02 Blue Murder (32 page)

Kate sat up. “Tony. You’d really do that?
Give up your title to Mr. Blood Sport?”

“
The instant my barrister
finishes drawing up the papers, if it means you’ll wear my ring and
be my wife. The title is nothing to me. You’re the only thing I
want in this world.” Cupping Kate’s face in both hands, Hetheridge
kissed her, slow and gentle. “Well? What do you say?”

Kate made a choked sound. “Bugger that.”

“
I beg your
pardon?”

“
Bugger you giving up your
title to some fox-murderer named Roderick. If you can accept me as
Baroness Hetheridge, I sure as hell can.” Kate kissed him on the
mouth, then pulled back, staring hard into his eyes. “I mean … I
still have questions. Will the Met allow us to work together after
we’re married? Are you sure you can handle Henry and Ritchie
twenty-four/seven? What about …”

“
All of that is for the
future,” Hetheridge said, pulling her back into his warm embrace.
“For now, there’s only you and I.”

THE END

Hetheridge and Kate tie the knot. Bhar tries
to juggle three females -- two girlfriends and his mother, Sharada.
And Sir Duncan Godington returns in
Lord
& Lady Hetheridge #3: Something Blue.
Available January of 2013.

Biography

Emma Jameson is a pseudonym
for Stephanie Abbott, a writer of fantasy adventures. Her first
book, a reincarnation romance called PAST LIVES #1: RACHEL is now
available.

As Emma Jameson, Stephanie writes cozy
mysteries like ICE BLUE and BLUE MURDER. As S.A. Reid she writes
adult romances like SOMETHING DIFFERENT, PROTECTION, and SOULLESS
(coming August 2012).

An excerpt from Past Lives #1 Rachel by Stephanie
Abbott

Chapter One

At the moment of impact, I wasn’t surprised
when a life flashed before my eyes. I just expected the life to be
my own.

The silver Porsche must
have been doing eighty when it hit black ice. I couldn’t swerve,
couldn’t get out of the way. There was nowhere to go as the Porsche
whipped around, skidding toward my little car. Headlights rushed
toward me, flooding my windshield, obliterating the night. And then
I was someplace else. A home that once belonged to me. A place I’d
loved, the only safe refuge in an increasingly dangerous world. I
recognized my surroundings – Belgrave Square, London. But not
modern London, with its funky cars, punk rockers, and Virgin Mobile
billboards. No, this was Victorian London. Cobblestone streets,
iron fences, gaslights glowing through thick yellow fog. And I was
myself again, my former self
…

The memory stream jerked, flickering like an
old zoetrope camera. Images flew by, pulling me deeper. Past the
big oak tree shedding its leaves … past the front step whitened by
a maid each morning … past the red-lacquered door with lanterns
glowing on either side … Beyond it all – wallpapered foyer, brass
spittoons, coat rack, maid and butler – I saw myself.

I was seated in the drawing room, two men
who meant more to me than anything in the world on either side.
Dominic Belden – black eyes, black hair, handsome as a Greek
statue. I trusted him with all my heart, yet didn’t fully love him.
And Theodore Harrington – tall and broad-shouldered, mouth curving
sardonically, pale eyes alight. I loved him with all my soul, yet
couldn’t fully trust him. Dominic and Ted, Ted and Dominic …

Was it right, how I remembered my feelings
for those two? Or did I have it reversed?

I sat on a velvet divan, a proper lady in
the autumn of 1870: red hair pinned up, bosom covered in lace,
whalebone corset so tight a three-minute sprint would have sent me
fainting. During the Order’s final days, even the most powerful
among us acted our proper parts in society. But behind closed doors
the Order ruled the Parliament and prime minister, steering the
ship even as Britain ruled the world. I was a hereditary member of
the Order – Cassandra Fullbright Masters, scion of two telepathic
families that could trace their bloodlines back to William the
Conqueror. Dominic, also a telepath, was nearly my equal in raw
power; Ted, a telekinetic, was the last Master the world had ever
seen. In October 1870 we had been young, arrogant, convinced of our
own immortality. What had gone wrong? How had we lost our lives
almost before they’d begun?

* * *

“
Rachel!”

I tried to answer, but only coughed. My
forehead throbbed. Everything smelled like hot plastic and baby
powder.

“
Rachel!”

My cousin Brannon sounded scared to death.
Strange … out of the two of us, she was usually the calmer one
…

“
Rachel!” Hands shook me. My
head seemed to rotate in one direction while my stomach twisted in
the other. I wasn’t quite sure who I was or where, but I knew one
thing. If Brannon kept shaking me like that, I’d vomit.

STOP!

Instantly her hands let go as if I’d thrown
a psi-bolt. But could I still do that? It had been so long since my
mind had dared revisit those memories, the power that was my
birthright …

“
R-rachel,” Brannon’s voice
shook. “What did you do?”

With a supreme effort I opened my eyes. For
a moment I had no idea what I was seeing. My brain fought to impose
order on a conglomeration of weird shapes, colors and smears; it
was like trying to turn an abstract painting into a seascape. But
suddenly the part of me called Rachel, the part that belonged to
this place and time, recognized Brannon and interpreted our
surroundings. That cracked, half-missing glass screen was called a
windshield. The strap cutting across my shoulder and abdomen was a
seatbelt. The strange, pillowlike mass cushioning me was an airbag.
And the red splotch on the airbag was my blood.

“
Rachel?” Brannon repeated.
Her black hair was flattened where she’d collided with her own
airbag. White powder from it coated her dress and hair, even
sticking to her magenta lipstick. Part of me, the part that
belonged to 1870, was shocked by the amount of cleavage she
displayed, not to mention her unbound hair, black fingernail polish
and painted face.

“
My name is Cassandra.” The
tone of my voice was right, but the vowels came out wrong. I didn’t
sound like a West Londoner. I sounded like a braying Yankee tourist
pointing out a landmark in Trafalgar Square.

“
Cassandra Fullbright
Masters,” I tried again, still unable to pronounce the words
correctly. My forehead throbbed as a trickle of bright red rolled
past one eye. The airbag, less than half-deflated, was still inches
from my face. Struggling against it until it flattened somewhat, I
freed my right hand and reached up toward my wound. “And you’re
Lucy Kessler.”

“
No, I’m Brannon Murray.”
She grabbed my hand before I made contact with my forehead. “Don’t
mess with that. A piece of glass is sticking out. Let me try and
work it free.” She reached toward me. Next came sharp pain, then a
bigger rush of wetness as she drew away a wedge of jagged glass.
Dropping it on the dashboard, Brannon wriggled out of her black
lace shrug, wadded up the fabric and pressed it to my wound. The
pressure was uncomfortable, but I didn’t pull away. The other me,
Rachel, trusted Brannon. I still wasn’t sure what manner of women
we were, riding together in this strange carriage without a man or
even a servant to chaperone us. But I knew Brannon would never
deliberately hurt me.

“
Guess you’re really shook
up, huh?”

I forced a nod. The voice of Brannon, this
strange version of my dearest friend Lucy, wasn’t half as odd as
the other voice inside me, still naming things, defining them. The
car before us was a Porsche. Its headlights were out and its front
end was crumpled. The impact had been extreme, nearly bonding our
two horseless carriages into a single piece of twisted metal.

“
Wonder if anybody’s alive
in there.” Brannon eyed the Porsche’s heavily tinted windows.
Keeping the cloth pressed to my forehead, she craned her neck,
peering through the shattered windshield and saying things the
Rachel part of me tried to decipher.

“
We’re not the only ones who
crashed. A semi jackknifed up ahead. That’s why the Porsche lost
control. A truck went through the guardrail and there’s a huge
pileup in the left lane. I hear sirens, but it might be awhile
before the EMTs get to us.” Brannon drew in her breath, trying to
be brave. “Rach. Tell me you remember your last name. Your real
last name.”

I saw the fear in my
cousin’s eyes. Felt it, too. This close to Brannon, her emotions
surged just beneath her skin like
a pulse
beat in her throat. Her thoughts broadcast clearly:

MacReady … MacReady … say it, Rachel … say
it…

A fist pounded against my driver’s side
window. With a cry of surprise I looked into a familiar face –
straight nose, long-lashed black eyes and curly black hair.

“
Dominic!” Unlatching the
seatbelt, I tried to open my door. But it was crushed inward and
refused to budge.

“
Rachel, no! Stay still!”
Brannon’s shrug was now sopping with blood, but my forehead kept
bleeding. Tossing the cloth away, Brannon cast about for something
else, then pressed the sleeve of her party dress against my wound.
“Just be still!”

We heard male voices outside the car,
muffled by oncoming sirens. Had it really been Dominic I’d seen?
But he belonged to 1870. How could he be here now? For that matter
– how could I?

Brannon’s door opened. This time it wasn’t
Dominic I saw but another guy – blond, blue-eyed, wearing a ripped
Army surplus jacket. “Hey. You two all right?”

“
What do you think?” Brannon
blurted, pointing at me. “She needs a doctor!”

“
Calm down. We can’t get her
door open. But if you’ll come out, maybe I can reach in and pull
your friend free.”

Only as he said it did I realize the
now-deflated airbag wasn’t the only thing around my legs. My half
of the dashboard had collapsed, pinning my legs in place.

“
I don’t know if it’s safe
to move her.” Brannon peeled her red-stained sleeve away from my
forehead. It hurt, making me gasp. “See? She’s still oozing blood
…”

“
Yeah, but the sooner we get
her out of the car, the sooner we can stick her in an ambulance,”
the man said. His hair was longish – past his collar – and his
voice was friendly.

“
It’s okay, Bran,” I used
her nickname instinctively. “Let him try.”

Still uncertain, Brannon obeyed. The moment
she exited the car she almost fell, maybe because of slick asphalt,
maybe as an after-effect of the crash. The man caught her,
steadying her with a grin. As he helped Brannon to a safe place
beside the guardrail, I caught sight of Dominic again. He was
pacing around the silver Porsche, trying to peer through the
dark-tinted windows. Still no signs of life. Was the driver
unconscious? Dead?

Sliding into the passenger seat, the blond
man gave me a reassuring grin. “Hey. I’m Josh.”

“
Josh Strickland. I know.”
I’d plucked his name right out of his mind, just as I’d heard
“MacReady” in Brannon’s thoughts.

“
Yeah. Well. Guess you know
my dad or something. Anyway, I don’t want to hurt you, so I’ll
start gentle. Get a feel for how tightly you’re wedged
in.”

He put his hands on my shoulders and pulled.
My torso twisted but my lower body didn’t budge.

“
Okay. Gonna try for real
this time. Yell if it hurts.”

I gasped, not because of my legs, but
because of the wrenching pressure on my shoulders. It felt like
Josh was on the verge of dislocating them, while my legs remained
completely pinned, not moving an inch.

“
Damn,” Josh panted,
releasing me. “Sorry. Guess we’ll have to wait for the pros to turn
up with the Jaws of Life. Looks like they’ll need them for the dude
in the Porsche, too.” Josh pointed to Dominic, leaning over the
Porsche’s crumpled front end and pounding on the
windshield.

“
Hey! Anyone alive in
there?”

The Porsche shuddered, metal groaning as it
broke away from the wreckage of my Mazda. Dominic jumped out of the
way, colliding with Brannon by the guardrail as the Porsche
wrenched itself backward on four blown tires. Both doors exploded
off and the windshield shot skyward, sailing over Dominic and
Brannon’s heads to disappear within I-75’s dark tree line.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. I felt like I
couldn’t breathe, like I might never breathe again. I knew who was
in that car. Even in the age of barouches and brougham carriages,
he’d pushed his team too hard, taken corners too fast …

“
The Porsche is about to
blow! Get your head down!” Josh did his best to shield me with his
own body. Suddenly his blue eyes were very familiar.

“
Christopher?”

“
Huh?”

My little Mazda shook again, trembling from
frame to roof. The bent handle on my driver’s side door clicked
weakly – once, twice. Then my crushed door burst off its hinges
even as the dashboard peeled itself away from my lower half. It had
been so long since I’d felt the buzz of telekinesis against my
flesh – a hot, crawling, alien sensation – I was overwhelmed. Josh,
not understanding at all, clung to me.

“
I don’t understand how—”
Releasing me as the telekinetic field died away, Josh stared at my
legs, uninjured and free. “Wait, where are you—”