The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance (49 page)

She’d never trusted anyone else before now.

With a deep sigh, she again met Rory’s intense gaze and began. “I’ve tried so hard to forget,” she said, and shook her head. “I’d been in Atlanta, in my first real apartment, for almost two years. I knew my neighbours. It was in Roswell, a safe suburb of Atlanta, and . . . I guess I became complacent.” She focused on some point across the marsh. “I’d gone out jogging – something I’d done daily for more than a year.” Tears filled her eyes, and her voice dropped to a whisper on its own. “We run for fun these days, and to keep our bodies fit. I loved it. And I didn’t even hear his footsteps behind me.”

Rory’s body visibly tensed, and his voice, when he spoke, sounded barely controlled. “A man did this to you?” His accent was thicker, his tone deep and lethally steady.

“Yes,” she said. “He’d apparently watched me daily, watched the path I took, and then, he attacked.” She again shook her head. “No rape, no robbery – just brutality. He taunted me with a knife—” she closed her eyes, opened them again “—then cut me. I fought back, and that seemed to anger him further.” She lifted her gaze to Rory’s once more. “He would have killed me – he was so much stronger than me. But a passer-by happened upon us. A fellow jogger.” She concentrated on simply breathing. “They fought, and he tried to hold my attacker, but the guy got away. The police never found him. I lived in so much fear – fear that he’d come after me again. Finally, I decided to come home.”

“Christ, lass,” Rory finally said, and anger tinged his voice. Then, he simply pulled her close. His lips brushed her temple. “I would have found him. And I would have killed him.”

Kylie leaned into Rory. He smelled of leather and the salt marsh and strangely enough, gunpowder. His words made her shudder, for she had no doubt in her mind that Rory would have done just that. “I don’t know why your embrace comforts me so much,” she said quietly. “You’re a stranger.”

Rory’s hand smoothed her hair, her neck, and pressed gently against the small of her back. “Mayhap ’tis because I’m really no stranger at all, lass.”

Kylie turned her face from Rory’s shoulder and studied his eyes. Such an odd shade of silver, she wondered if they had always shined such a colour. “I suppose you’re not, are you? You’ve been here all along. I’m the one who’s been missing.”

In the waning light of day, Rory’s teeth gleamed white as he smiled gently down at her. “But you’re home now, aye? And no one will ever harm you again. I vow it.”

Kylie had not felt such relief, such
release
, since the attack happened. She’d stayed in the hospital, recovering, for nearly two weeks. The gashes in her arms had been deep, the attacker’s knife dirty, and she’d fought infection for a long time. Luck was with her though, and not only had her wounds healed without a terrible infection invading, but she’d needed no skin grafts. But it had left her with scars – the sort of scars that people in general just couldn’t ignore. She was stared at by children and adults alike, wherever she went.

Rory must have guessed what she was thinking, because he lifted a gloved hand, pulled at the fingers with his teeth, and then took it off. With his hand bare, he used the tip of his finger to trace the long scar on the side of her face, gently, back and forth. “Christ, Kylie, you’re powerfully soft,” he said. “’Tis a battle scar, a part of you – a part of your life’s experiences. ’Tis what has made you such a strong lass.” He smiled down at her, but his eyes were steady, intense, and they dropped a fraction, to her mouth, before returning to her eyes. “A warrior.” He traced the scar again. “A beautiful warrior.”

Kylie felt the heat of a blush creep up her neck and settle into her cheeks, and was grateful for the fading light to cover it up. She studied Rory’s profile in the hazy evening, and she had to wonder why it was that modern men had lost that certain something. Was it chivalry? Rory had it by the bucket load, and the fact was . . . he seriously meant what he said. “My grandmother is the only person who ever said I was beautiful.” She smiled. “Thank you.”

Rory stared, the muscles in his jaws flinched, and his eyes searched her face. The air around them became thick, heavy as the sultry summer night embracing them and, for a moment, Kylie thought he’d kiss her. Electricity all but snapped at the intensity.

She was completely amazed when she discovered how badly she wanted that kiss.

But instead of kissing her, Rory smiled, replaced his glove, and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “’Tis high tide now, and the moon is nearly full. Let’s walk to the river.”

Together, they did. Always a breeze, it rustled through the sawgrass and cat tails, the sound dry and crackly, and so familiar, and with it was carried the pungent scent of the sea. The brackish water below the dock slapped against the pilings, and it reminded Kylie of how much she loved the Vernon, her granny’s house, and the life she’d left behind. And beside her walked a man who had been born in Scotland more than 250 years before and then suddenly thrust into another century, another time. Her time. It completely and wholly amazed her.

And he’d been here the whole time. Waiting.

For her.

Never in his live days had Rory been as fulfilled as he was with the modern girl who trustingly walked beside him now. Even with his invisible self, she completed him. He’d waited so long for her to return, with hopes of her finally being able to see him. She had, and now, he never wanted to let her go.

He’d always suspected that would happen.

How difficult it had been to restrain himself – just as it was now, as they walked the dock to the river. It had been centuries since he’d had physical contact with another human being, and even in his previous life, his last two years had been naught but warring. But with Kylie, and her soft skin, pleasing voice, and arousing scent? He’d wanted to kiss her powerfully bad, and almost had. Where his restraint had come from, he didna know. God must have flung it down upon him.

She’d wanted him to kiss her. Even he, a flimsy apparition out of his own time for more than two centuries, could feel it. Their attraction was like another living thing, palpable on the air around them.

He wanted her even now.

The thought of someone touching her, cutting her, as that fool in Atlanta had done, made his insides boil with fury. Had he been alive, he would have hunted the man down and killed him. Slowly.

“You’re very quiet,” Kylie said as they reached the dock house.

Rory glanced down, and covered her hand with his. “I’ve just ne’er disliked the night as much as I do right now,” he said. And Christ, he meant it. He didna want to leave her side. Her physical side.

“That makes two of us,” Kylie said.

Then before Rory knew it, she lifted a hand to his cheek, scrubbed his jaw with the verra soft pads of her fingertips.

“It’s just so hard for me to believe that you’re so very real,” she said, almost a whisper.

Rory stood dead still as he allowed Kylie to explore his features. She lightly grazed his ears, the bridge of his nose, his brows. When she hesitantly slid a finger across his bottom lip, he nearly came undone. He gathered all his strength though and remained steady. It proved to be the most difficult task in all his life – or time-warp life.

“What was it like,” she asked, pulling him down to the dock to sit, “the war?” Idly, she lightly fingered the brass buttons on his jacket, the cuffs of his sleeves, the leather of his boots. The hilt of his sword.

He swallowed.

“’Twas sheer hell,” Rory said. “Men much younger than myself – mere boys – took to arms and fought for this country.” He shook his head. “So many years have passed, and I believe most have forgotten. Those who fought have all died, and their closest relatives have died, as well. The stories have become lost.”

Kylie leaned against his shoulder, and Rory thought he’d fall straight into the Vernon. “Not everyone has forgotten,” she said softly.

Without warning, she slid her hand to his, pulled off his glove, and inspected his hand. Her slight fingers traced his larger, calloused ones, the thick veins that ran atop it, and the scraped knuckles.

And in the very next instant, the gloaming was over.

Rory’s physical body faded with the twilight.

And Kylie simply sat there in the near-darkness, quiet except for her harsh breathing. She swore.

Rory laughed, and watched her. “Dunna fret, lass,” he said, although ’twas exactly what he was doing, truth be told. “Tomorrow will bring another gloaming hour. And we shall spend it together.”

Rory fascinated her beyond belief, and before she even realized it, he’d put her at ease – made her forget Atlanta and the attack, made her forget the ugly scars it’d left her with. Only the present mattered.

Every day, Kylie spent her time on the verandah, or in the dock house, pouring over the Georgia volumes in search of Rory’s fate. Name after name, event after event flashed before her, yet nothing turned up regarding the
Berkshire
or its captives. Although she couldn’t see him, he remained by her side and helped her, talked with her. Yet when the gloaming approached, the volumes were set aside and he appeared – as in the flesh as any mortal man – and they’d spend that precious window of time devouring each other’s company. Somehow, he’d taught her to feel again.

Sweet Christ, ’twas painful awaiting the gloaming. For over 200 years, he’d searched for someone who would simply listen, and no’ run screaming in terror at the sight of an out-of-century man appearing before them, and invisible the next. Now that he’d found such a person, he didna want tae give her up. Her verra presence soothed him, and he craved time by her side. Surprisingly, he’d behaved hi’self. ’Til now.

Without words, he pulled her to a halt. Their eyes locked, his own grey ones to her blue. Her hand flew to the scar on her face, but he gently grasped her fingers, placing them over his heart. Pulling her close, he lowered his head and brushed her lips. The feel of her against him, the softness of her frock and scent of her skin urged him even more. His heart pounded like a wild thing, and when he grazed her tongue with his it took every ounce o’ strength he possessed tae remain upright. He threaded his fingers through her silken honey hair, inhaled her very essence, and when her hands crept around his neck and held his mouth tae hers, he devoured her, tasting every inch of her. Breathless, he hovered over her lips. “I never want tae let you go . . .”

Kylie’s heart seized at Rory’s words. With her eyes open, she swept his bottom lip with her tongue, kissing him slowly, lingering against his skin. She held him tight, as though doing so would prevent him from fading away. He crowded her with his body, wrapped his arms around her and encircled her, consumed her in ways she’d never thought possible. His grey eyes stared down at her, their lips still touching. Strong hands rested against the small of her back, then before either knew it, his presence began to slip, blurring into a faded mist until Kylie stood by the marsh alone. She wrapped her arms around herself and fought the sting in her eyes.

Oh Christ, girl. Please dunna weep. I willna be able tae bear it.

Kylie exhaled. “I never expected to find you. Is this even happening? Is it real?”

His voice brushed the skin of her neck, and she closed her eyes.
Aye, love. ’Tis real enough.

After a restless night, Kylie awakened, made coffee, and then plunged into the volumes. She asked Rory question after question with little result. Then, almost as if it leaped from the crinkled worn pages, she saw it. Her throat constricted.

What?

“The revolt aboard the
Berkshire
.”

Read it tae me?

Drawing a deep breath, Kylie began. “October, 1775. A revolt led by a captured officer of the Revolution ended in a bloodbath. Major Rory MacMillan, followed by a dozen starved and diseased prisoners aboard the prison ship
Berkshire
, overtook several guards in an attempt to man the ship and free its captives. The attempt proved futile. Major MacMillan, accused of being a deserter of the King’s army, was shot and thrown into the ship’s solitary prison pit, separating him from his men, thus ending the revolt. Somehow, his . . .”

His what, Kylie?

Rory’s strained words squeezed her heart. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “His body simply disappeared from the locked prison. Major Rory MacMillan was never found, seen, or heard of ever again.”

The familiar haze began to shimmer before her, and Kylie’s eyes grew wide as Rory materialized before her. She jumped up. “What’s happening? It’s not even four o’clock.”

Without words, Rory grabbed her and held her close. His mouth sought hers, then whispered against her lips. “I remember,
mo ghraidh.
A man, another Scottish prisoner, whispered something in Gaelic. A verse. ’Twas just before I was shoved into the pit.” He shook his head and studied her. “It somehow sent me forwards in time.” His eyes misted. “I didna desert, and I wasna killed.”

She stared into his grey eyes. God, she could drown in them. “I believe you.”

He kissed her, and it singed her soul. “Christ,
mo ghraidh
,” he whispered against her mouth. “The help which I sought so desperately all those years has finally come.” He smiled. “Now, I wish I’d never sought it.”

They held each other until he began to blur. Tears filled her eyes. “No, Rory. You can’t go.” She choked back a sob. “Please don’t.”