her chest, to the straining points of her nipples, which showed just how unafraid she was.
“Nope,” she said weakly. “No fear.”
He shot her an inscrutable look, then his lips quirked up into a smile, quickly wiped away. Her stomach flip-flopped when she saw him smile.
“Why did you smile?” She couldn’t help but ask.
“Nothing. It isn’t appropriate for a lady’s ears.”
“Really? Now you’re gonna treat me like a lady?” she said, scornfully.
The smile came back, making him look like a man she didn’t know. An Edward that didn’t exist. Sexy, playful, a man who laughed. “It occurred to me that this…interlude has to be worth at least a thousand pounds.” He set the blade to her shift and she noticed his pulse pounding at his neck.
Helen laughed feebly. “Not a monk,” she said, the heat of a blush warming her cheeks.
“And thank God for that,” he murmured. Then the fabric separated, her stomach exposed. He stopped near her chest so that her breasts stayed covered. She looked like she was wearing an obscene tank top.
Embarrassment flooded through her, and the most ridiculous hope that he would find her attractive. Ignoring the massive scar, of course.
Helen watched him taking in the upraised flesh, his eyes tracking from her hip to just below her breast where she was a mass of scar tissue. If she’d been stateside when the attack happened, she might not have had a scar. But she’d been in the middle of nowhere, where clean drinking water and mosquito netting was a luxury.
Just being alive was a success. And that was how she’d always felt about that scar. It was a reminder of just how damn tough and lucky she was. Every once in a while she’d thought about getting it removed, but she’d always decided against it. The scar was part of her identity, and she’d been almost obstinate in her pride over the damned thing.
The type of woman he was used to, a lady, would have had it removed. There was a part of her that wished she didn’t have this reminder of how much of an outlander she truly was. Wished she was just as perfect as the weak, pale women he was used to. The scarred skin was paler than the rest of her, stitch marks that looked like little pinprick dots of white visible along the length of it.
He touched her gently, one finger tracing the scar. It was a gentle touch, almost soothing, and again, she wondered what he’d be like in bed. If he’d touch her for hours. If this intensity and fascination with her skin would extend to the rest of her body. She shivered.
“So much damage,” he said quietly. “No one could survive that.”
“Not in your time, they couldn’t.”
“How did it not become infected? The wound must have been deep to require so much suturing.”
“It did become infected. My intestines were a mess. I was in the hospital for a month. African hospitals…they just don’t cut it,” she said, grimacing. Had that been a half-assed joke?
He stood up abruptly, going to the bed and pulling off the bedspread, placing it on top of her and covering her nudity. She couldn’t help but see the bulge in his trousers, proof of his arousal making her feel a flash of weakening desire.
He wanted her. Edward the proper and perfect still got a boner when he cut off a woman’s clothes. Helen looked down, finding the thought amusing and not wanting him to see her face.
Edward sat down on the bed, a small distance away from her, running his hand along his thigh near his knee as though wiping away the feel of her skin. His legs were crossed, evidence of his desire for her hidden away. Helen could practically feel him retreating from her, becoming the self-contained Duke who didn’t touch her or find her remotely attractive.
She felt ridiculous strapped to a chair with a shredded gown and a blanket thrown over her like an afterthought. Somehow the blanket put a damper on the whole desire thing. The dress cutting, well, she’d been so turned on that every other feeling, like shame and worry that he wouldn’t believe her, was secondary. But, now that he was so distant and sitting so far away from her, as though the whole thing was a horrendous embarrassment and accident, now she felt exposed.
“Okay, so you cut my clothes off, you’ve seen the goods, are you going to let me go?” she asked, voice sharp.
“I don’t think so,” he said casually without looking at her, as though she’d asked if it might rain.
“Why the hell not?” Helen pulled against the bonds again.
“I need time to think.”
“What is there to think about? I’m gonna lose a limb here. I have no blood flow. You’ve got to untie me,” she said intensely.
His eyes narrowed. “Or what? And let me say that if you scream, I will gag you, then you will have no opportunity to convince me that you are…from the future.”
“What else can I do to convince you?”
He held up a hand so that she wouldn’t speak and interrupt his thoughts. Authoritative jackass.
“Explain some of the differences between my time and yours.”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously. She shook her head in denial. “Don’t you know that’s not a good idea? What if you do stuff to change the outcome of things?”
“How so?” he asked, genuine interest in his tone. He crossed his arms and waited. Helen thought about how she knew that messing with the space-time continuum was bad…besides the debriefing she had before she left, she’d have to say that all of her knowledge came from bad sci-fi. Which hadn’t been invented yet.
“Well, what if I tell you about some contraption that sounds amazing, and then you go and invent it before it was supposed to be created? You could upset the whole timeline of the world.”
After a long pause, he nodded, still watching her closely. “Isn’t that your pur
pose here?”
“Oh. Well. Yeah, so I’m here to change the future. But my change is good. It’s worth it. It will save millions of lives.”
An expression similar to a grimace crossed his face, and she wondered if he were skeptical about her motives.
She took a deep breath. “Edward, what I am here to do will save millions of lives.”
“Millions?” he repeated as if he couldn’t comprehend such a thing.
“Yes. Millions.”
A few minutes passed before either of them spoke. Well, before he spoke. Helen didn’t have much to say beyond ‛please let me go’ which hadn’t gotten her squat.
“If what you say is true, then you rather conveniently change from an amoral criminal to a heroine.”
Why did she feel as if he were setting a trap? Helen laughed, the hysteria of it ringing loud and clear. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny. Nothing is funny. It’s all…a disaster. Yes, despite what you have seen, I am a hero. Heroine. I’m trying to make things better.”
He frowned. Helen was surprised by his next question. “Are you…typical of most women in your time?”
That was funny, so she laughed again. He’d clearly been trying to be diplomatic, but it hadn’t really worked. The way he said ‛typical’ conveyed just how outrageous he thought she was. “I suppose I’m a little bit different than most women. But, in my day, women can vote. Women can get a divorce. We hold jobs and own property. Men and women are equal.”
His eyebrows rose loftily at that. He covered the lower half of his face with his hand, masking his expression. “You are a soldier, then.” He scrutinized her like she was an insect. A praying mantis or one of the weird bugs that one looks at and thinks, ‘what the hell is your purpose’?
“Yeah. A soldier.” Defensive much?
“Your parents approve of this?”
“They’re dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
She had nothing to say to that. The silence became awkward. He cleared his throat. “Colchester is working for this faction you want to stop. The Nazis? And he has the plans, and you must get them and destroy them? Anything else I should know about?”
She spluttered. “You shouldn’t know about any of it!”
Both of his dark eyebrows raised. “But I do.”
Helen looked at him steadily, willing him to see her as she really was, someone who had a mission to do good. Someone strong and capable. She’d probably never know what she actually saw on his face. “And where does that leave me? And the diary?”
“I told you, I don’t have the diary.”
“I want it,” he said it with cold precision.
Helen shook her head, “I can’t give it to you. If you get it now, then this never happens. You can’t look for it or even act like it exists. In your lifetime, you are the duke.”
“And later?”
“By then, it was ancient history and nobody cared. It probably would have created more of a scandal to strip your family of the title than to leave it alone. Being a duke or even royalty…by my time it’s more honorific than anything.”
“You’re saying my title becomes irrelevant?” She could see that the mere idea shocked him.
“No. There is always a fascination for royalty or people who are…wealthy or deemed better than everybody else. But lords don’t shape policy like you do today.”
“You cannot get in to see Colchester without me,” he said, changing the subject.
“Does he know you want the plans?” she asked, feeling as if her heart stopped as she waited for him to respond.
His expression was fierce. “I simply told him I had a proposition for him.”
“So, you didn’t mention the plans?” She couldn’t help but ask him twice.
“No. I did not.”
Tears filled her eyes, “Oh, thank God!” She squeezed her eyes closed, felt the tears slip down her cheeks.
“What happens now?”
She blinked rapidly, wishing she could wipe her face. “You let me go, I get the plans and destroy them…then I move to the country and become a spinster.” Well, that had been the plan. But that was before she knew the Germans were here. She would have to take out Colchester and anyone else he was working with. All those cats would just have to wait.
“This is your only task, then? You do not go back to your time?” he asked, tone cold and dispassionate.
“No, I’ll stay here.” She couldn’t read his closed expression. “Where are you meeting the Baron?”
“He’s having a party at his house tonight. Part of his debauched club. Ms. Wells and some of her girls will be there.” Edward stood, coming towards her and disappearing behind her chair. She felt him loosening the ropes, untying them.
She stood as quickly as she could, shaking the tension out of her arms and moving away from him to the opposite side of the room. “You do understand that you can’t help me, right?” Helen asked. “I’m trained in how to do this. All I need you to do is get me into the party.”
“I’ve seen your abilities. But don’t forget that you were tied to that chair because of my abilities. Whatever rights you have in the future are irrelevant. You are here now. In my world, and with the restrictions that are placed upon all of us. You are a woman, and you will not get very far without me.” He smiled at her, something slightly devilish in it, as though what he were about to say gave him great pleasure. “You, Miss Foster, are stuck with me.”