Tess squeaked.
John looked over his shoulder to find the extra man he’d suspected might be there but hadn’t seen before stepping up behind Tess.
“Duck,” he commanded.
She dropped to her hands and knees. John threw his sword and didn’t bother to watch it quiver in the ruffian’s chest as he stumbled backward. He turned back to his primary tormentors, rendered them unconscious in spite of their very sharp knives, then walked past Tess and retrieved his sword. He cleaned it, then resheathed it, grateful that he’d just about run bodily into it in Chevington’s forest.
He was absolutely certain that hadn’t been happenstance.
Nay, the entire thing had been planned. He’d known he was acting as someone’s pawn as he’d stationed himself several seats behind Tess on the train and felt increasingly uneasy the farther north they’d gone. He’d had Oliver with him, true, and Ewan Cameron, who seemed to be canny enough in spite of his abundant good humor, but still he’d been profoundly uncomfortable. An afternoon spent with an entire keep full of living history aficionados when someone from the Middle Ages was stalking him—and Tess?
It had been nothing short of terrifying.
He’d managed, with help, to keep Tess and most of the attendees under surveillance for the better part of the day. He didn’t suppose Terry of the Rowdy Reenactors could be considered a doer of nefarious deeds, but it was certainly his fault that John had lost sight of Tess, however briefly. By the time he’d caught a flash of her cloak, then had his way blocked by people watching a fascinating demonstration of hunting owls, he’d been past frantic. He’d sprinted into the forest, leaving Oliver and Ewan to keep potential thugs in their sights, only to find nothing there but a sword, randomly driven into an unremarkable spot in the carpet of moss and leaves.
His sword, as it happened. The one his father had given him at his knighting.
He’d stepped forward to reach for it only to realize as he made a hasty grab for it, that he was standing on a time gate. He’d allowed it to carry him wherever it would, thinking only that Tess had likely been caught in its vile embrace as well and with any luck, he would follow her.
None of which had left him with any idea who had been stalking him or if that soul had followed him back into the past. He didn’t think so, for he hadn’t seen anything but garden-variety medieval ruffians out for what they could steal.
Which was gobsmacking enough, he supposed.
He cleaned his hands on the grass in deference to Tess’s white visage, then pulled her to her feet.
“We must run again.”
She nodded, a faint, jerky movement that spoke volumes about her weariness and fear, but stumbled along with him into a run that he was sure was wearing her down far too quickly. He didn’t have any other choice. Walking left them too easy a target. Perhaps once he felt safe, they could slow down.
It had been two days of running, broken up only by tense stays in either haylofts or inhospitable patches of forest. Food had been difficult to come by simply because he’d had nothing but his labor to trade for it and the one innkeeper he’d encountered so far had been suspicious of his willingness to chop wood or muck out stalls. He supposed they thought him less a nobleman fallen on hard times than a ruffian of some sort who had stolen a nobleman’s clothing.
Things were, as he had noted earlier, not going particularly well in the thirteenth century.
At least he he hoped it was the thirteenth century. The clothing he’d seen reflected it—give or take several hundred years. He wasn’t sure he could bear arriving at Wyckham and finding Nicholas and Jennifer dead. The thought of finding them anything but young and hale was almost enough to keep him from traveling there in the first place.
Almost, but not quite. The truth was, he couldn’t keep Tess out in the wilds of medieval England with nothing but his sword standing between them and starvation. He needed a place where he could think behind walls that would keep Tess safe.
It was remarkable how quickly a man could go from worrying about getting his car dinged to worrying about how soon he could get the woman he loved where a garrison of loyal men could help him keep her from getting more than dinged.
Only he couldn’t help but wonder how willing she would be to go anywhere with him when she learned the truth about him.
He glanced up at the sky and frowned. He wasn’t entirely comfortable traveling during the day, but at least then he could see his foes coming toward him. A pity he and Tess didn’t look a bit more like peasants, for they would have traveled more easily that way. At least they were wearing period costumes and not jeans. It was one thing to be mistaken for nobility; it was another to be mistaken for witches needing to be killed.
Time wore on in a particularly unpleasant way.
By the time the sun had reached its zenith—which wasn’t easily told thanks to the overcast sky—they’d reached an inn he hadn’t remembered on the road from Chevington to Wyckham. It was so primitive, he found himself almost shocked by the sight. Admittedly, he hadn’t managed very luxurious accommodations during his first few fortnights in the Future, but even the stables he’d mucked out for room and board had been far superior to what he was looking at. Well, he was willing to do whatever work was available. It wasn’t as if he had any other choice. All he had stuck down his boot were his keys, his phone, and a credit card. Not exactly coin of the realm.
“We’ll try this place,” he said.
Tess was only staring numbly at the inn. She looked too exhausted to even manage words.
“Tess,” he began slowly, “ah . . .”
How did one go about telling one’s companion that they had apparently stepped back in time and were loitering sometime in the Middle Ages? Worse still, how did a man tell the woman he loved that he knew that because he’d been born during that time?
He wished, absently, that he’d taken the time to go to Scotland. He had the feeling those MacLeods might have had a suggestion or two for him, if the rumors about them were true.
He squeezed Tess’s hand. “Let me do the talking.”
That she didn’t even nod worried him. She simply stood next to him whilst he made nice with the proprietor, found her a spot by a marginally hot fire, and went outside to add to the woodpile. He did an appropriate amount of labor, then joined a very shell-shocked-looking Tess for a meal that was just this side of inedible. He ate, because he’d eaten worse, and tried to give Tess the least disgusting of the offering. He thanked the innkeeper for his aid, then took Tess and pulled her away from the inn.
He had no doubts someone would come along behind them and try to rob them—at the very least—so he kept an eye over his shoulder as he shepherded Tess along with him quickly. Wyckham was, if he wasn’t judging amiss, another day and a half of slow riding, which meant at least another pair for them with naught but their feet to use. He wasn’t sure Tess would manage it, but he knew he didn’t have a choice but to force her to. Perhaps if she had a few more facts at her disposal, she might have a bit more hope that the end of the road was worth the trouble of getting there.
He looked at her to judge her state of mind. She looked quite frankly terrified, which he thought a rather sensible reaction all things considered.
“Tess?”
She looked up at him. It took her a moment or two to focus on him. “Yes?”
“I have something to tell you,” he began. He paused to judge her willingness to listen to absolute bollocks, but she didn’t seem opposed to it. Then again, she didn’t seem capable of reacting to much at all. Perhaps the time was right to spring a bit of truth on her, though he had to take a deep breath before he could do it. “This is going to seem fantastical.”
“Does it—” she croaked. She cleared her throat. “Does it have to do with lunch?”
He attempted a smile. He supposed he hadn’t succeeded. “Aye.”
She only nodded. “All right.”
“You might not believe me.”
She s
hivered, once. “I have a pretty a good imagination.”
She was going to need it. He attempted a reassuring look but wasn’t sure it hadn’t been more of a grimace.
“You needn’t worry,” he promised. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“You have so far,” she managed.
“Roughly.”
She winced. “Could we not discuss the fate of our would-be friends back there?”
He nodded, because he couldn’t blame her for wanting to forget as quickly as possible what she’d seen. He was all for that. He was also all for holding her for a bit when she turned and put her arms around his waist. He imagined it was less for the sake of affection and more to hold herself up, but he wasn’t going to argue. He held her for a bit, closing his eyes and hoping it wasn’t the last time he would manage it.
A twig snapped and she jumped half a foot. John glanced in the direction of the sound but saw nothing.
“Not to worry,” he said.
“Easy for you to say,” she said breathlessly. “You have a sword.” She pulled back and looked at him. “And you apparently know how to use it.”
“My misspent youth.”
“Interesting youth.”
“Aye, well, that’s part of what I need to tell you,” he said gingerly. “I’m not exactly sure where to start.”
“Try the beginning.”
He reached for her hand laced his fingers with hers. “Don’t run.”
“I don’t think I could, even if I had to,” she said with a shiver. “Spew away. At this point, I think I’ll believe anything you say.”
It was more than she’d said to him at one sitting in two days. No sense in not plunging right in, then. He was tempted to simply find somewhere for her to sit, but they were too close to the last inn for that. “Could you walk?” he asked.
“Is it safer that way?”
He nodded, had a nod in return, then looked up and down the road before he started north with her.
“There are, if you can believe it,” he said as they walked, listening to the words come out of his mouth and realizing how bloody daft they sounded, “little spots all over England, gates really, gates you can’t see.” He checked her expression. She was only watching him periodically, but mostly concentrating on the path in front of her. “This is the fantastical part,” he said, attempting a bit of a laugh that fell rather flat. “They go from one century to another.”
“Do they?”
“They do.”
She looked up at him. “How do you know?”
“Because you and I just stepped through one to get where we are now, which, judging by what we’ve seen so far, isn’t precisely the twenty-first century.”
“And how would you know that?” she asked
He could hardly believe he was going to blurt out the truth, but he supposed there was no point in hiding it any longer.
“Because I was born in the Year of Our Lord’s Grace 1214.”
She didn’t look surprised, which surprised him.
“Indeed,” was all she said.
“Indeed,” he echoed in surprise. “Do you believe me?”
“Have you ever lied to me before, John de Piaget?”
“I’ve hedged, damn it.”
“Well, yes,” she agreed, “that’s true. But given our current surroundings, I think I’ll just take your word on this one.”
He could hardly believe his ears. “You can’t be serious.”
“There are strange happenings in the world. Why not this?” She studied their surroundings for a moment or two, then looked at him. “What year are we in now, do you think?”
“I have no bloody idea,” he said, feeling faintly exasperated.
“Where are we going?”
“Wyckham,” he said shortly. “My brother’s keep. I have no idea if he’s there, or even if we’re in the right year for him to be there.”
She walked next to him in silence for so long, he almost shouted for her to say something. But before he could muster up the rudeness to do so, she looked up at him.
“How long have you been in the future?”
“Eight ye—” He shut his mouth. “I can’t believe you’re taking any of this seriously.”
She took a deep breath. In truth, she took several of them, but they seemed to be less frantic than the ones she’d been taking before so he wasn’t going to complain.
“Those thugs we just encountered aren’t exactly from the local reenactment troupe, are they?”
“They could have been crackheads.”
“I suppose so, but I doubt it.” She walked on for another few minutes in silence. “Here’s the funny thing,” she said finally, though she didn’t look as if she thought whatever she had to say was at all humorous. “I have a few good reasons to take you seriously.”
He supposed it was his turn to be surprised. “Which ones?”
She looked unaccountably nervous. “You know Stephen de Piaget, right?”
“Of course,” he said, feeling a faint irritation at just the mention of the blighter’s name.
“Well, I know him, too, as you’re already aware. What you might not know is that I also know his younger brother, Gideon. Gideon happens to be married to a woman named Megan.” She smiled again, but it wasn’t a very good smile. “She has a younger sister named Jennifer. Yanks, the both of them.”
He waited, but she didn’t go on. He couldn’t imagine what her genealogy lesson had to do with his tale, but he supposed Tess didn’t do much without a reason.
“And?” he prompted, when she looked as though she might not continue.
She met his gaze. “Megan’s sister Jennifer is married to your older brother Nicholas.”
It took him perhaps five more paces before her words sank in. He stopped short so quickly, he almost pulled her off her feet.
“What?”
She turned to look at him. “That isn’t everything.”
He released her hand and folded his arms over his chest. It served a dual purpose of keeping him from possibly doing damage to her hand in his surprise and allowed him to look more in control of things than he felt.
“What else?” he asked, more curtly than he’d intended. He couldn’t take the tone back, nor was he sure he would be able to. How did she know he had an older brother named Nicholas? That would mean . . .
He put the brakes on thoughts that were too ridiculous to entertain. She couldn’t possibly know anything about him. Perhaps she was confusing him with someone else, or making up a tale from whole cloth. He comforted himself with those thoughts and settled for a fierce frown, lest he look completely undone.
“I have something to tell you about my sister Pippa,” she said. “The one I lost.”
He only waited. Words were almost beyond at him the moment.
“It has to do with her husband.”
John felt something slither down his spine. He would have said ’twas the cold, cruel breath of Fate blowing down the back of his tunic, but it wasn’t Fate. It was the unpleasant realization that he hadn’t been nearly as in control of anything over the past month as he would have liked.
“Nay, you didn’t tell me about your sister’s husband,” he said, attempting not to grit his teeth. “An oversight?”
“No, it was a deliberate choice not to tell you an interesting story,” she said, though she didn’t look as if it were interesting. She looked as if she were close to sicking up that truly vile meal they’d just ingested. “You see, Pippa found one of those gates you were talking about—outside my bridge, as it happens. She went back in time, met the lord of Sedgwick, and fell in love with him.”
“Denys?” he asked in disbelief.
She shook her head slowly. “Denys had already died and the castle reverted to its proper owner.” She paused. “Your father, Rhys.”
John thought he might have to sit down. “And he gave it to . . .”
“Your brother Montgomery.”
He had to lean over and take several
breaths before the stars suddenly swirling around his head faded enough for him to see the ground again.
“I’m not sure I understand,” he ground out.
“Your brother Montgomery is married to my sister Pippa.”
He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t help it. It took another moment or two before he dared raise his head to look at her. “How do you know?” he demanded.
“Because your eldest brother Robin’s second son Kendrick, who just happens to be the Earl of Seakirk in the current day, told me so.”
John could only look at her, speechless.
“I didn’t need to hear it from him, though,” she said, her visage very pale, “because I watched the way your brother looked at my sister. I listened to them agonize over where they would live. In which century, rather—”
“You watched him?” John asked incredulously. “When?”
“Two months ago,” she said. “In my hall that used to be his hall—”
He walked away. He only made it ten paces before he walked back, took her by the hand, and pulled her along after him. He supposed he should have been grateful that she went along with him instead of punching him, but given how long she’d lived with her energy-analyzing sister, she probably knew he was about three words from absolutely losing . . . something. His cool, his temper, his sanity. He couldn’t have said which. None of it was her fault, of course, and he wasn’t the sort of lad to take out his anger on someone just because they were convenient.
But he could hardly believe what she’d just told him.
He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I can manage speech right now.”
She only looked up at him, her eyes full of sympathy and her own bloody great bit of grief. “I understand.”
“Can you run again?”
“Yes.”
He supposed he could have run for days and not outrun his past, which had now, it seemed, fully caught him up.
He’d known it would someday.
He’d just never expected to have it do so thanks to the woman he loved.