Intertwine (30 page)

Stuffing everything back into her purse, she crept to the door, peeked out until the coast was clear, and then silently made her way up to her bedroom, locking the door behind her.

Emme dumped out her purse, spreading its contents across her bed.

Tablet and phone, currently plugged into her military-grade solar charger. Wallet and passport. Makeup and travel toiletries. The first aid kit Marc had given her two years ago for Christmas. Three MRE’s (beef stew, chili macaroni and bbq chicken) and an MRE warmer. Her intense multi-tool. Notepad and three pens. Her favorite pink ear buds. Sunscreen and sunglasses. Two Cadbury chocolate bars and cinnamon gum.

Gum. She smiled and popped a piece in her mouth, relishing the strong punch of flavor, and then dabbed on some lip gloss. Just for good measure.

She was feeling more herself already.

Now to sort through her current situation. The more she thought about it, there really were only two options.

Option One
. She was on a weird reality TV show, something like Jane Austen meets
Jersey Shore
. And if so, how did it work? What about the the legal ramifications of abducting someone, giving them amnesia and then airing it all on prime time television? It seemed problematic. And why choose her? Emme paused, not sure whether to be flattered or appalled.

Then there was
Option Two
.

She really was in 1812, somehow having been transported two hundred years into the past.

Both options were utterly ridiculous.

Emme sighed, realizing there probably was an
Option Three
.

She could be stark raving mad. But she had never heard voices before. And she had a strong personal and family history of sound mental stability. So it seemed unlikely.

Perhaps.

Emme figured her cell phone would be a good place to start. If she had area or a GPS signal, she was still in 2012. And if she were in 2012, well, then she would call Marc.

Followed by the police and a good lawyer.

Foot tapping, Emme waited for her phone to have enough juice to power on. The entire time, she diligently tried not to think about James.

About his scrumptious wide smile and delicious soft lips. His infectious laughter and kind eyes. The way he looked at her as if she were the beginning and end of his world.

Was he just an actor? Had everything been a complete lie? An act?

If so, he was good. Very good. Oscar worthy.

Emme didn’t know what to believe; she would go crazy thinking about it. Had they all been laughing at her all along? Was there a green room somewhere where everyone gathered and snickered about her?

It was a humiliating thought.

Restless, Emme crawled off the bed and began a more careful inspection of her room, looking along the walls and baseboards for any sign of outlets or electricity.

Nothing. It all was perfectly 1812 period.

She walked over to the window and opened it. Leaning out, she tried to see any contrails in the blue sky. Tried to hear something beyond the chirping of birds and the distant bleating of sheep, the gardeners’ murmuring voices.

Nothing. No sound of cars or a motorway. No rumble of a tractor.

A quiet
bing
intruded on her thoughts and Emme jumped. At last!

Turning back to her bed, she grabbed her phone and walked over to the window, staring as it hunted for cell reception.

Searching. . . . Searching. . .
. And then, . . .
No Service
.

With a deep breath, she switched to maps and GPS. Masking satellite reception would be harder. After a few minutes, she got a satellite interference message:
Uh-oh. Sorry, there is no GPS reception in this location. Make sure you are outdoors.

Emme nodded. Fine. She could do that.

Gathering everything into her purse, she slipped on her halfboots and a pelisse. She paused while tying on a straw bonnet, shaking her head over the ludicrousness of it all.

As soon as she got this sorted out, Emme vowed to wear jeans and a t-shirt for a month straight. Oh, and underwear. Definitely underwear. Not to mention soaking in a hot, steamy shower.

Clutching her purse, she slipped out of her room and furtively made her way down the front stairs. She had no desire to see anyone.

She heard the rumble of James and Linwood in the drawing room as she walked quietly across the great hall. Unbidden their words reached her.

“I swear to you Knight, I will have her brought up on assault.”

“Damn you, Linwood, I saw the whole exchange. Again, how dare you offer
carte blanche
to a respectable lady who is a guest in my house! It’s so utterly despicable, I can scarcely get my head around—”

“Respectable? Might I point out again, she attacked me.”

“Attacked you? I swear sometimes you are dicked in the nob, Timothy. It was self-defense! You forget, I saw you grab her—”

“Bah! Really, Knight, now you are just—”

“—and if you continue to press this point, I will have no problem whatsoever in describing the scene—in exquisite detail I might add—to the entire county!”

James actually sounded angry. Was he still acting out a part? And Linwood too? And if so, they were good.

Slipping out the front door, she saw a stable boy walking Linwood’s horse in circles on the front drive. If this were a reality TV show, they certainly were thorough.

Refusing eye contact with anyone, Emme headed onto the terrace and then into the walled garden. Once on a secluded bench, she dug her phone out and tried again.

No service. No GPS reception.

That was odd. She stood up and looked at the house she had just left, standing beyond the garden wall. Its red brick Tudor walls covered in wisteria, mullioned windows reflecting the blue sky.

She realized she had been here before. In this garden. But it had been different.

Turning back to her phone, she dug into her photos, finding what she was looking for. Images she had taken the day she visited Haldon Manor. She stopped on one in particular. A view from the garden back toward the house.

Lifting her phone, she compared her current view with that of the photo. The photo showed the same medieval wall, but rising beyond it was a different building. Not the Tudor one she currently saw, but a newer one, built in a later Victorian Gothic style.

Emme swallowed convulsively. Tried to catch her breath. She remembered that day, visiting this place, chatting with the staff, drinking tea leisurely in the dining room, exploring this garden and the gothic cloister. The old house had burned down, they had said. Sometime in the 1820s? She couldn’t remember exactly, but it had been after 1812.

Shivering despite the heated summer air, Emme needed to think. To see more. Tucking everything away again, she made her way out of the garden, across the lawn, past the lake. All the while, not finding cell phone signal, no sound or sign of modern civilization. No matter how far she walked, no hum of a car. No distant rumble of machinery. Just peaceful quiet.

She thought of Marfield. The town looked similar and yet different. Cobbled streets instead of pavement. Some buildings the same. Others gone. She walked for hours. Trying to locate the motorway that should be here, just outside town, but finding only fields. Finally, Emme was so hopelessly turned around, she didn’t know what to think anymore.

Being summer, the day stretched long and bright. She stopped at one point to put on some sunscreen, as she didn’t trust the brim of her bonnet to keep her face from burning.

It was impossible to comprehend how, but perhaps, just perhaps, she really was in 1812.

She could find no sign of modern Britain.

And then she remembered the night sky. So impossibly black and dotted with more stars than she could ever remember seeing. In modern Britain, light pollution was ever present, even in Herefordshire.

But here, the night sky was different. The heavens inky-black from horizon to horizon, while the stars shown clearly, glittering and eternal. A dense forest of twinkling lights.

Only a pre-modern sky could be so dark and yet so bright.

An 1812 sky.

But if she was in 1812, how had she gotten here?

Looking around, she realized her steps had unthinkingly turned toward the meadow and the ancient oak. Stopping at the edge of the meadow, she noted the lowering sun. Work on the new house had wrapped up for the day.

The remains of the enormous tree were nearly entirely gone, the votive offerings with them. Only the large trunk remained. It appeared they were taking it apart in pieces, preparing to build the new dower house.

A dower house for Haldon Manor. Emme gasped as she remembered.

Duir Cottage.

The ancient tree’s secret—a gateway. The oak must be the key.

Quickly she crossed the meadow, walking toward the huge split trunk. As she neared it, she again felt the same heaviness in the air, the tingly hum of electricity. She paused at the cleft and peered down into the hollow trunk. Into the black, yawning cavern. She could feel it pull her. Willing her to jump in.

Blinking, she pulled back. Was this the portal home? How did it work?

And was she ready to leave?

Swallowing in the slanting light, Emme sank against the trunk, tucking her knees into her chest. She wasn’t one to put off a problem, but there were no travel pamphlets on what to do when you discover yourself to be in a different country. On a different continent.

In a different century.

This traveling disaster was truly spectacular. Eclipsing all others.

Amnesia plus time travel? That had to be some sort of disaster magnet record. If anyone kept track of such things.

Thoughts kept crowding in. The locket. That crazy, enigmatic locket. It probably was James in the portrait. She nodded her head in amazement. The coincidence was too much. It had to be him. The entire thing created for her after all.

She let the wonder of it envelop her, hugging the pleasure of James’ love tight against her heart.

Throughout all time. Heart of my soul.

The words echoed in her heart. Deep and profound.

Then she paused, frowning. Why the F? She puzzled for a moment over it and then shook her head.

Knowing James, it probably stood for something absurd, like ‘your Fantasy.’ Emme snorted. That seemed a likely possibility. The man was utterly shameless.

She pulled out her phone, happy to see it almost fully charged, and then switched it to airplane mode to preserve her battery life.

Emme noticed an unread email. Something from the night she had left. Opening up her email client, she found a message from Marc.

She brushed away the tears as she read:

Emme choked, covering her mouth to stifle her sobs, feeling the powerful pain of his loss.

Phone in one hand and purse in the other, she wrapped her arms around herself, like a talisman. Getting her memory back was supposed to make everything simpler. Easier. Instead everything felt infinitely more complicated.

She couldn’t remain here, in 1812. Emme didn’t think she could live in a world where women were still viewed as property. Where a woman’s only options were marriage or prostitution, as she had already seen firsthand. She couldn’t bring a child into a world where the threat of disease constantly loomed.

Not to mention living in a time without iTunes, indoor plumbing and Xanax. She shuddered at the thought.

But could she live in a world without James?

Exhausted, Emme crept back into her bedroom, the last rays of sun kissing the horizon. She was too tired to see anyone—to smile and pretend nothing had changed.

She felt utterly drained. Nearly lifeless and void. Tomorrow she would think things through. Make a list and a plan.

Perhaps she would even consider telling James. But would he believe her?

James was ready to accept her as a courtesan—which really was incredible for a man of his time—but would he be willing to accept a 21st century American woman who had been raised to be bold and strong? A woman who would see him as a partner and not a protector?

It seemed too much of a stretch, perhaps even for James. Assuming he didn’t just commit her to an asylum.

Fanny was waiting, asking where she had been, stating everyone had been a little worried about her. Emme murmured a few noncommittal replies and pled a headache, asking for a dinner tray to be sent up.