Intertwine (3 page)

Ironic that.

Lightning cracked again, skittering across the sky, causing the hairs on his arm to suddenly stand on end. The night vibrated with electricity. James could feel the energy eddying around him, woven into the howling wind, pulsing through the fury.

The storm was edgy and laden. Jittery. Unbidden, James shivered. More of a shudder actually. Though not a superstitious man, storms like this created legends. It was easy to hear a beast’s growl in the thunder, to feel angry wraiths in the tugging wind.

Shaking such maudlin thoughts from his brain, James pulled his sodden collar tighter around his neck. Truly, nothing would happen to him. Nothing ever did. He just needed to focus on staying on the sloppy road. All would be well.

As he rode deeper into the inky night, James found himself unwittingly repeating the refrain, the screeching tempest swirling around him.

Nothing will happen. All will be well.

Chapter 2

On the tarmac at Heathrow Airport

One week before Beltane

April 22, 2012

S
o are you heading immediately out of town?” Next to Emme, the man with a cultured British accent smiled, as the plane slowly taxied after landing.

Emme sighed inwardly. He was undeniably yummy with kind eyes and wonderfully mussed hair. And, heaven knew, she had
such
a weakness for disheveled hair—rumpled locks that suggested a certain devil-may-care attitude.

But despite chatting with him for hours over the Atlantic, she couldn’t summon a glimmer of attraction. Not a single spark. Just the typical emptiness.

Why couldn’t she ever feel that flare of something more? For about the millionth time, Emme wondered if something inside her was irreparably broken.

He took her silence for encouragement and continued, “Because if you’re not, I’d love to show you around.”

Emme debated. She could imagine how it would go. She and Mr. Yummy Hair would hang out. Chat. Get to know each other. She would like him in a generally brother-ish, non-sparky sort of way. He would like her in a decidedly non-brotherly, let’s-get-sparking sort of way.

This would lead to The Talk where she would tell him about F and the locket. At which point, Mr. Yummy Hair would stare at her with crazy eyes.

As in
you-are-totally-crazy
eyes.

Then things would get uncomfortable. And probably awkward.

“Ah, thanks for the offer,” said Emme, “but I’m good. As I mentioned, my dad is British and I spent summers with my grandma growing up. So London is as familiar as home. Besides, I’m going straight west to the town of Marfield, itching to get started on my sabbatical research. The effects of the Industrial Revolution on woman and children in agricultural Britain, remember? But seriously, thank you.” Emme hoped that was letting him down kindly. Why delay the inevitable? She was never one to put off a problem.

“Oh, of course. I’d forgot you mentioned that.”

Emme had tried to feel some attraction to him. Really she had. Somewhere between Greenland and Iceland, she had even asked him The Question. She had found it to be a good way to tell if there might be a spark. Or even a flicker. A glint of something more.

“So what have you done to prepare for the zombie apocalypse?” Emme had asked, keeping her face a still mask. She found you had to ask The Question without a trace of irony. Would Mr. Yummy Hair get it?

He stared at her for a moment. Blinked. “Uh . . . ,” he started. Blinked again. “Can’t say I’ve given it much thought. You don’t seem like the type to be into things like that.”

Utter fail.

He shifted in the seat next to her, leaning in slightly. “Can I tell you how much I love your eyes? I’ve never seen a color quite like them.” He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it even more, as if deliberately taunting her.

“Most people just call them hazel.”

“I guess, but I love how they’re almost gold in the middle and then green around the outside. They’re lovely.” His gaze indicated that her eyes weren’t the only thing he found lovely.

“Thank you,” was all she managed in response. He really did seem nice, but she knew she would let him walk away, like she always did.

He tried a different tack. “Your locket is beautiful, by the way. It looks old. A family heirloom?” He gestured to where the oval locket rested on its long chain.

“Not exactly.” Unconsciously, she grasped the locket in her hand, the filigreed metal cool to her touch. “It’s just a vintage piece I picked up at an estate sale. I consider it my good luck charm when traveling.” Emme gave him her most convincing you-seem-nice-but-this-isn’t-going-to-happen smile.

Her cell phone rang, startling them both.

“Hey, you made it. Though of course, I knew you would.” Jasmine’s voice sounded chipper. Jasmine was always chipper.

“Yeah, just landed. No incidents, thank goodness. Finn worked his magic.”

“Of course he did. Love his positive energy.”

Emme gave her a moment to remember.

“Finn, did you say? He’s Finn today? So are you off to Marfield yet?”

“As soon as I get my rental car. I’m excited to see Spunto’s other paintings.”

Over the past several years, Emme’s extensive research had determined the miniature portrait in the locket to be the work of Giovanni Spunto, an itinerant painter working near the town of Marfield in Herefordshire between 1811 and 1813.

“Explain to me again why you think this Viscount Linwood is F?” Jasmine asked. “This Linwood guy feels important to me, but I’m not sure he’s your F.”

How many times had Jasmine said this?

“Not helping,” Emme sighed. “Support, Jaz. I need support right now. Don’t undermine this. I’ve told you, Spunto painted a similar miniature portrait of Linwood’s sister, Marianne, in the summer of 1812, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right, and Linwood has an F in his name.”

“Had, Jaz, he
had
an F in his name.” When would Jasmine stop referring to dead people as if they were still living? Emme shook her head. “Timothy
Frederick
Charles Linwood. He could have gone by his second name. It’s not outside the realm of possibility, and he would have been the right age in 1812, about 30. I can’t wait to see the paintings of the viscount, as well as Spunto’s portrait of Marianne. I’m hoping that will solve the mystery of who our F was.”

“Well, as I’ve said, I do feel that Linwood is significant but I’m still not sure he’s your destiny. With Finn, your circles are linked.”

“Jaz, I love you, but again, this trip is all about purging Finn. Purging. As in, gutting him from my life and moving on.”

“Yes, yes, you keep saying that. But just because you want something to be a certain way, doesn’t mean the universe will agree with you. How many ways do I have to say it? Your life is intertwined with his. Remember, your soul is eternal, stretching in both directions. Past and future. Have you learned nothing from me?”

There really was no good answer to that. Time to change the topic. “How is Cat’n Kirk? Still loving his new scratching post?”

Emme allowed Jasmine to rattle on as the plane stopped at the gate. She made non-committal gestures and waved goodbye as Mr. Yummy Hair collected his luggage and deplaned.

Promising to call Jasmine when she reached the cottage she had rented for the summer, Emme made her way to immigration. The interview passed smoothly with only one question about her dual citizenship (American and British) and a few follow-ups about her intentions in the U.K. (six-month research sabbatical, staying in Marfield . . . yes, that’s in Herefordshire on the border with Wales). Her luggage miraculously arrived safely in customs, so no need to rely on the toiletries stashed in her purse. Bless Finn.

The woman behind the rental car counter was polite. Emme’s car was ready, just as Marc had arranged. They chatted about the beautiful spring weather and the woman laughed at Emme’s ability to switch between her American and British accent. A useful trick learned from summers with her proper English grandmother.

Nanna had been insistent that Emme and Marc be fluent in all things British. Like which fork to use when eating partridge—the important things in life. Or rather, what Nanna perceived as being important. Because, as she intoned, the Cavendish’s (
we’re third cousins of the Duke of Devonshire on my grandfather’s side of the family, don’t forget
) would roll in their graves to find they had uncouth American relatives. Emme had serious doubts about that. But regardless, every summer had been filled with elocution lessons, horse-back riding and tea religiously at 4:00 p.m.

Emme let her mind drift as the rental car attendant tapped away on her computer. A 24-hour news station chirped quietly from the TV in the corner, interrupting an interview about a rare coin collection going to auction at Sotheby’s to report on unprecedented wildfires somewhere in Australia. Emme smiled with relief. She was nowhere near Australia. Bless Finn.

Honestly, when was the last time travel had been this, well, normal? Emme pondered the question as she wrangled her heavy luggage up the four twisting floors of the parking garage to her rental car. She hated when things went too well, events matching smoothly to the plans she had meticulously made. It was like waiting for an ax to fall.

A moment later, Emme arrived at the stall to collect her car. She paused, double-checked the rental agreement in her hand and then actually read it.

Sigh. She was going to have to deal with this. And Emme was never one to put off a problem. In this case, her brother.

“Seriously, Marc?” she said when he answered the phone. “Did you deliberately book me the smallest car in Britain?”

“You said you wanted something that gets good gas mileage.” Marc gave his best I’m-your-annoying-big-brother laugh.

Emme grimaced as she stared at the minuscule car. Tiny and squat, its top barely reached above her waist. So short she could see her reflection in the roof. Her dark bobbed hair was extra curly in the English humidity.

“Marc, I can’t drive this,” Emme said, her voice peeved. “I’ll look like LeBron James on a carnival kiddie
ride
. My knees will be around my ears.”

“I know, right?! You’re totally going to have to send me a photo.”

Silence.

“I hate you so much right now, Marc.” She almost meant it too.

He chuckled.

“How am I supposed to get all my luggage into a two-seater without a trunk?” Emme opened the passenger side door and assessed the lack of space, trying to decide which of her bags would fit.

“Well,” Marc answered, “maybe you shouldn’t have packed those ridiculous pink slippers of yours.”

“Is there anything you won’t do to annoy me?” Emme grunted in exasperation.

A long pause. “No, not really.” He sounded totally unrepentant. “But think of all the guys who will hit on you because they dig yo’ sweet ride.”

Rolling her eyes, Emme wondered for probably the thousandth time if she and Marc were actually related. They could be so different. Even as children, she had loved horses and ballroom dance, while he had been into martial arts. “Yeah, nice try. I don’t think this car is exactly a stud magnet.”

Trapping the phone between her head and shoulder, she hefted her largest bag onto the passenger seat, pushing and wedging it against the dash.

“Look, Ems, I’m just helping you get over ol’ Fabio.”

“He’s Finn today. Mind your manners.”

“Finn? Seriously? As in Huckleberry?”

“You’re trying to taint his name. It’s not going to work.” Emme debated whether to buckle the luggage in. After a moment, she decided against it. Bad enough to be a giant in a clown car, no need to look OCD too.

“Ems, I’m just trying to help you lighten up.” Marc’s voice grew serious. “You know I care about you, but let’s face it, you’ve been hiding behind Fabio-boy for too long. You need to live, Emme. Like really live.”

Walking around to the back of the car, Emme opened the hatchback and assessed what she could cram behind the seats.

“Yes, well, that’s easy for you to say. Harder for me to do.” She hefted another bag and rested it against the back of the seats. “Don’t you think I know that this Finn obsession is a problem? Don’t you think I’ve been trying for years to move past it? Like I didn’t just spend six hours over the Atlantic trying desperately to be attracted to the guy sitting next to me!”