Clandestine (28 page)

“You’re serious, aren’t you? You actually do hear voices?”

“Well, it’s not like I’m schizophrenic or anything. I think I just subconsciously divide thoughts into good, bad and neutral. So when it came time to start writing the ‘Review of the Preview’ column for FauxPause, it was simple to have it be a conversation between my ego, id and superego—”

“Do you ever
think
about the people you diss on? How your words affect their careers?” Marc shook his head and then turned toward her.

Kit paused, taking in a deep breath.
Did
she think about them?

Probably not as much as you should,
Virtuous Angel pointed out.

“No man—or woman in this case—is an island.” Marc gestured. “Everything you do . . . it’s like making waves in an ocean. You may not mean to swamp someone else’s boat, but it doesn’t excuse your responsibility either. ”

He paused, but he wasn’t done. “It’s easy to stand ringside and heckle those of us who show up day after day, slogging through our work and dreams. But at least have the courage to hop in the ring yourself from time to time. Own your actions.”

Kit bit back a hefty sigh. “First of all, I
do
try to own my actions. Second, I would hop in the ring with you, but I understand it’s crocodile-infested so—”

Marc gave a sharp bark of laughter. Not the amused kind.

“Wow. You are sooooo not in a place to go throwing jokes like that around,” he said.

“Too soon, huh?”

“Way too soon.”

“Good to know.” Kit straightened her cloak. “This is not funny yet.”

“Nope.”

“Will you ever find it funny?”

Marc fixed her with a long look, eyes disbelieving. Every line of his body communicating outrage and indignation.

Not humorous. Duly noted.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?” He shook his head, probably in disgust. “What
is
funny about this?”

It was a rhetorical question. Kit knew better than to answer it.

They crossed a small stone bridge to see a town a short distance ahead. The white-washed wattle and daub walls gleamed between dark cross timbers.

“Look, I know I’m a B-list actor—or D-list wannabe, as you so unkindly branded me—”

Kit flinched again. “Marc, I
am
really sorry—”

He held up a staying hand. “I have a plan for my life. Or, rather,
had
a plan before your little stunt. Millions of people the world over will only ever know me as ‘that
Croc-nami
guy.’ Who knows where my career will go after this? Do you even care?”

“Marc, of course, I care. You are so much more than just ‘that
Croc-nami
guy’—”

“I mean, you can’t write some insanely viral post and expect everything to be butterflies and roses for the target of your vitriol—”

“Whoa, wait. What? The post went viral?” Kit’s eyes widened, his words sinking in.

“When I left, it had more hits than anything else you had ever written . . . and that’s saying quite a bit.”

“Wow, really?! I had no idea. That’s amazing.” And then she saw his eyes nearly bugging out of his head and realized he might not see the situation in
quite
the same way. “I mean, that’s . . . not good . . . maybe. Don’t they say all publicity is good publicity?”

He shook his head, ignoring her question. “How could you
not
know the post went viral?”

“Uh . . . well, I have been here for a while now. Six weeks-ish and counting. I left a backlog of articles for my assistants to post.”

He frowned. “How is that possible? I’ve been here for only two weeks. When I stopped your horse, I had just arrived. How can you have been here for six weeks?”

Kit sighed. “It’s such a long story—”

And then her stomach growled. Long and loud.

The village had drawn closer, and Kit realized she knew this place. Knew this village. It had altered quite a bit over the intervening two hundred years, but some landmarks remained the same.

Like the Golden Rose Inn.

“Look, Marc. We’ve been traveling all day, and there probably won’t be any food where we’re going. I’m hungry and I’m sure you are too. Let’s stop, grab some lunch and I will tell you everything.”

Marc nodded tightly. Kit placed a hand on his arm, drawing his attention.

“And, for the record, I want to know everything about you too.”

His arm was steel under her hand, but his expression did soften slightly, giving Kit hope that they could work through this.

Marc guided them into town. Kit smiled at the farmers and laborers they passed. Marc tipped his hat.

The Golden Rose Inn had changed somewhat. In 2014, only the front main building remained, sitting flush with the busy road which cut through town.

In 1814, it was set back from the street a pace and encompassed a two-story galleried yard and stable to the right. That said, the actual building looked nearly the same with its white-washed walls and exposed dark cross-beam timbers. A wooden sign swung from chains over the front door, yellow wild roses painted on it.

An ostler ran out to take charge of their horse and carriage. Marc tossed the reins to the man and then turned to help Kit down, frowning.

“Do you have any idea how this works?” he asked, gesturing toward the inn with his chin. “I haven’t a clue.”

Kit’s mind blanked as she took Marc’s hand and stepped down. That was a very good question.

“I . . . don’t know. I think you give a coin to the ostler there.” Kit subtly leaned her head, indicating the man holding the horse’s head, waiting expectantly. “Though if we hit a snag, I will just pretend to faint and that should smooth things over.”

Some of the tension eased from Marc’s face. A smile tugged at his lips. “See, I had this idea that you were from the nineteenth century and so had experience navigating situations like this.”

“There you were so wrong, Lord Vader.”

Marc offered her his arm, which Kit greedily took. Lightness settled into her chest. If he was finding humor in the situation, perhaps he could forgive her and move on.

For her part, there was no way she was giving up on him.

In the end, ordering lunch was surprisingly simple.

Kit watched as Marc, in his stuffiest British accent, hailed the innkeeper and introduced them as Lord and Lady Vader. He then, quite pompously, requested a private dining room and hearty luncheon. It was an impressive performance.

“I learned all that from
Pride and Prejudice.
Emme always makes me watch it with her,” he whispered to Kit as the innkeeper led them into a dark-paneled parlor with a fire burning cheerfully in the hearth. Light streamed through the mullioned windows, rendering the room quaint and cozy.

Kit took off her cloak and warmed her hands by the fire as a maid delivered platters of food. Most of which Kit recognized: a meat pie, steamed cabbage, mutton stew, fluffy scones and some slices of pound cake.

Once the door closed behind the maid, Kit chuckled. “Lady Vader?”

Marc nodded his head. “Why not? It seemed more believable than saying you were my sister.” He doffed his hat, setting it on an empty chair, and then pulled off his gloves. “Even I know claiming you as anything other than my wife or sister would be a complete
faux pas—
”

He stopped, tension suddenly entering the room.

FauxPause. It hung between them.

“Right.” Kit smoothed her skirt. “Again, I am truly sorry, Marc. Sincerely. I am committed to doing whatever I can to make this right.”

He regarded her with hooded eyes, slapping his gloves against his thigh. She watched emotions flicker across his face: hurt, frustration . . . maybe even a smidge of betrayal.

“Your review stung, Kit. It really did.” He rubbed his chest with his free hand, as if massaging some tightness away. Gloves still snapped against his leg. “But who knows? Publicity never hurts and maybe some good will come of it—”

“Exactly! That’s what I think too. And, I
do
sincerely apologize. Do you feel it possible, given time, you could forgive me?”

He stared at her, face impassive. After a moment, he shrugged, tossing the gloves on top of his hat.

“I don't know,” he said, sliding off of his greatcoat. “I suppose it depends on how good your make-up kiss is.”

Her entire body sagged at his admission.

“Amazing. I promise it will be amazing.” She smiled, letting her relief shine.

He matched her smile, though it didn’t quite touch his eyes. “It will have to be.”

He studied her for another moment, face unreadable. And then nodded.

Time. He just needed a little time to process it all. Heaven knew, she did.

Marc took a seat at the table and started dishing food for himself, gesturing for Kit to do the same.

She sat and placed a scone on her plate. And then stopped, as another thought occurred, causing her to give a long chuckle.

“What?” asked Marc, looking at her over the meat pie. Eyebrows inquisitive.

“I was just imagining the scene if we had met at a posh party in modern London.” Kit reached for a jar of what appeared to be gooseberry jam. “One of those Perez Hilton types would have made sure we were introduced as La Pochette and the ‘Crocinator.’ I would have made some pithy comment about your missing dreadlocks—”

Marc snorted softly. “And then I would have said something oh-so-dry about people hearing multiple voices in their heads. All in a dignified manner, of course."

“Of course,” Kit agreed, smile flitting. “But we would have simply confirmed all our prejudices about each other and never looked beyond that. It’s such an interesting twist of Fate for us to be here together. That we had to travel two hundred years into the past and be stripped to our barest selves—”

“Allowing us to see the person behind of each of our twenty-first century public personas,” Marc finished for her.

“Exactly.” Kit nodded.

“Emme has a best friend, Jasmine. She’s part mystic, part psychic. Personally, I think she needs to lay off the incense.” Marc set down his fork, studying Kit. “Anyway, Jasmine believes the universe will find a way for people who truly belong together to meet. Even across time and space.”

Something flared in Kit’s chest at his words. Hot and bright.

“What a beautiful way of expressing it.” Kit smiled softly, dishing some cabbage on to her plate.

Her breathing eased. He seemed more relaxed . . . his anger would pass. It had to. She refused to consider any other option.

Marc broke open a scone and reached for the gooseberry jam. “So I know some about La Pochette. But I want to know more about the real Kit,” he said.

She let out a long breath of air. “Let me start at the beginning. You already know part of the story anyway. My father was the seventh Lord Whitmoor, a title awarded by the crown in the 1820’s, if I remember right. My parents married, had me and Daniel, and then my mother ran off with her best friend’s husband and never looked back. She died about ten years ago in Thailand.”

Marc lifted his eyes, questioning.

“Drug overdose.” Kit said the words tonelessly. As if those two simple words could encompass the pain of burying a mother she had never known. Of being raised motherless. Of being the one child on the playground who had only a vague understanding of what the word ‘mother’ even meant.

Something of her pain must have flickered across her face.

“My father left,” Marc said softly, not taking his eyes off of her. “When I was about eight. Emme and I woke up one morning and he was gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Marc paused. And then shifted his shoulders, as if moving something weighty.

He continued. “There was so much rage in me over it. So many years before I even understood what the rage meant. Martial arts literally saved my life. It gave me an outlet.”

Kit nodded. “Writing and humor were like that for me.”

“Jokes made it palatable, at least to other people.”

“Exactly. If I could be the funniest, most likable kid in school, then maybe the other kids would forget about my motherlessness.”

“Kids don’t forget,” Marc said, shaking his head as he piled another slice of meat pie onto his plate. “Us or them.”

That was truth.

Laughing at yourself and others before they could laugh at you.

The natural reaction to not being wanted by the one person who had mattered most.

“What happened to your father?” Kit slid the question in casually. She intended to stay inside the non-meringue zone as long as possible.

“Died when I was a teenager. Car accident. My British grandma took it hard, obviously. I think she held onto Emme and me even more after that.”

“Your mom?”

“She took it all in stride. Looking back, I don’t know how she held us all together. She worked as a flight attendant. Still does, actually. You would like her. She’s a hilarious, spunky lady.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

Their eyes met and held.

That sense of familiarity still hung between them. It was more than just recognizing someone from a movie preview. Or sharing a few jokes with each other. Kit saw that clearly now.

It was realizing you had found your tribe. A person who sees the same reality as yourself.

She and Marc were two sides of the same coin. Achingly similar.

Housed in the same soul.

The knowledge caused a pang to rise in her chest, something tight lodging her throat.

She looked away before she did something stupid. Like cry. Or kiss him senseless.

Or both.

Kit shifted in her chair. “How did you end up here?”

She meant in the nineteenth century. Though, really, it was a better question for her.

Marc grimaced and told her about James and Emme, Georgiana and Sebastian, Duir Cottage, the portal, the blackmail note and arriving to find the trunk and nineteenth century clothes. The short fight with Daniel.

“Daniel . . . can be such a trial.” Kit shook her head. “He’s a good person, Marc. You have to believe that. He wouldn’t deliberately harm you. But you said all this happened about two weeks ago?”