Clandestine (38 page)

“Hey.” Marc’s hand reached across her, turning off the water.

A linen towel dabbed at her face. Strong hands turned her around. Two fingers lifted her chin.

Still hiccupping, she looked into his green, green, green eyes. Soft and concerned.

Streaked with soot and blood.

That
got her attention. She took a step back. His clothing was singed, jacket partially torn, neckcloth missing. Eyes bloodshot.

He looked like she felt.

Gutted. Burned.

“I am
so
sorry, Kit.” His voice rasped. Eyes drilled into hers, beseeching. “It seemed like the best solution.”

Unable to stand the
intensity of his gaze, she glanced down.

And through her swimming vision, noted his wrist. His cravat tied around it.

“You’re . . .
hiccup . . .
hurt.” She reached for his hand, gently lifting it.

He winced.

“I don’t think it’s broken. Just a bad sprain.”

He wiped her wet cheeks again with his free hand.

She snuffled.

“You should . . .
hiccup . . .
ice it.”

“Who cares about my damn wrist, Kit?” He grasped her chin again, forcing her back to look at him. “It’s not important right now.”

“I care,” she sniffed. And then jerked her chin out of his hand. “But, then, that’s what . . .
hiccup . . .
I do. I
care
about things. About people.”

Still angry-sniffling, she stomped over to the fridge, pulled open the lower freezer and dug out a bag of frozen peas.

“At least stop . . .
hiccup . . .
the swelling.” She handed him the bag as she walked past. Ignoring his tug on her sleeve.

Grabbing her brother’s greatcoat off the chair, she wrapped it around her and stalked over to sit on the overstuffed couch facing the enormous fireplace.

Hiccupping and snuffling.

Burrowing into the scratchy wool coat, breathing in deeply, trying to find some lingering scent of Daniel.

Hoping to hold part of Daniel to her.

Nothing.

The coat smelled like wool and chemicals. New. As if Daniel had never worn it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Marc joining her, the couch dipping under his weight. He held the peas to his injured wrist.

Silence.

Marc broke it first. Voice hoarse.

“Again, it seemed like the best solution, Kit—”

“You said you were Switzerland. More like the former USSR, just taking over everything you see—” She hiccupped again, her voice breaking. “He was one man. One stupid, weak, little man. You’re Marc Wilde, for heaven’s sake. I watched you take down four armed men in seconds on the road to Whitmoor—”

“Yes, four men who didn’t really want to hurt me or you. Four men who were afraid to fire for fear of hitting each other or their horses—”

Kit pulled Daniel’s coat tighter around her. Like a cocoon. As if she buried herself far enough into it, she could keep Marc’s pleas out.

“Kit, Jedediah tried to kill his own mother—”

“What?” She whirled to face him.

“You were busy with Marianne, so I don’t think you got much of the story. I interrupted Jedediah trying to kill Ruby. Daniel must have somehow slipped up and let Jedediah know that you and I were involved in this whole mess. So, he then tried to kill me,” —Marc held up his wrist as proof— “screaming the whole time that he needed the
real
plans. I beat him off and managed to rescue Ruby before her son could finish her off.”

He paused, shaking his head. And then fixing her with his impossibly green eyes.

“That
is the man who held you prisoner, Kit. Add in the fact I have an injured wrist, had hefted a woman out of a burning building, inhaled a lifetime of smoke, ran to Duir Cottage once I realized what had happened despite being barely able to breathe . . . Kit, I am so sorry, but Jedediah was armed. And intent on killing us both. I couldn’t outrun him—not as I was and having to carry you—and there was a good chance you or I would be injured in a fight. How could I ever risk your life?”

She clenched her jaw, hating that a lot of what he said made sense.

“But you didn’t even try. It was like you had made the decision to go through the portal before you even entered the house.”

Silence again. Marc looked away. His lack of a response confirming her statement.

“Why? Why take the decision away from me?” she whispered.

He brought his eyes back to hers. “I didn’t want—”

“No man is an island.” She threw his own words back at him. “Everything you do makes waves in an ocean. You may not mean to swamp someone else’s boat, but it doesn’t excuse your responsibility—”

“Kit—”

“I want to go back. I want to decide for myself—” Unbidden, her eyes welled up again.

Marc sighed, shifting the peas on his wrist. “I know that. I do—”

“Daniel is
all
I have left. Everyone leaves—”

“I don’t. I’m here.”

His voice fell between them, the barest breath of sound.

Hoarse and jagged. Yet somehow strong and true.

A jarring punch in her soul.

Stop making sense!
She wanted to scream at him.
I just want to be angry right now. Stop with all this . . . reasonableness.

“I support you and your decisions, Kit.” He gazed at her calmly. Sympathy evident in every line of him. “I do. Daniel
wants
to remain in 1814. So if you go back, you should go with a plan to stay there with him. Permanently.”

More reasonableness. Stupid man.

“Easy to say with the portal shut and refusing to allow me through.”

“Kit, we’ve been through this. Your brother is forging a life for himself in the past—”

“Yes, you mentioned that. Right after you watched him
walk away
!” Anger surged through Kit again. “You just let him leave—”

“He’s a grown man making his own decisions. I respect other’s choices—”

“No! Don’t you
dare
bring it back to that. You refused to force him to stay.”

“As I’ve said, I wasn’t going to beat him up—”

“Right. Or, say, throw him over your shoulder and drag him off—”

“Don’t do this, Kit!”

Marc surged to his feet, a frustrated hand in his hair. His uninjured hand. He began pacing in front of the fireplace.

“Just explain to me
why
.” She gestured toward him. “Why wasn’t I accorded the same respect? Why let my brother go but then turn around and
make
the choice for me?”

“Why? Why?!” Marc stopped. Flung his hand outward.

Fixed her with a look so intense it pinned her to the couch.

Breathless. Unable to move.

“Why, Kit?! Because I don’t
love
your brother. When it’s someone I
love
, it’s a totally different thing.”

His words hung between them. Raw. Bleeding.

When it’s someone I love . . .

Kit held perfectly still.

“Well,” she whispered. Cleared her throat. “I
do
love him. Or I
did
. But I will never get the chance to say that to him, will I? Because that choice was
taken
from me.”

And then, suddenly, it seemed there was nothing left to say.

“I’m leaving.” She stood, clutching Daniel’s coat around her like a talisman.

Marc closed his eyes, shoulders sagging. Deflating in front of her.

“Please don’t go.”

She shrugged. “We won’t ever see eye-to-eye on this issue.”

“At least let me give you a lift—”

She shook her head. “No need. I can find my own way.”

Sliding her arms into the coat, she moved down the hallway to the front door.

“Kit, please. Try to understand. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

She paused. Half-twisted her head toward him.

“I think you just did, Mr. Wilde.”

And then slid the bolt on the door, opening it.

Turned back to him, giving him one last, lingering look.

“Later, alligator.”

And then she left. The door a satisfying
slam
behind her.

Marc collapsed against the wall in the hallway. Sinking to the floor with his head in his hands.

The door shutting behind Kit mimicked the shattering of his own soul.

He could practically
see
the shards of his heart strewn across the wooden floor.

The one and
only
time he had ever told a woman he loved her.

He groaned, tugging at his hair. Relishing the pain in his sprained wrist.

How could he have made such a
spectacular
mess of this?

Her face when she realized they had come through the portal . . .

Ashen, washed of life. As if her very reason for existing had been snuffed out.

He literally felt physically sick over it.

It hurt.

It hurt that he had hurt her.

It hurt that all her love and affection was not for him.

Which really just made him the worst sort of cad.

He released his head and tipped it back against the wall. Thumping rhythmically. Once. Twice.

He should have tried harder to keep them in the past. He should have shown more respect for her choices.

But for what? To watch her decide to stay in the past without him?

His throat ached from the smoke. At least that’s what he told himself.

And his eyes watering . . . that was just smoke too.

Right?

With a groan, he tipped his head into his hands. Gouging his eyeballs with his palms.

Letting the devastation settle through him. The agonizing loss of
her
.

He sat in the hallway until the shadows stretched and the light faded from sunset gold to twilight blue.

He was still sitting there in the near dark when Emme and James walked through the back door, flipping on the lights. Marc blinked into the sudden brightness.

That’s right. Just back from their off-the-grid trip to Mongolia. Fantastic. They probably had no idea anything had happened.

James tossed his coat onto the kitchen island and walked around the table. Noting the beaver top hat and trunk in the hall. The open door down to the portal. Raked his gaze up and down Marc in his battered Regency-period clothing.

Raised both his blond eyebrows in surprise.

“You look like hell,” he said by way of greeting. “In a nineteenth century sort of way.”

Marc managed a gruff laugh. More noise than humor.

“Feel like it too,” he croaked, pushing to his feet.

Suddenly, every ache and pain in his body made itself known. His throbbing wrist, his scorched throat, stinging eyes.

Emme brushed past her husband.

“Marc!” She caught him around the waist, hugging him tightly. And then pulled back, surveying his sorry state.

Singed and smoky.

“What happened?” she asked, shaking her dark curly head. “Wait. The portal?”

He nodded.

Emme rolled her hand.
Go on.

Where to start?

He shook his head wearily. “Let’s see. I solved our blackmail case. Interesting twist on that.”

“That’s a relief,” James said, scrubbing a hand through his blond hair.

“Yes. I also beat up Linwood. That felt good.”

“Shut it!” Emme pushed his chest. And then gave a gleeful laugh.

“A little bloodthirsty, aren’t we, Mrs. Knight?” James gave his wife a teasing wink.

“He so deserved whatever he got!”

Marc managed a faint not-quite grin.

Turns out seeing his sister and brother-in-law so happily in love did
not
improve his mood.

“I also managed to fall in love with La Pochette.”

No sense hiding that small bombshell. Emme would ferret it out of him soon enough anyway.

“What?!” Emme took a step back, giving him a comically puzzled look. “As in FauxPause?”

Marc nodded.

“How is that even possible?”

“It is a long story.”

Emme sniffed the air. “Wait. Were you in a fire too?”

“Why, yes, thank you for asking. Haldon Manor burned down—”

“Pardon?!” James’ eyes went wide.

“No!” Emme exclaimed at the same time.

“It was spectacular. Oh, and you’re an uncle, by the way.” Marc gestured toward James. “Arthur and Marianne had a darling little girl. Named her Isabel.”

James’ eyes went even wider.

Emme tucked an arm around Marc, intent on leading him back into the kitchen.

“C’mon, big brother. I want to hear the entire story from the beginning.”

Chapter 25

Whitmoor House

Gloucestershire

March 10, 2014

K
it woke to drumming rain on her window.

Which was just fine, as it seemed to match her pounding headache.

She wanted to attribute it to time travel jet lag (if such a thing existed), but she knew that was wrong.

It was a love headache.

A headache brought on by too much crying over a man (or brother, rather) who didn’t seem to care.

And not enough crying over a man who did.