Beyond Time (Highland Secret Series)

  “To me?” he said, surprised.

  Grace nodded, “Yes, to you, Robert. Yesterday I saw a pair of shoes there that you have made for your wife.”

  Robert frowned in confusion. “I don’t have a wife.”

  “Not yet you don’t.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have started this conversation. I’m sorry. Please don’t press me on it. I can’t tell you.”

  “Will you tell me one day?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Robert what did you tell your sister about me?” she said, changing the subject.

  “I told her that you are my wife.”

  “Your wife? But won’t she wonder why you didn’t tell her you married? Or why I have nothing to wear?”

  “Grace, sit down,” he said, pausing to allow her to do as he had asked. “Sarah is deliriously happy for me and hasn’t questioned a thing I have told her. As far as she and the rest of this city are concerned, you are from Derbyshire and I married you two weeks ago at St Mary’s church in Chesterfield.”

  “Did you just say St Mary’s church in Chesterfield?”

  “I did?”

  “Do you know Chesterfield then?”

  “Well I know it in this time. I’m afraid I can’t offer much of an opinion on what it is like in your time. Grace, you need to know what I have told Sarah,” he said, bringing her back to their original conversation. “We married in Chesterfield, two weeks ago. I sent a private coach to transport you to York and last night, just outside the city, your coach overturned in the snow and you were robbed by highway men.”

  “You’re not just a very handsome man are you?”

  “No?”

  “No, you’re smart as well,” she said, dropping the blanket from her shoulders and moving to stand in front of him.

  His eyes travelled from her face down the length of her body, lingering where the cotton shirt swelled over the rise of her breasts. One dark brow lifted.

  “And you are a beautiful woman who is going to teach me many things,” he whispered, in a deep and husky rumble. A faint smile touched his lips. “But first you need to take that shirt off. The cobbler will be here soon. Here,” he said, lifting the gown from the back of the chair, “go and put this on... oh and, Grace, remove that bracelet from your wrist.”

  ******

  CHAPTER 7

  He shut the door and stood with his back against it. Grace lifted her head toward him and lazily stretched her legs out in front of the fire.

  “It went well with the cobbler,” he said, staring intently across at her.

  She weighed his words, trying to decide if he was joking or being serious.

  “I suppose it did. If you don’t count the strange looks the man kept giving me. I do believe your cobbler thinks I am a little odd.”

  “You are a little odd,” he said, laughing.

  She scowled up at him. “That’s not very nice.”

  “Grace just under twenty four hours ago you travelled nearly four hundred years into the past. That’s a little odd even by my reckoning.”

  Her face lost its scowl and she too laughed. He moved to sit beside her on the floor.

  “Would you care to share?”

  “Share?”

  “Your thoughts.”

  “Oh, sorry. I was thinking about my daughter.”

  “You have a child?”

  Grace nodded and reached for her purse. “Jenny,” she said, showing the photograph to Robert.

  “That’s an impressive portrait,” he said.

  “It’s not really a portrait, it’s called a photograph.”

  “Whatever it’s called, it’s very good. You have a beautiful daughter.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I need to open the posting house tomorrow. Would you like to come with me?”

  Grace slid the photograph back into her purse.

  “Yes, Robert, I would like that very much,” she said, wiping a single tear from her cheek.

  For a moment, Grace was paralyzed with fear. Despite the deep lying snow, the city bustled around them.

  “What if they suspect?” she whispered.

  “No one is going to know, Grace. Just relax,” he said, reaching for her hand and tucking it safely in his.

  With her free hand she tried to hoist her skirts up, out of the snow, but it was too deep and the hem became soaked. It clung to her legs, wet and heavy around her calves. The icy wind whipped around her ears and Grace started to shiver violently with the cold. Robert wrapped his arm around her for warmth, hurrying her along the street until finally they were on Stonegate.

  “Nearly there.”

  “I know,” she replied, through chattering teeth.

  He slid the key into the lock, turned it and swung the door open, pushing her through it.

  “I’ll get the fire going.”

  The post house was in complete darkness but Robert moved swiftly toward the fireplace and set to work immediately on a fire.

  “There are some blankets upstairs and a lamp on the bar.”

  Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and she spotted the lamp easily enough. Reaching into her pocket she extracted a lighter and lit the wick. Robert vaulted to his feet and spun round to face her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m just lighting the lamp. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Grace you can’t do that. You must never do that again. Do you hear me?”

  She nodded fervently but didn’t understand.

  “What have I done, Robert? I don’t understand.”

  “Whatever you just used to light that wick, doesn’t belong here, Grace. It looks like magic.”

  Her eyes widened as realization dawned.

  “I didn’t think, I’m... sorry.”

  He nodded and held out his hand.

  “I know, give me the fire tube, Grace.”

  “It’s called a lighter,” she said, placing it in his upturned palm.

  “Never mind what it’s called. You won’t use it again.”

  “So how am I supposed to get fires going then?”

  “The same manner as I do,” he said, handing her a flint.

  “You have got to be joking?”

  “I have never been more serious about anything. You will learn to use it.”

  “Can’t I just use the lighter in the house?”

  “No.”

  “That’s crazy. I have a bag full of them and no one is going to see me using it in the house.”

  “Grace, I said, no. Once... that is all it will take, and you will be on a stake with a fire at your feet.”

  She drew a deep breath and straightening her shoulders turned toward the stairs.

  “Right, well I guess I’ll go and get a blanket then. OK to use the lamp I lit with the lighter?”

  “Sarcasm isn’t an attractive quality, Grace. You know perfectly well that I won’t stop you using the lamp and you understand why I’ve taken the lighter off you. Stop sulking and behave like an adult.”

  A moment’s thought told her he was right, told her that she was being childish and that he was only looking after her. But she had slipped the lighter into the pocket of her dress hoping to impress him, hoping to bring something of use to his life. Instead he had slapped her down like a naughty child. Humiliation, more than anger, burned in her face as she climbed the last step to the landing.

  The rooms at the top of the stairs were familiar and her mood lightened a bit as she passed the door to what would be Harry’s room, nearly four hundred years from now. Not much would change with the building over the years. Plasterboard would be added to smooth out the walls, a carpet here and there, but essentially the space would remain the same.

  Still shivering, Grace found a pile of roughly woven blankets and wrapped one around her shoulders. It had been kind of Robert’s sister to lend her the gown but it w
as no more suited to the bitter cold and heavy snow than her jeans and sweatshirt had been. She was going to need a coat if she were to have any chance of surviving the winter.

  Back in the main room of the post house Grace warmed herself in front of the fire whilst Robert moved around the room lighting the oil lamps.

  “Why is there no one staying in the rooms upstairs?”

  “I closed up when I made the journey to Derbyshire two weeks ago.”

  “Are you expecting it to be busy today?”

  “Yes. Every room in the city has been filled.”

  “Do you just leave the place at night then and go home?”

  “No. I live here.”

  “Will you be living here tonight?”

  “Yes and so will you.”

  “Where do we sleep then?”

  He nodded to a door off the main building.

  “Through there. Patrons are upstairs.”

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  “No. I’m ready to open the doors now.”

  “Can I help once you open?”

  “What is it you would like to do?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever you need help with. What about the rooms upstairs? Could I clean them up a bit?”

  “If you wish, but Grace, you are not to use anything that doesn’t belong in this time. If you are going to work you do it in the way of my time, not yours.”

  “Fine,” she said, annoyed at him for making reference to the lighter again.

  “There is fresh bedding in the room in which you found the blanket. I would be obliged if you would prepare the beds, but leave the fires.”

  “Why?”

  “A waste of fuel and they are a hazard. Patrons pay for a bed, not warmth.”

  They both turned to the door as the sound of arriving trade gathered outside.

  “Shall I get the doors?”

  “No, I will do it.”

  “Right, well I’ll go upstairs and sort the rooms out then,” she said, leaving Robert to his customers.

  Grace pulled herself upright, placing her hands in the small of her back. Making beds the old fashioned way was hard work and it had been a long time since she had put anything like this amount of physical effort into household chores. Having swept and dusted the rooms and made up the beds, Grace was happy with the results. She would have liked to have put some flowers in the rooms. But on further reflection she dismissed the idea, thinking that Robert was unlikely to approve.

  Turning to leave, she gasped in surprise as she noticed a man lazily propped between the doorframes.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I thought the price was extortionate,” he said, giving her a long hard stare, “but I don’t so much mind the fee if there’s a little extra on offer.”

  “Mr. Hamilton’s prices are fair. There isn’t a room to be had anywhere in the city,” she said, defensively.

  “As I said, I don’t mind the fee... now,” he replied, sauntering toward her.

  Nervously she stepped backwards, positioning herself behind a chair.

  “I need to be going now,” she stammered.

  He drew closer, his eyes wild and challenging. He kicked the chair to the side and grabbed at her. She stepped back into the bed frame. Trapped between him and the bed, she froze.

  “Playing hard to get?” he said, making another grab for her gown and pulling her hard against him. She fought him wildly, but his grip was too firm. He took a handful of her hair in his free hand and yanked her head backwards.

  “I like them feisty,” he said, tugging harder on her hair.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she tried to lift her foot to kick him, but the weight and sheer volume of the skirts made injuring the man unlikely.

  “Please,” she cried, “let go of me.”

  “Not likely,” he said, hooking his right leg behind hers and pushing her backwards onto the bed.

  The full weight of his body fell on top of her. She screamed and lifted her hands to his face, clawing her nails down the length of his cheek. He slapped her hard across her face. For a moment the room went black, her head swam and her ear rang from the force of the blow.

  Suddenly she could breath and the weight of his body was gone. Grace scrambled up to see the man hovering in mid air, his face white with shock. Robert’s eyes blazed dangerously as he deposited the man on his feet. With one swift turn of his head, Robert smacked the edge of his forehead across the bridge of the man’s nose. The stranger dropped to the floor and within seconds was lying in a pool of his own blood. Robert grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him up. The man swayed unsteadily on his feet.

  “No, Robert, leave him,” Grace screamed. Scrambling off the bed she flung herself at Robert, begging him to stop.

  “You’ll kill him, Robert. Please, let him go?”

  Robert stared at the man for a brief moment before flinging him aside.

  “Get out!” he ordered, “Now!”

  The dazed man staggered through the door leaving a trail of blood behind him.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, looking across at Grace.

  She shook fiercely and tears streaked her cheeks but she nodded her head.

  “Stay here,” he said, turning to leave the room.

  Moments later he returned to find Grace curled up on the bed sobbing. He sat beside her, gently resting his hand on her shoulders.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered.

  She tried to reply, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that she didn’t blame him, but the words caught in her throat. She clung to him, sobbing like a child as he held her against him and soothed a lifetime’s pain.

  When finally the tears had stopped and her head pounded from the crying, she got to her feet.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her forehead.

  “Sorry for what? You haven’t done anything wrong.” He paused thoughtfully cupping his hands together. “Don’t ever apologize to me again,” he said, turning to leave. “We’re going home.”

  “What about your customers?”

  “There aren’t any. I’ve closed the doors.”

  “Because of me?”

  “No! For you.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, quietly.

  “This is no place for a lady.”

  “But this is your livelihood. You can’t just close the doors.”

  “I can and I have.”

  “How will you live, Robert?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  “Please, don’t make me carry the guilt and worry that you will have no money because of me.”

  “This is my decision alone to make and not your burden to carry. However, I can assure you, Grace, that if this house never opens again, I will not starve and nor will you.”

  It all became too much for her; the loss of her daughter, the pain of her loveless marriage, the belief that she was mentally ill, the bizarre notion that she had travelled through time, his kindness and love, this new and terrifying world. Tears welled in her eyes again, threatening to overspill. Her stomach lurched as if she was going to be sick and her hands shook uncontrollably. Confusion and pain surged inside her until the tears broke free and her body and mind felt numb to the world.

  ******

  CHAPTER 8

  He turned and walked toward the fireplace. She watched him as he squatted in front of it and lowered a log gently into the flames. He reached for a thick cloth on the hearth and lifted a pot from above the fire. Cautiously he poured boiling water from the pot into two mugs and returned the cast iron pot to the fire.

  “I’ve grown quite fond of your coffee,” he said, handing her a mug and moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Have you ever had coffee before?”

  “Yes, but it tasted nothing like this.”

  “What does it taste like?”

  “Bitter.”

  She blew gently across the rim of the mug. Steam circled off the liquid and threaded up into the cool air of the r
oom.

  “Robert in my time, your post house is owned by one of your brother’s descendents.”

  He clasped his hands and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I have seen him.”

  “I know and he has seen you. His name is Harry.”

  “Harry?” he smiled broadly, “Well I know which brother he’s from.”

  She cocked her head quizzically. “You do?”

  “Yes, I do. It’ll be Harry.”

  Grace smiled and a gentle laugh escaped her throat. “I didn’t think to ask your brother’s names.”

  “No reason why you should.”

  “So your sister is Sarah and your brother is Harry. But you have another brother?”

  “I do, George.”

  “George?” Grace gasped wondering if it could be possible.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “In my time a George owns this house,” Grace said with a grin.

  They sat in a comfortable silence, sipping the warm drink. She closed her eyes and savored its flavor, wondering ruefully what life was going to be like without her jar of instant coffee. It seemed a bizarre thing to muse over and she sighed at her apparent shallowness. A gust of wind howled down the narrow street between the Minster and the house disturbing their calm. Robert moved toward the fire and added another log of wood to the glowing embers.

  “Will I meet your family?”

  “When you feel ready.”

  “What if they don’t like me?”

  She sounded truly anxious. He hadn’t anticipated her reaction and it threw him momentarily.

  “You care what my family thinks?”

  “Of course I care. They’re your family.”

  He weighed her words, considering carefully his own feelings on the subject. Would it matter to him if his family didn’t accept her? Yes, he concluded, it would matter, but it mattered more what she thought of them.

  He took a deep breath, contemplating the complexities that had become his life. A loyal servant to the king, he had fought as a Cavalier in the civil war, travelled the continent with his master and returned with the restoration. But in all that time he had never considered marriage.

  Of course there had been women. Life with the king, even in exile, had included an almost constant trail of female characters of loose morals and flighty manners. They had come and gone with the movements of the entourage and never had one remained more than briefly in his memory.