Belmary House Book Two (16 page)

Wishing for things that wouldn’t exist for hundreds of years was a waste of energy, and missing them only made her sad. Just as thinking of her family made her sad, so she pushed them aside. If she could get back, she’d miss Ashford more than she could stand, if she stayed, she’d have to accept giving up her mom and grandmother, Dexter and her aunt and uncle, her friends. Either way, it was better to stay in the present she was currently in, the only time she had any control over.

A young boy came out to light the lamp in front of the shop, so she quickly stood, realizing it was dusk. She gathered her packages, missing Nora while simultaneously feeling bad about becoming dependent on her so quickly. No one was waiting to carry her bags for her in her own time.

She looked forward to the warm fire and hopefully tasty dinner at the inn, and fervently wished Ashford would be back sooner than he thought. She was a pro at smashing bugs now, they hardly phased her unless they were bigger than her palm, and she’d even chased a rat out of one room without screaming too loudly, but she liked it better when he was around.

There was a dresser in her room, she could push that in front of the door if she got the heebie jeebies. While lost in her thoughts on how to murder-proof her room, she realized she’d gone the wrong way at the fork, and with a groan, turned around, her hats seeming to weigh eighty pounds by now. The inn was still several blocks away and she paused to get a better grip on the band boxes.

Leaning over and sticking out her foot so the pretty fabric boxes wouldn’t touch the dusty walkway, she wrestled the bigger one under her arm and held the other one by its strap. It knocked uncomfortably into her thigh, but she figured that was the price she had to pay for her greed. The inn was back in her sights, its light glowing welcomingly above the rustic wooden sign.

As she crossed the last alley, she paused one more time to hoist up the big box, startled into near terror when a hand clamped over her mouth and a vice-like arm wrapped around her shoulders, dragging her backward into the alley.

Ashford wasn’t completely certain how he felt as he rode away from Castle Glen. Angry, yes, that was a given. Disappointed, distressed, also easy to pinpoint. There was something else though, that he couldn’t figure out, that felt uncomfortably like rejection.

It hadn’t taken any effort at all to convince them he was a descendent of the woman who first created the portals. It seemed they were well acquainted with their ancestor’s story and doggedly continued to hold a grudge on her behalf. They refused to help him fix the problem with his house, which he asked about first, even though he’d promised Matilda he’d make Kostya the priority.

The Glens found it difficult to believe his English family had managed to keep the house as long as they had, fully expecting the curse to have swallowed them all long before the twenty-first century.

No matter how he tried to convince them he was half Scottish by blood and more so in his heart, even name-dropping his mother’s people, who’d been quite a respectable clan in their day, they didn’t budge. If the portal in his house was broken, too bad for him. He could use the one in the village with their blessings, or give up traversing time. From what he could make out, not many of the Glens, if any at all in this generation, were traveling, either by portal or spell. They seemed wary and even disdainful of it.

Before they could kick him out, he brought up the Povests, and the fire of hatred in their eyes was enough to make him hopeful for a bit. They poured him some ale and gave him cold mutton while they traded stories of that evil family’s perfidy.

They too had fallen victim to unfair trades and forced marriages, and when Ashford finally described the curse Kostya was under,  and to what measures their torment had driven his sister, he was positive they would sign on to help bring them down once and for all when he asked.

However, they’d only laughed so hard they’d spit out their ale, guffawing until tears flowed from their eyes. The answer was a resounding no, and then they really had kicked him out, warning him to go back to his own property and keep his head down. His sister was gone, and so was his brother-in-law, and he would have to learn to live with it if he wanted to continue to live at all. As far as the Glens were concerned there was no fighting the Povests.

It was full night and he kicked his horse to go faster, wanting only to be with Matilda and let her comforting touch soothe away the disheartening meeting with a part of his family that clearly did not consider him one of their own. He hated having to tell her they were back at square one, hated even more that he had to agree with the Glens.

He had to keep Matilda safe, now that there seemed to be no way to get her back home. He knew she’d want to keep searching for more witches who might help Kostya, but he worried that might wave a red flag for his old nemesis Solomon Wodge, someone else he didn’t want anywhere near Matilda. He was glad to finally see the lights of the village, for he was tired of thinking in circles, always ending up in the middle of the same problems.

He was glad to give his horse to the lad slouching around outside the barn, gladder still to make his way up the stairs to Matilda, hoping she hadn’t been too upset at staying in the entire day.

When she wasn’t in the room, he got a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, but pushed it down, telling himself it wasn’t overly late. He’d hurried straight to the room without checking the sitting room or dining hall. She probably wanted to be around other people, and did so love to snack.

The two ladies who occupied the sitting room hadn’t seen her, having only checked in an hour or so earlier. The dining hall still had plenty of people eating and drinking, but none of them were Matilda. No longer able to push away his fears, he found the innkeeper, who said he thought he saw her leave for a stroll.

“When?” Ashford demanded.

He could believe Matilda would leave against his wishes, that wasn’t very surprising. Infuriating, but not surprising. He didn’t think she would go out alone at night, however. She was reckless sometimes but not an idiot.

“Oh, it was after the dinner hour, I think. Maybe three o’clock?”

Ashford’s outward calm fading fast, he ran from the inn, forcing himself to stand and look in all directions, trying to decide which way she might have gone. It was too dark to see much, and he raced back inside.

“What’s around here? What kind of shops are close by?” he asked, trying not to sound the way he felt, which was half crazed with fear. Where was she? If she’d gone for a stroll so many hours ago, why wasn’t she back by now?

“Well, there’s the apothecary, the pub, there’s the hatmaker and notions shop—”

“That’s the one I want. Which way is the hatmaker?”

The innkeeper walked with him and pointed down the street, a mere five or six blocks away. Forgetting to thank the man, Ashford took off running. Everything he passed save the pub was closed up for the night, and when he made it to the hatmaker’s it was no different. He looked up to see a light on, and praying the proprietor lived above the shop, pounded on the door and bellowed for someone to come out.

Let her have befriended the hatmaker, he prayed. Let her be up there having tea and be irritated at him for acting like a fool.

A woman stuck her head out of the window above him, waving her arms for him to shut up.

“What in blazes?” she called down. “Is there a fire?”

“Did a young lady with an odd accent come into your shop today? This high, with brown hair, probably wearing a blue gown?” He thought that’s what she’d been wearing when he left. For some reason not being able to remember for certain gave him a crushing pain in his chest.

“Aye, she bought two bonnets. If ye’re that angry about it, come in the morning, but I dinna guarantee ye a refund.” She started to close the window, but Ashford begged her to tell him when she left. “Ah, I canna recall, but I closed up at six and it was well before then.”

He bowed and took off for the pub, knowing in his bones Matilda would have never gone in there alone. Not knowing where she had gone, if she’d got lost or been abducted, he didn’t know what best to do. A dark rage boiled up in him and he turned and hit the brick wall of the pub, the pain of it helping to settle his nerves.

Clutching his hand, he went back to the inn to wait. If she returned on her own, or if someone sent a message, he’d need to be there. The thought of her being lost, cold, frightened, or worse, hurt in any way, made him knock over the chair in their room. He sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands, trying to calm down.

If Wodge had caught up with him at last, he wouldn’t harm her, not right away, anyway. He’d want to use her to get to him first. He prayed she wouldn’t try to be her heroic self, unaware of what Wodge was capable of. He hadn’t wanted to frighten her with too many stories, foolishly thinking he could protect her, and what had he done? Left her alone, not only in the same town as a portal, but in the same building.

It was agony to keep from running through the village yelling her name, beating down every door until he found her. He curled up on the floor, gathering all his strength for when he’d have to face whatever happened. If it was Wodge, he’d make him pay for taking her.

Ashford closed his eyes, every fiber of his being alert and waiting. He’d get her back, he had to.

Tilly went boneless, hoping her abductor would think she’d fainted. He loosened his stranglehold across her chest, and swearing, began to ease her to the ground. As soon as he moved slightly backwards, she jerked away from him, elbowing him hard in the ribs and whirling around to face him. His surprised look told her he wasn’t practiced at stealing women from the street, so her resolve hardened and she punched him before he had a second to recover and realize he was bigger than her. As she watched her hat boxes roll away into the filthy alley, she punched him again, and her hand came back bloody this time.

He said something she couldn’t make out through the hands he held to his injured face, and came toward her.

“I’m from—”

She raced around and plowed into him from behind, knocking the wind out of him and driving him toward the wall. She hooked her foot around his ankle, hissing with triumph as she felt him go down. If she could get his face planted in the dirt, she felt confident she could gain control of the situation. His knees hit the ground and she jumped on him, forcing him flat with all her weight, plain angry now and racing with adrenaline.

“Who are you?” she demanded, half hoping no one would hear them and come to her aid so she could get answers.

She dug her knees into his back, realizing he’d been trying to say something to her all along, but she was too worked up to have registered what it was. Something about where he was from.

“Tell me who you are,” she said again, pulling his head up by his hair and thumping his face back down into the dirt.

“Oprah,” he muffled, spitting out a gob of mud and trying to turn his face to the side. “Neil Armstrong, oh, God, Princess Di— listen to me, I’m not trying to harm you.”

She slammed his head again, as dragging her into a dark alley constituted harm in her book, and he was clearly none of those people. Then she froze with her fingers knotted in his hair, a chill running through her at the names he’d choked out. How did he know any of those names? Without thinking, she scrambled off his back.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked.

He rolled over and pulled himself up to lean against the wall opposite her, a relatively safe distance away. He was winded, and tried to wipe the dirt from his face while catching his breath.

“I tried to tell you, I’m from your time. I was born in 1960. I’ve been all over.”

She scrambled back further and stood up, ready to run, but dying to hear more. “What’s your name,” she asked suspiciously. “How do you travel?”

He waved his hand for her to sit back down and she shook her head, taking another step back from him.

“I apologize for the way I introduced myself, that was cowardly of me.”

She snorted and looked down at him with what she hoped oozed malice in case he was just getting his breath enough to try and overtake her again. The more she looked him over, though, the less dangerous he seemed. As she thought about it, even though he was quite a bit older than her, he looked hearty enough to have put up a better fight than he did. Really, he’d pretty much dropped and taken her beating. Oh dear, she couldn’t start feeling bad for this man, but he looked completely pathetic, covered in dirt and his eyes pleading.

“I’m afraid if I tell you who I am, you’ll run, and I really do need to speak with you. Look, I’ll move further away.” He held open his jacket and moved from side to side. “I don’t have a weapon.”

Something else she suddenly realized he didn’t have was an accent. “Where are you from?”

He smiled, and his long, slightly lined face looking less menacing by the moment. He was close to her grandmother’s age, but still plenty fit, and she couldn’t relax her guard.

“America, same as you. Detroit. But I haven’t been back in ages.”

“You haven’t been back to America, or the future, in ages?” she asked, getting confused and edging back another step.

“America. I was actually just in your time, round about when you left. That’s how I learned you were with Lord Ashford. It took me a while to find you here, though. I have to ask a favor, if you’ll be so kind.”